Kai Ohana

March 11, 2008 -
Marina Cay

- by Craig Bach

In two years of living on St. Martin, we had very few visitors from the states, but because of our work schedule, we didn’t encourage a lot of people to come and see us anyway. Once we got out on the water, however, and while we were in the Virgin Islands, we spurred my mom into coming to see us and bring my brother’s son, Cole, to see first hand why we just invested the last two years of our lives rebuilding Kai Ohana.

They arrived in Trellis Bay, Tortola, on a flight from Miami the morning after their scheduled ETA of the evening before. That night I waited in the airport until midnight (6 hours) before some obscure airport employee snuck out from behind a security door, whispered to an isolated individual of the anxiously waiting crowd that the flight had been canceled, then ducked back in behind the protection of another door that had a sign that read something to the effect of “Authorized Personnel Only - Violators Will Be Vigorously Interrogated and Duly Tortured Under The Auspices Of The Whole Of The Caribbean’s Unwanted Security Partner’s Homeland Security Act.”

But Mom and Cole were happy to have finally arrived, and like all people who newly descend on the islands from the states, they had many stories to tell of overnight delays, comfortable hotel rooms (or not), lost hours of sleep, lost baggage, nice people (or not), good meals (or not), and the like. So while we shucked off aggressive patois-rattling taxi drivers at the airport’s exit and walked toward the beach where the dinghy was, mom talked on like she’d just been released from ten years in solitary confinement while Cole just looked in all directions in awe, soaking up the new colorful environment.

He was fun to watch, being wide-eyed and bushy tailed even after two days of flying, but he acted like a fish out of water as well. As we were sauntering Caribbean-style from the airport (down the middle of the road) to the dinghy dock, dragging their luggage behind us on their under-sized wheels, a car came upon us, and in his surprise, Cole ran to the side of the road backwards pulling his bag with both hands. He tumbled over one of the large stones bordering the road and the bag (the one with all the textbooks my mom had brought for the kids) rolled over the top of him and squashed him flat, nothing visible but arms and legs flailing from underneath the heavy suitcase. The guy in the car stopped in the middle of the street and laughed like the bats of hell had been released all at once at that “po’ lil’ white boy”. Then, after regaining a little composure, he slowly drove off, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. I’ve witnessed many instances (and understandably enough) when the islanders glean great enjoyment from seeing tourists immerse themselves in humbling situations.

By the time I had gotten them to the heart of this artsy hippie community (after dragging their suitcases a hundred yards through the deep white sand in the quintessential just-arrived-to-the-islands tourist fashion) – the bar next door to Aragorn’s art studio where the dinghy was docked -- Lauren and the kids had arrived after a morning of provisioning with Martin. Martin had sailed his boat, Jadie, with his wife, Leslie, and daughter, Daniela, (our neighbors of 18 months in the JMC Boatyard) from St. Martin months earlier to Trellis Bay to work in Aragorn’s Studio (www.aragornsstudio.com). Alexis had specifically instructed us that we were not to leave the Caribbean without reuniting with our friends, and in easily conceding to her request, the timing couldn’t have been better to join up with them for this conveniently festive occasion. The whole community was bustling in preparation of Aragorn’s annual art festival. (continued on next page)

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