I first experienced the Caribbean while cruising North through the island chain on our way to Florida in the mid 70s, and was not particularly impressed.  I was at a loss to understand what the fuss was about.  I found it “nice”, but nothing like what the propaganda had led me to expect.  But while I was on a boat, and therefore going to see things more closely than most, I didn’t realize that I was still a tourist, and that would be the side of the islands that was presented to me.

The Customs officer in Port of Spain, Trinidad and Tobago was pleasant and large but paused in his stamping of passports when he came to Maurice’s South African one.  “This will be a problem”, he said, shaking his head at Herb the skipper.  The standard bottle of Johnny Walker black label was sitting on the table for the inbound Customs clearance and there seemed nothing to say so we all stared at it in depression.  The last port of call had been in French Guiana and we were ready to stop for a few days.  We had finally managed to wrap the spinakker so badly that Nesa had had to cut it free, so we needed sail repairs as well.  More silence as we thought about having to sail on at once.  Then the official representative of the government broke into a huge smile as he picked up his papers, and the bottle, and suggested to Herb, “Captain, if you were to bring that passport, and another bottle of this most excellent whisky to my office, at, say six o’clock this evening, I’m sure we could work something out”.  We stayed for a week, and this was my introduction to “life in the islands”.

Antigua was the other end of the spectrum.  The officials were rude, inefficient, and insisted on referring to us individually as “whitey”.  We left as soon as we could.  At least in Madagascar when they ordered us out at the point of ten AK47’s they were polite about it.

The Bahamas were a lot better and we had some good times hanging out with the conch fishermen on the beaches of the Exuma Cays.  Herb and I had been reading a book on how to win, using a system, at blackjack, and after playing ten thousand hands as practice and to make sure the theory worked, when we reached Nassau I trotted off to the casino to make my fortune.  When I arrived, it was closed, and I wandered around to the back where two black gentlemen, in evening dress were sitting talking and smoking.  I asked when the casino would open, and then after telling me asked why I wanted to know.  I explained about the system and one of them with a look of great amusement told me that he was a croupier there, and he didn’t think much of my idea.  I wanted to know why not, and in reply he pulled a pack of cards from his jacket, showed me the bottom card, and then after telling me he was going to deal it to me in place of the top card,  proceeded to do so.  I couldn’t see it for the life of me, and even when he slowed it right down to a snail’s pace, I still couldn’t see how he was giving me the bottom card and not the next one from the pack.  He just smiled at me and I thanked him for the lesson and left.  I have always been very grateful to that gentleman for the lesson, and for saving my money.

And then ten years later I was back again, on another boat, and stayed over in St. Lucia for a year working in the charter industry.  And the face of the Caribbean I had missed last time was revealed to me.  I would back the islanders, and the St. Lucians in particular, against anyone in the world.

Eveyone has a nickname, and often people are described by their skin colouring.  Hence Francis was called Negro: he was very black.  We were in the small ferry heading across the bay, along with a full load of charterers and Francis was in the bow, deep in converstation as we approached the dock.  I was in the stern, and noticed that he had the fingers of his hand over the outside of the gun’l and they were in danger of being crushed as we came alongside, so I called out, “Hey, Negro, watch your hand!”  There was an immediate murmer among the others on the boat as they believed they had just heard a racial outrage committed.  Francis and I had a good laugh about it after.  The bloody tourists just didn’t get it, did they.

Vergil and Aaron were sitting around smoking in the shed as the rain had set in shortly after lunch and that was at least dry.  They were used to my subtle Australian way by now as I politely enquired if “you lazy bastards are going to sit there all day?”  Vergil turned to Aaron and said, “We’ve been meaning to look at the engine on Harvey’s Girl for a while.  What about it?”  I then watched as the two of them, between two and six thirty in the afternoon, removed the Perkins 4:108 diesel from the boat, replaced the rings, replaced the main bearings, lapped the valves, and reinstalled it.  I would still have been trying to figure out how to get it off the boat to work on.  As I said, I’d back these men against anyone.

James and I were in the habit of dining together each evening in the hotel restaurant.  His wife had been in Martinique for some months, in hospital, flat on her back with a separated placenta waiting to have their first child while my wife had been in England for some months on a full time live-in riding course.  Bennie (Benedicta) was serving us on this particular evening.  Again, as was our habit, we asked for two glasses of Benedictine to finish the meal, and as Bennie wrote down the order on her pad, with her eyes studiously lowered, she said,  “Gentlemen, I understand your particluar situation at the moment.  You can have either Benedictine or Benedicta.  Both are available.”  It was a very human and generous offer from a very handsome woman.  Both James and I thanked her profusely and gave her a hug, about which she was most embarrassed.  I did not take her up on the offer, but the offer was most appreciated and seemed to me to typify the hugely practical and human view of the world prevelant in the islands.

Agnes, on the other hand was equally handsome, bit not quite so good-natured, expecially when crossed in love.  She helped run the dive shop and was a dive instructor.  The word was that Big Curtis was seeing someone else on the side.  Agnes bided her time but caught up with Big Curtis on the sand spit, and in front of some startled charterers proceeded to cut him up quite significantly with a fish filleting knife.  Big Curtis went off to hospital.  Agnes went back to work.  No charges were pressed, but Agnes was treated with great respect for some time afterwards.

Then there was the time I had been in the water helping put some sand screws down.  One had been made left-handed, and it had taken more time than I care to admit, and a lot of effort and frustration before we had figured this out and finally got it in.  This was shortly after I’d started there, and they were not yet too sure about me, but I did have the requisite nickname of Amos.  No one could explain why that particular name was applied to me.  I swam back to the dock and handed my tank up to Bennie (another one, male this time) and then climbed up to take it from him.  As I approached a look of great concern spread across his face, and he dropped the tank.  He started backing away, eyes fixed on my feet, repeating over and over, “Amos, you a powerful man!” and finally fled.  I asked Vergil about this later and he made me take off my shoes so he could inspect my feet, whereupon he burst out laughing.  It seems that there was a voodoo witchdoctor out of Haiti who had quite a following in the islands, and his claim to fame and power was that the third and fouth toes of his left foot were webbed.  Just like mine.  I think this made my time there quite a lot easier.  I later received another nickname, “Chat” because of my hairiness I’m told, and years later when visiting St. Lucia I would be walking up an ill lit road at night and the figure walking the other way, cutlass in hand, would stop, peer at me in the dark, murmer, “Chat” and walk on.

There was a lady who ran a small gift stand on the sand spit and would sell to the tourists.  She was quite old, ugly as sin, but had a good nature and we got on well.  When I came back about a year after moving up to head office, I was walking along the path and she spotted me a hundred yards away.  Ignoring the tourists, and their widening eyes, she screamed out “My husband, you’ve come back to me!” and ran to me with open arms.  And I of course ran to her, we embraced, and wandered off arm in arm trying not to laugh too much.  As I had now learned, one should never miss an opportunity to stir the tourists up.

And that is a tiny part of the inside view of the Caribbean.   It is very different from what you see as an outsider.  They are outstanding people, with an outstanding nature, and I miss them, and that time.  I now know what all the fuss is about.