Soul Snatching

A cold front is pushing through Florida, squeezing that last bit of humidity out of the air, shoving the heat and memories of summer into the recesses of my mind.  The cooler air is inspiring me to consider socks, shoes, and growing hair again.  Nah, I don't think I will stop shaving my head.  I will however have to consider wearing more clothes in the mornings.  I am not a fan of multiple layers of clothing and all the bulk they bring to my life.  I don't care for the restrictive nature of jeans, tennis shoes, jackets, hats, socks and for those especially blustery days; gloves.

I used to live in Pennsylvania and swore that when I could leave, I would become a nudist or move to someplace where jacket and jeans is a curse word.  I couldn't stand another Pa. winter, shoveling the roof, salting the sidewalk, getting up an extra 20 minutes just to defrost the car.  None of these familiar patterns were heartwarming to me.  Each was an exercise in drudgery and another oppression of old man winter.  The chores and necessities of winter catapulted me to the Caribbean.

My first big move out of the country was to Maho Bay, St. John USVI.  I was 21 and sick and of it all. I had spent my last muddy, grizzled, oppressive, winter and spring in Pennsylvania; ever.  I cashed in my 401k, my savings, sold my car, converted some inherited bonds, and bought a one-way ticket to an island I had only seen pictures of.  I had never really read about St. John, I honestly didn't know anything about it or what was there.  I only knew that year after year, muddling through and merely surviving, slate-gray years of Pennsylvania weather was going to drive me mad.

I chose Maho Bay because of a little article in the back of Budget Traveler Magazine.  There was a small 2x2 ad for a 4-hour worker program.  I had no idea what a 4-hour worker program was, what work-exchange meant, or what in the world one does on a resort?  So I sent them my (embellished) resume and hoped for the best.  I explicated how great I was at construction and other various fields, I was good but far from great.  To my surprise and complete excitement I was invited to work for Maho with the added bonus of being asked if I would consider permanence, if I enjoyed the work environment.  I called Roland immediately, introduced myself, and said I would be down in a week, I just needed to tie up a few looses ends, like selling everything I own.

I sold everything, bought a one-way on American and said my good-byes.  I had been on trips and extended excursions before, but never had I followed through on something with such single-minded determination.  There were times when I would pick a place, go, and call it home for a few months here and there.  I had never considered resigning myself to leaving the United States, even if St. John is a U.S. territory.  It was about as far removed from what is considered , "Normal Society" as I could get without leaving the English speaking world.  I wanted to have a Robert Young Pelton experience, without having to go to an actual war-zone or dangerous place.

I got my wish, not only was I far removed, I was isolated.  My ignorance and youthful exuberance led me to a place I had not researched, knew nothing about, along with placing me in a state of (paradoxical_anticipation).
Paradoxical- because I was in the most beautiful place imaginable, in the prime of my life. Yet I had just sold everything I owned, bought a one-way ticket, crammed my life into a couple of bags, and found out I was going to be living in a tent. Anticipation- because I was fully committed, I was going to live on an island, in a place that was soul-burstingly beautiful, in the trees like the Swiss Family Robinsons. There was no turning back when I walked off the tarmac to board a taxi. Which was nothing more than two benches welded to the bed of a pick-up truck, with a plastic/clothe canopy over the top to block out the burning sun.

The ride to Charlotte Amalia Harbor on St. Thomas, was one of the most harrowing rides I had ever been on!  Doing 55, on the wrong side of the road, will increase the pucker factor by a factor of 10.   If I had done my research, I would have known that vehicles drive on the opposite sides of the road, to better assess the edge of the highway.  The passing vehicles in the other lane, on those mountain-side roads, left little room for error on both drivers part.  Later I found out drinking and driving is perfectly legal.  The roads are on the sides of mountains, sheer cliffs on either side; their valleys sprinkled with the pitted and decaying bones of vehicles that had negotiated poorly.  I had the ability to claw the rail,  be excited, terrified and flabbergasted at what in the hell I had done to myself and what the %$^ I had gotten myself into?  This was all before I even started the boat ride.

The ferry from Charlotte Amalia to Cruz Bay took 45 minutes, and offered a roof-top deck to take in my new home.  I couldn't get over the vastness of water that lay all around me.  The clarity alone had me spellbound and I found myself leaning over the edge more than I felt comfortable with.  I tried to take it all in but couldn't, it was simply too much so I sat back and waited for the next phase of my adventure.  I knew what the taxi's were now, and I knew it was going to be a strange ride.  I was off the plane for a little over an hour and my introduction to the Caribbean was an interesting one.  The boat ride was uneventful, thankfully but now I had to find Frett, the taxi driver.

Frett runs the service from Cruz Bay to Maho.  It is about a half hour ride and is again on the wrong side, with rusted hulks in the valleys, at break-neck speeds, seriously WTF.  After paying the man, I met my future cohorts at the registration desk and immediately am struck by smells and sounds.  It smells like dirt, earth, rotting leaves, and nature not a resort with concrete and fertilizers.  It sounds like campground, without generators, screaming babies, noisy dogs, or anything else to interrupt the cadence of the crickets.  All the stress and angst of getting there, started to feel like it may have been worth it.  It seemed that as long as I didn't leave the cocoon of Maho, everything would be alright.

I found out the 4-hour worker program was simply an exchange of 4 hours work for a place to stay and discounted meals.  The free place to stay was an above ground tent, think about a wooden deck, wrapped in opaque-white, heavy-duty, plastic.  At about waist high, there is screen for approximately 300 degrees, affording views of the most breathtaking panorama, I had ever seen.  Even if I had done research, it could never have prepared me for the place I was going to be calling home.  My tent village in the trees was more surreal than than any amount of information can prepare one for.  After lugging my life up a bunch of steps, and settling into my sky-cabin, I had to explore and eat.

The place where you eat is again unlike anything I had ever seen before.  It has a lower dining deck with around 40 tables, an upper deck with 10 tables and a side deck with another 10 tables.  Happy hour started at 5:30 and to my pleasant surprise they had Bass on tap with free popcorn.  I ordered from my future ex-girlfriend and settled into a seat that offered a view of her and that Caribbean sea. After a few pints I decided to order and watch the sunset.  If you have never seen a sun burn its self out in the water before, put it on your bucket-list.  If you spend enough time watching the sunsets, you will eventually witness The Green Flash.  That didn't happen my first night, but a different kind of magic did.  I met the staff at Maho and the rest of the 4-hour workers.

The crew was a motley bunch of ex-pats, professionals, 20-somethings, burn-outs, social misfits and the most beautifully enlightened individuals one could hope for.  They scooped me up from my perch at the bar, and ran me down the hundreds of steps to the beach below, where I had yet to go.  I had been saving the beach for sunrise, but when young-beautiful people beckon you to engage in debauchery and hedonism, you oblige with a smile.  Upon reaching the sand, I was immediately struck with the realization that apparently I was the only one who had not donned a swimming suit.  R, the beautiful 20-something that grabbed me initially at the bar, laughed so loudly that it caught me off guard and was a little jarring.  G. her boyfriend smacked me on the back, looked me up and down and asked if I was afraid something was gonna bite my dick off?  Confused and realizing both he and R. were stripping down, I tried to avert my eyes to the left or right, only to realize I was the only one not shedding my daytime uniform.

As far as I could see in the limited moonlight, were darkened bodies with bright, glowing-white areas, some square, some triangle.  I was surrounded by a sea of naked bodies all giggling, talking, joking, coughing, swilling.  They were wading almost in unison into the darkened water that shone with the stars above and something else I had never seen before.  Each movement, each disturbance kicked up a fluorescent-glowing-blue-green, poof of energy.  These marvels were a phosphorescent bacteria that lives in water and is natural occurring.  As I waded into the water every hair on my body agitated the glowing-blue-green orbs.  I was no more than 8 hours off the tarmac, and I am worlds away from anything I could have ever imagined or dreamed of.  No amount of research could have prepared me for what was happening.  I was immersed in a world that was so foreign and so far removed from what I called normal, I had to dunk my head and scream for joy.

Maho Bay.  Nothing prepares a person for a sensory assault that forever alters their perspective of life or how they view it.  Maho is one of those places that has forever infected 10's of 1000's of peoples lives; guests, staff, exchange workers and hopeful dreamers have known the magic that is Maho.  The place touches your soul, forever residing there, forever altering your perception and never allowing you to forget.  Even when you return home more than sand, shells, or photographs are brought back.  Memories are not even what you bring back.  What you encounter are sensory overloads that create flashbacks later in life.  Moments when things are bad, you are able to reach back and relive that exact moment, be bathed in every second, every detail, touching the fabric of the memory.  There is a magic in Maho Bay, it possesses the code to inscribe details on your soul that you wont even notice until one day it is simply thrust into your consciousnesses by an unknown force.

Maho Bay has inspired a generation+, but it is coming to a close.  The magic and joy that is maho, is soon to be no more.  The lease has run out and the 14 acre, hillside resort is now for sale.  The idealic local will soon be gobbled up by an oppressive land baron who will develop it into either swank 5th home development for millionaires, or another fantastic ticki-tack resort, with as much depth and character as a politician the week before elections.  I have recently been reminded that the place which first unburdened my soul will never be able to inspire after July of this year.  An injustice against the human spirit will soon befall this small corner of heaven.  My soul aches when I consider the implications of never being able to engross myself in everything Maho.  If only the place that has animated and inspired millions of dreams could inspire one affluent enough.