Bored of the Board

            Vieques is “that island the Navy used to bomb,” a small land mass just a short, scenic plane ride from the “Big Island” of Puerto Rico.  Though the Navy gave up bombing under protest a few years ago, the anticipated major development hasn’t yet happened. So the island remains largely wild, a tangle of vines and palm trees in the center, home to astounding and underutilized beaches (many of which opened only after the Navy left), wild horses, two dissolute towns with limited offerings to tourists and high property crime necessitating bars over every orifice in a building.

            Friends of ours moved to the island six years ago, before the Navy made its withdrawal official. With their customary innate ability to arbitrage personal real estate, they sold their suburban home here and bought a small underutilized waterfront bar and restaurant from a disinterested owner who wanted to trade the market full-time from San Juan. Motivated owners in residence and the end of bombing have had a wonderful effect on the business, and the place has prospered. They’ve been after us for years to visit, but other destinations beckoned, Europe in particular, and we never seemed to be able to find the right time to go.

            This past December they wrote of their daughter’s wedding a month or so before. We still thought of her as a teenager.  Realizing we’d missed too much of their lives already, we decided to stop making excuses and go. There was only one fly in the ointment - I’d started a health kick in the winter, emphasizing diet and exercise, and I didn’t want to abandon it entirely when I was only halfway to my goals. Our friends said they would assure us of sufficient activity, including the use of their personal trainer 3 times a week, numerous yoga teachers, horseback riding, snorkeling and regular walking. Satisfied I could at least make a stab at virtue while on vacation, it didn’t take long to arrange flights.

            Shortly after we landed and were warmly greeted and swept up by our old pals, we went to their business for a bite. It’s entirely open to the street, so conversation stopped and started every 10 minutes or so as another island local walked by to say hello, we are introduced and discussion ensued. Chief among the important island denizens we met that night was the personal trainer, “R.” R is the kind of guy who stops traffic - tall, muscled, shiny black and very handsome with a huge, megawatt smile and considerable personal charisma. When our friends introduced him to us, my husband turned to me with faux horror and said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be personally trained by that guy.”  I replied that I was now considering going twice a day. And so my husband, who has eschewed any formal exercise other than the odd game of squash for the last 30 years, came to our personal training sessions for the rest of the week.

            Turns out R was a pretty good trainer too. Low-tech, but effective at forcing us to use free weights, our own body weight, a jump rope, and a ball on a covered deck where we stared at the skull of a cow he thoughtfully placed in our eyesight. After what felt like 27 thousand squats, 2000 lunges and 100 hours of ab work, we were free to go, for a $5 per person drop-in charge. Cool. 

            We went back twice more and we got to know a little more of his story, both from his own lips and those of our friends. R came to the island via Boulder, Colorado to bury his father.  Despite the circumstances, R liked the place, and never left, and at some point his brother and mother relocated also.

Three years ago, R was in a horrid motorcycle accident which left him with serious injuries in one leg. Doctors had apparently wanted to amputate a foot, but he’d refused and the subsequent reconstruction belies the idiocy of that decision. His lower leg looks like a tree trunk, with muscles borrowed from other parts of his body, and just above the ankle there remains a big open area that never healed properly. You can see the wound suppurate through his sweat socks during training sessions. He limps a little, but he seems to have built a reasonable life for himself in this place with a regular, and growing, clientele of the North Americans who live here full or part-time.  

We noticed that he had a kayak in his front yard and told him we were considering a tour of the Bioluminescent Bay, the island’s proudest tourist venue.  He jumped at the chance to do it, said he’d been a guide and offered us a really cheap price. He was irresistible.

We agreed to a five-hour tour: a paddle through the extensive mangrove swamps, replete with flying fish, a paddle out of the bay a very short way to a spectacular ocean beach where we’d drink rum from coconuts, have a picnic dinner and watch the sun set, and then the dusk to dark paddle back into the bio bay to watch out body parts light up in the water under the stars. Sounded dreamy, and I couldn’t help but think of all the calories we’d burn paddling for that long. (Sick, I know). Plus, we’d be with R, who it seemed could use a good turn and the money and would be pretty reliable to boot.

We met him in the late afternoon at his place. There was only one two-person kayak in the front. He asked my husband to pay him partly up front so he could rent the other one at wholesale from a friend. Okay, we knew he was going to have to do that. He took off with a surfer-dude who introduced himself to us as Scott and was back in 20 minutes with another kayak.  Scott helped R tie both kayaks to the roof of an approximately 35 year old probably white Pontiac coupe with bald tires, no hubcaps and so many dents it looked like it had been through a giant washer coated with rocks. We were nonplussed. Most of the cars on the island were 30 years old (minimum) and dented from the travel down rocky roads to beaches.  What caused a little concern, however, was R’s evident lack of understanding of how to tie down the kayaks.  Okay, he doesn’t do this a lot, still how hard could it be?

“R, what happened to your arm, man?” I’d noticed some fresh gauze taped down. “Oh, I walked into a glass door this morning. Early, you know?”  Everyone needs an accident-prone kayak guide. But he’s so careful with other people, I thought to myself.

“Okay, who needs a PFD? They’ll be optional on this trip except for the little girl,” R said brightly, looking over at my daughter. “Really?” I said, thinking that no genuine insurance-paying guide would say that.  But then, it’s an island. Our friends tell us they have the cars inspected in San Juan without them ever leaving Vieques.  “We won’t ever be in water deeper than 10 feet,” he replied with that huge ingratiating smile and, perhaps, the faintest curl of a bicep. “Okay then.”

“Do you have a dry bag, R?” 

“Oh, man, someone walked away with my last one yesterday. I have some plastic bags here you can wrap stuff in.” 

I put my digital camera and a cell phone inside the plasticized and zippered bag I brought containing food and rum.  I had no idea whether it was waterproof. I guessed we’d find out.

We piled in the low-rider, crushing empty gallon plastic jugs with our asses, and crunching jewel cases and whatnot under our Teva sandals. Discarded Bob Marley CDs dug into our thighs. My husband sat up front, next to the extra car battery that was helpfully piled on the seat.  R saw him looking. “Just to be on the safe side.”  “Sure,” my husband said.  He and I are beginning to not be able to look at each other. We love the absurd.

Wedged between the front and rear windshields were four paddles, bisecting the car seating nicely, and threatening to cut our heads off in the event of an accident. Better buckle in, but of course, those rear belts were probably cut out of this beauty in about 1979.  “I won’t drive quickly,” he says reassuringly.

In about 10 minutes we are at the entrance to Sun Bay, the island’s largest public beach and the only one with facilities of any kind. It’s huge and gorgeous and mostly empty - I’d had a two hour yoga class there earlier in the week and we saw maybe two people in the sand. We drive to the end of the beach and then down a seriously rutted dirt road lined with turpentine trees and jungly foliage.  The road becomes a path which forks and we are off again, through one rut so serious and unavoidable we do it at maybe half a mile an hour so when the undercarriage scrapes nothing will break.  After a few careful minutes we are at the mouth of the bay.

We unload the boats, R parks the car and says, “we’ll take five or ten minutes here for instruction.” There is no instruction. We figure it out.  R’s satisfied and leads us off through the bay at a pretty fast pace. We reach the entrance to the mangroves, but back out awkwardly because another party is coming out and the canals are too small. Two kayaks come out, one guy alone obviously the guide to two pasty white people in better shape than we pasty white people. I recognize him from town - he’s the son and part proprietor of one of the better known (and probably actually licensed) snorkel and kayak guide companies.  He notices how bad we are at turning in a small spot and shows us how to dip the paddle to turn more efficiently. A kind young man we’ll call “A.”

Red mangrove trees are very interesting. http://static.flickr.com/29/44699794_542da0fcde_m.jpg It was dark in there, and dank, and the canal was so small that you couldn’t paddle but instead had to use your arms to drag yourself along with the branches and roots of the trees. The roots were amazing - crawling with life like little oysters and barnacles and most notably, little crabs. It takes some time to figure out the best place to grab and pull and which person in the boat should be doing the directing. The learning curve involves careening into hard roots filled with pissed-off little crabs and lying suddenly flat on your back when you realize the other person has grabbed onto something which is effectively directing a huge branch through your eyeball. All the while you are surrounded by the fetid smell of swamp mud. A wonder, undoubtedly, to a biologists and botanists and ecologists alike, and pure hell after a while to an inexperienced set of kayakers.

The canal empties into a wide open space. Fish are indeed jumping around and it’s lovely and exciting. But wait, there’s a gorgeous white heron on the near shore. How beautiful! Is that thing STANDING? How deep is this water? We were stuck on a mud bank.  After a few frantic minutes, we dug the paddles straight down into the muck leaned and pushed clear.  We are wearing a good deal of stinking mud though. The rest of the trip through the swamp was anxious and unpleasant. “Damn you, let me know when you’re pulling!” “Ew, I nearly got another crab.” R. finally figures out that it’s “unusually low water” and agrees to turn around so we will have enough energy to paddle to the beach.

We are relieved to be back in the bright beautiful bay. We splash some clean water over our legs and I notice my back hurts - we’ve been at this for a couple of hours and there’s no back support in these models.  We go out the mouth of the bay into a very large channel and R says, “Let’s get some instruction on blue water paddling!” I look out to the sea and watch some seriously angry looking waves break in the distance.

“Okay!” R is smiling again. “We’re going to paddle out right to the breakers, right at that buoy! Don’t worry about the waves coming in, but you are going to have to wait for a break between them to paddle. Once we get out there, there’s a coral reef and it’s a good place to snorkel.  I’ll stay with the boats. Then you can get back in, we’ll paddle a little further, turn the boats and the waves will just carry us into the beach!”   No beach is presently visible and I’m thinking about being in the breakers in a plastic boat.

“I think I’d just like to head for the beach,” I say. The idea of trying to get in and out of the boat without a dry bag for our stuff, with R trying to hold on to everything in rolling waves did not appeal. “Okay then, let’s go!” And he, with his arms of iron and my little girl, who is totally a paddling champ by now, are off well ahead of us into the sea.  I can’t let him run away with her, so off we go, through the waves, and it’s very different from the placid forgiving bay. This is some serious work, but it turns out we need not go anywhere near the breakers, as at a much earlier point R is directed to the beach by A, whose party has already landed there and are beginning to wander around.

When we land, we are very grateful. It turns out the beach is called Novillo, it’s reachable only by kayak, and is fabulously unspoiled, even by the standards of this undeveloped island. 

My daughter decides to snorkel, and A points out the safe place, because the place she’s waded out to has a strong current. Thanks A.

We snack a bit, break out the rum. R doesn’t have a coconut. He forgot. But maybe there will be some on the beach. There are not, but there are trees. A climbs up a tree like a lizard and grabs one, brings it down and cuts it expertly and quickly with the machete he’s brought for his clients. Given R’s luck with dangerous objects, I’m not that upset about the failure to bring the machete. My daughter emerges from snorkeling with a coconut cut open. A gave it to her. I’m starting to love that boy.

In the meantime, R is drinking the rum straight out of the bottle. We had no idea what to bring other than fruit, cheese, water and some pbjs. We have a little bite here and there and watch the sun go down in a glorious blaze.

Thank God, the plastic bag seems to have worked for the camera. Before the last light disappears, we head back from the Caribbean into the bay, with the wind and the tide helping us along. We hang in the upper part of the bay for a long time, chatting and taking the odd desultory paddle to keep from drifting too far into the mangroves.

Finally it’s really, really dark and something magical happens. Wherever the water is disturbed, it turns a bright, luminous green. Stick a hand in and form a cup with your fist and watch the glow run down your arm like stars with the water. It lights up where your paddle hits the surface. Trail anything in the water and you’ll see it light up. It’s really like something out of a science fiction novel - a bright greenish, gorgeous glow.  A more full scientific explanation can be found  http://www.elenas-vieques.com/bioluminescent.html, but all I need to know is that there’s a little single-celled critter called a dinoflagellate, which emits an enormous amount of light when it feels pressure on its cell wall. I also know that this chemical reaction begins with a “luciferin” (like Lucifer, get it? Light emitter?) which in this case is evidently some chemical produced by the mangroves. Or so R. said.

Anyway, it’s fabulous, really. Add to this an extraordinary starlit night - one of those Caribbean skies where you swear there are at least 1000 times more stars than you’ve ever seen before, and you are totally, utterly entranced. And if you are me, you are thinking, we all survived. It’s okay. It’s stunning and I’m so glad I did it and I’m so proud of my little kid for hanging tough here all day.  A sense of misbegotten well-being crept in. We elected not to swim, realizing how tired we all were, asked just to head back. R. obliged and we paddled off.

“What are we making for?” “Um, the red light.” There are no fewer than 4 red light towers. R has neglected to bring flashlights (which A and his crew and all the other nighttime-only kayakers have) so we’re having some trouble keeping up. We keep calling out to him. There’s a shout from their boat, and it appears my daughter is a little agitated. We speed up - it appears a fish jumped into the boat and hit her knee. She is not amused, and not willing to pick it up and send it back. (Damn you, National Geographic Channel! She probably thinks it’s poisonous).  R pitches it back in the bay, we see its impossibly bright and fast trail under the water. Wild. We keep paddling. Then R turns around and we follow. Then, he turns again and we are shouting at him.

“Oh, I came in at a different spot today. Marked it from that boat, but they moved it.”

“R, are you lost?”

“I’m a guy, I’m never lost!”

A few minutes later he has changed direction again, now to try to find half of the paddle that has broken off somehow. My daughter gives up hers.

We spend what could have been 10 minutes or an hour paddling along the inky black shoreline, looking desperately for the little launching beach, or any other break in the foliage all trying to keep his boat in sight by watching the light his paddles make in the water. We call out and ask if we can’t beach just anywhere and walk to the car. “Nope, foliage is too thick.”  My husband tries to persuade him to ask some other guides, but whether its pride or fear of prosecution for being an unregistered vendor, he won’t do it. I begin to worry we will have to spend the night floating on the bay. Finally, we find the break, where, of course, A is putting his client’s kayaks back on a truck and preparing to return those lucky folks to their guest house.

We are exhausted and very wet when we stumble upon the sand.  My husband and another guide help R get the kayaks on the low-rider. Someone asks R to turn off his car while they get their big busload of tourists out. He complies. We all pile in the car and he turns the key and click click click click.  After a few more efforts, he pulls out his spare battery and installs it. And  nothing. There’s the inevitable re-turning of the key and switching of the batteries and still, nothing.

My husband immediately identifies the problem as a dead starter motor.  Then the second miraculous sight of the night occurs - all the other pirate (i.e. nonlicensed) kayak operators left on the beach come over to help. There are four or five of them, their clients all standing on the beach whimpering, while they play a version of “Puerto Rican Operation” - putting any metal object they could get their hands on into the engine and poking it. “No man, don’t do that again, last time you did that I got shocked man.” This goes on so long it becomes thoroughly social, “So, you lived in St. Croix? Me too! Which town?”

While this lovefest endures, I’ve discovered that the plastic bag did not protect the cell phone. It’s fried. I don’t have our friends’ number anywhere else. We ask one of the other hapless guides to call the restaurant they own and they do it, but no one picks up. Not unusual on a busy night. We ask if anyone else can give us a ride home, and one guy, the guy from St. Croix with hair like Emilio Estevez in The Breakfast Club says he will come back for us after he drops his people off. We hear this as “yes, you wait here, suckers, and I’ll be right back.”

We discuss walking out, but we don’t know where we are going and there’s a real chance of getting lost. There are iguanas, tarantulas, fire ants and scorpions on this island, none of which we know enough about to know whether they are nocturnal. I’ve met three people and one dog who have been stung in the last 4 days and I so do not want to be in their number. We wait it out, and now my kid is whining full force and understandably.

“Operation” has come to an end. Now they toss a length of webbing, frayed in places, and secure it to R’s car. We are to be towed by the other pirate crew’s SUV. We consider staying on the bay, but ultimately say all right, and get in the low-rider with the head-endangering paddles wedged back in.  The SUV at the other end of the tether is moving with its load of boats and clients and guides and so are we. At the rear of the SUV, standing on the bumper, is the Emilio Estevez lookalike. He’s a skateboarder, R says, and therefore crazy. What the hell are we? R brakes carefully, consistently. We hit the horrible car-eating rut with amazing care. The frayed lifeline holds. The car scrapes only a little. We are safe.

On the paved road at Sun Bay, our rescuers set us free - they have to return their clients, campers, to the campsite. We say no problem, the town where our friends’ bar is located is maybe a 20 minute walk. We head off when my husband realizes R may not be able to walk that far on his barely functional foot. Within few minutes, the third miraculous sight is had, when two off-duty publicos, or taxis, are located at the entrance to the bay. The only slightly less reluctant one is persuaded to take us to town, and we finally get to the bar, where our friends are not. After some more delay, we get their number, they pick us up, we shower, drink beer, and laugh hysterically for an hour or so.

Oh sure, it wasn’t safe. Could have been a frightful disaster. But now, it’s just a story.

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