Читать книгу Does This Island Go To The Bottom? - Eric H. Pasley - Страница 8

I had a good buzz kicking in and I began to chuckle out loud. Some of the other passengers looked at me briefly then quickly turned away when I caught their eye. I was thinking about the night before the flight.

I stayed the over at my good friend Pete’s so he could take me to the airport in the morning. Pete was also an instructor and we were like twins. We both shared the same thought process and warped sense of humor that was always pushing the envelope of decency. I think this was due to our childhoods being very similar and the way we viewed life. We both dove together all the time and formed a little dive group along with our two other friends Big Paul The Boxer who knows Mickey Rourk and Little Jim. We called ourselves the Lost Puppy Divers and to be a Lost Puppy Diver meant we’d dive anywhere, anytime and in any condition. We often set up Lost Puppy Diver scuba trips.

We cracked open a few beers and talked about our first Lost Puppy Diver trip. Big Paul loaded up twelve tanks in his mini van and we took a road trip from Orange County up to Monterey. We took The Pacific Coast Highway all the way up and we would just stop at some random spot along the beach, throw our scuba gear on and go diving. “Remember when we were standing on that cliff just a little outside of San Louis Obispo checking out the water. Damn that water looked almost like the Caribbean, the “vis” looked like it was seventy feet and Big Paul says, How come there are no divers here?” I said.

“That place looked awesome,” Pete said.

“And it was a totally shitty dive. We couldn’t see shit. The fucking water was like split pea soup with ham chunks mixed in,” I said after taking a guzzle from my beer.

“And we got the hell beat out of us from all the chop, surge and current knocking us against the rocks down below. And that was after we were as exhausted as hell climbing all the way down that damn cliff, with all our gear on, sweating like boiled pigs in our quarter inch wet suits,” Pete said, almost spitting out his beer at the funny image.

“That was a fun-ass trip, “I said, “But I still can’t get over that one dive place where we tried to get our tanks filled.”

“The dive and tattoo shop?” Pete laughed.

“That’s the one. Christ, it was a dive shop with a tattoo parlor in the back. And that dive instructor was sitting behind his plain, gray steel desk reading his instructor manual and drinking a Budweiser,” I started to laugh. “He had no local dive maps of the area or a compressor to fill our tanks.”

“But he did have a cage of rats in the other room. I mean, what the hell was up with that?” Pete said.

“Damn, I wanted to catch one of those filthy rodents. Jesus, they were climbing in and out of that cage.”

“Catch one? You almost tackled the bastard.” Petes’ laughter intensified. “The next thing came, was the sound of a tattoo gun stopping, and that big Samoan lady who was giving a dive flag tattoo to that scrawny white boy with buck teeth screamed at us. ‘You better not hurt my rats!’ Man, she sounded pissed.”

“Damn, that was good times,” I got up to get another beer.

“Even when Big Paul pissed all over our dive gear up in Monterey Bay after the dive.” Pete said.

“I think I liked the Baja trip better, El Bajo Sea mount was a kick ass dive.” I said. Then while shaking my head I said, “I can’t believe we were asking almost every Mexican we met where we could find Jesuchristo El Diablo.”

Shaking his head, Pete spewed out, “Yeah, those Mexicans thought we were crazy looking for Jesus The Devil.”

Before we crashed for the night we were watching the news; Civil unrest in the Dominican Republic, Haitians were trying to jump the border. The scene was total anarchy. West Indian police were bashing innocent civilians over the head with eight foot long sticks that resembled boat oars. It was ridiculous, total slapstick action right out of The Three Stooges.

“That’s where you are going, dude.” Pete said holding his gut. He was laughing his ass off.

“Holy shit dude, I’m going to get clubbed!”

I wasn’t going to the Dominican Republic or Haiti. I had my ticket to St. Thomas, but the mayhem in Dominican Republic was still typical for that area of the world. I can still see those poor bastards in my head getting clubbed. Man, I felt bad for them, but at the same time, it was absolutely hysterical.

I flew into Puerto Rico, then caught a fifteen minute puddle jumper to St. Thomas. I wondered if Mike, the guy from the dive shop, would remember to pick me up at the airport. The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac and started to screech as the pilot hit the breaks. My heart jumped with excitement. I was finally here. I couldn’t believe it, I actually kissed the rat race goodbye. No more ties, no more office cliques and cubicles.

I stepped off the plane at Cyril E. King International Airport and went to the luggage turnaround area to get my dive gear. The baggage pick up area was open air and I immediately felt the thick, wet Caribbean air sink into my bones. It was nice and hot, sticky and salty. The trade winds were blowing and I felt alive. While waiting for my bag, I could see that I was defintely the minority here. I was only one of four white people and the rest were Black, West Indians and Rastafarians. Hell, that didn’t bother me, I was use to being the minority. I was a white boy that spent my adolesent years in South El Monte California and if anything, I felt more at home. It was just an island full of Black natives. However, I did start to get a bit nervous when the baggage area started to clear out and no one approached me by the name of Mike. I saw my dive gear. As I pulled it off the turnstyle I heard a voice from behind me.

“Eric?”

“Mike?” I said after I turned around.

“That’s me. Welcome to St. Thomas.” He said and shook my hand.

“Thanks. Let’s get the hell out of here,” I threw my dive gear in the back of his funky looking vehicle and we took off towards Charlotte Amalie, the capital of St. Thomas. It was night time and the air was salty and hot like a sauna. Lights covered the silhouette of the hill sides. Coming into downtown I could see a large cluster of lights right up to the waters edge and a massive cruise ship lit up like a Christmas tree. It was an amazing site, like when you see the lights of Las Vegas for the first time at night driving over the desert hill on I-5. I couldn’t figure out why some people refered to St. Thomas as “The Arm Pit of The Caribbean.” Man, this place looked and felt pretty damn cool to me. I closed my eyes for just a few seconds to take it all in. Suddenly, my hypnotic trance was broken.

“Jesus Christ, Mike, look out for that car!” I said clutching the dashboard.

“Relax, Eric.” Mike said laughing. “Didn’t you know we drive on the left

here?”

“Oh, shit, I forgot. Yeah, now I remember,” I said while I exhaled the breath I was

holding.

“It’ll take some getting used to.” He said.

“I bet.”

“That’s the Raddison Diamond,” Mike said refering to the cruse ship docked at the harbor.

“Do the cruise ships usually stay overnight here?” I said.

“No, most only stay for the day. The Raddison, on one of its’ Caribbean runs, stays the night here in St. Thomas. Then it takes off on a three week cruise.” Little did I know that I would come to know that ship very well.

We were now on the waterfront road, Veterans Drive. Off to my right were two small islands just outside of the harbor. “What are those islands?” I said pointing in the direction.

“Water Island and Hassel Island,” said Mike. We hung a left close to where the dock was located. The ship was huge. I had never seen anything like it up close. “That’s the dive shop.” Mike pointed to a little shop in a small strip mall. The letters over the door said V.I.D.S.S. ’Virgin Islands Dive School and Supplies.’ I said to myself. Just past the dive shop we started our way up a windy road known as Raphune Hill.

“Where is this place located?” I said. VIDSS had a place for instructors to stay when they first arrived on the island. The dude who owned the place, Marty the Jew from New York, only charged something like, ten bucks a week if you wanted to stay there rather than find a place of your own. Ten bucks, man what a deal.

“The place is in Tutu.” Mike said.