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.
Tutu, a UFO, Wild Goats and Demonic Chickens
Tutu is in the middle of the island and as I could see while driving into it, it was pretty much a ghetto. There is a K-Mart there. And where there is a K-Mart there is a ghetto. Also in Tutu is a small mall and as I was soon to find out, one of many Kentucky Fried Chickens. I knew the USVI’s were westernized, but come on, a K-Mart? What kind of paradise is host to a vile store of the likes? Give me a break.
Mike took a right onto a dirt road and crept his ugly car along a dirt road for
about twenty yards or so. Then we turned right, down a partial dirt and cracked
concrete driveway. Two viscious pit bulls began to bark on our left behind a rickety chainlink fence. Green foliage was growing wild on both sides of the driveway: Tentacles of some hellish beast from the deep, lashing out in all directions. And then I saw “It.” In the headlights before me stood an edifice of ungodly proportions. If it was alive it would be The Devil. Delapitated and evil, it was truly a shit hole.
The front door opened and I saw somebody stick their body out half way and wave. Jesus, I thought. That cat is trying to escape the jaws of death and he is waving for help.
