7th
Dramatic Escape to Paradise On A Boat, Part 1: Arrival St. Bart’s
Somehow I have acquired enough merit from a previous existence to have such wonderful friends as Alex and his fiance Claire. They recently invited me down to the caribbean to stay on their beautiful sailboat and cruise around some islands for a little R&R. Again, I have no idea how I conned these people into this, but I thank the god-that-doesnt-exist every day for such blessings. Actually I have a pretty good idea how this invitation came about and it involved about 30 martinis. Thank god (redux) that they’re drinkers!
Departure goes smoothly, as friend S. and I head to JFK airport in the wee hours of the morning. I’ve been too excited to sleep much and regale S. with horror stories I’ve heard of the puddle-jumper plane flight into St Bart’s, where we will meet our generous friends and their lovely Sabre yacht. This flight takes 10 minutes from St. Maarten, and apparently involves some sort of a death-plunge into a watery grave. Don’t worry, says S., its like a roller-coaster. I worry a little more. I hate roller-coasters. I’ve actually fainted on one, when I was 12.
In St. Maarten we drink two beers at the airport. Delicious weird foreign kind of Amstel that I’ve never had before. I buy fancy cigarettes for cheap and feel like chic world traveler.
The plane is tiny. Only 3 seats across, and they’re doll-size. I’m a size 6, and am falling out of it into the aisle. S. is mostly in my seat as he’s like 6’4” or something. My heart starts to race as I see that the copilot is a young attractive blonde. I racially profile her (just as I always hate when people do to me) and assume she’s an idiot because she is pretty, and cant fly the plane and the pilot is probably drunk and we’re going to die. Take off is horrible, as expected. The plane is from 1964 or so, and shudders with every gust of breeze. Its a little foggy. I perspire gently and shut my eyes, gripping the seat back in front of me. As soon as we’re up, its time to head down. We speed up. I’m now in a full on cold sweat and friend S. asks me if I’m going to vomit. No of course not, I answer testily (more on that later…more prescient words were never uttered.) Try looking out the window he helpfully suggests. WORST IDEA EVER. What’s happening outside the window is the plane is in the predicted death-plunge-of-certain-death headed down at a 90 degree angle straight for the side of a jagged hill. As the trees rush towards me at breakneck speed, I cry out and grab S’s arm. Preternaturally calm passenger in front of me turns around at my outburst, and I apologize, thinking that it will be doubly pathetic if the last words out of my mouth before death are “sorry.” So thats how it ends….not with a bang, but with a “sorry.” Note to self: change life!
Somehow we narrowly avoid the mountain top- I swear we grazed it a little- and fall down onto the runway and screech to a halt a few feet before the runway dead-ends into the ocean. I stagger out of the plane, shaking, and practically in tears. We taxi into town on windy hilly roads, which don’t scare me cause nothing ever will have the power to frighten me again after the death-flight-of-doom-and-certain-death. Out of the taxi I almost collapse on the sidewalk and insist on drinking a bottle of water and smoking one of my new fancy cigs before we head to the bar to meet Alex and Claire. I sit on a curb till heart rate slows, and suddenly notice that I’m in paradise. Palm trees, attractive French people, adorable little stucco two-story shops and buildings. Next stop: Le Select (home of the famous Jimmy Buffet “Cheeseburgers in Paradise.” Friends A and C are tanned and happy, feasting on burgers and drinking Caribs which we will all drink like water for the remainder of the trip- or at least when the rose is running low or we need variety. I brag to them about how I bravely survived the flight of hell. They sweetly humor my dramatic re-telling. We head to the boat for rose and hors d’oevres. En route I buy lots of foie gras and fancy cheese to celebrate life. Calories don’t count when you’ve just cheated death.
