Island Time Anyone?
Vicki Peyton, Inland Empire Branch
How foolish to be swayed by the lithe and young man with muscled forearms, a confident way, an island mystique, and the broken English words that he spoke in between his native Patois. “You have nothing to worry about. I have sailed these catamarans for all of the island hotels. I know how.”
“And just how many hotels would that be?”
“Two, the one where you are staying and the one near the village center. You have no worries. Look at the sky, perfect.” He hoisted the sails and tossed a kiss to the balmy sea breeze. “We have to catch the wind exactly right. This takes time, island time,” he said with a wink. “When we come back, I cook for you tonight, island pleasures – barracuda, the meat of the conch shell with a spicy sauce like no other, and plantains.”
Relaxing on the lattice scaffold, drowsy in the sun, I gazed at him. I listened to the lapping ocean water on the pontoons – a breeze catching and cuffing the sails, the shoreline drifting further and further away, tiny beads of perspiration trickling from his forehead through his curly dark hair – each movement absolute, sure footedness, and poise.
He talked as he worked the sails to catch a breeze. “My family has lived on the end of this island for generations; we can see the water on both shorelines. Every time it storms, they gather old pieces of metal, rocks, and wood debris. They use them for building materials to add rooms to our house; it happens every time someone is born. Life and death in the same place; we bury our family behind our house. I’ll take you and show you if you like.
”As beautiful as Cayman Island is, I’m trying to imagine years of entire lives in a place that is twelve by twenty-eight miles long. “Has anyone ever been off the island?”
“No. Miami is close, but no one has ever gone.”
“This is paradise. Why would anyone want to go?” But there was no answer.
David’s eyes were riveted on the frightening shadowy clouds blowing from the west and beginning their angry march as if in time-elapsed film. The blue sky was etched away, one howling gust of wind whipped the sails, and the catamaran flipped on its side in a blinding torrent of sudden gray. I held tight to the pontoon while we drifted away from the shore. David mouthed the words, “Don’t worry.” If he was speaking, I couldn’t hear him for the snarl of the wind and the sudden pelting downpour. I watched, fascinated and afraid, as he grabbed the rope and tossed it to catch the top of the mast in a repeated rhythmic motion over and over again, almost like lassoing a wayward animal. Too many attempts; too many misses. The rope was no match for the feisty and unrelenting wind. We gripped the pontoon and drifted to wait out the storm in the gray, relentless rain. I was not certain that I would feast on island delicacies for dinner.
This teaser from Vicki Peyton’s memoir
appeared in the May7 2021 Fresh Ink, the Inland Empire newsletter.