The only question and pressing issue of the day was if the small cloud in the blue sky would catch the larger cloud it chased. I placed my tropical drink down in the Caribbean sand and watched. I leaned a little further back in my beach lounger as the baking sun made me forget this was December. The only thing interrupting my daydreaming and soaking in my surroundings were the ocean waves greeting the sandy shore.
Being closer to South America than North America while a Minnesota winter happened back home was a great way to wind down 2009. We were amongst warm turquoise waters, with an all-inclusive-too-expensive-for-us-but-too-in-love-to-care resort called Sandals. Heaven would be a good nickname for this little island lost in the Caribbean. On maps it’s called St. Lucia.
I’m not sure if that little cloud ever did catch the big cloud. I was too relaxed to notice. St. Lucia’s motto of, “No pressure. No problem, mon.” had consumed me.
My wife and I were married October 3rd but decided to wait on our honeymoon until Minnesota’s winter hit us in the face. December 28th was our departure. For a couple that dodged winter last year by living in Florida it was a splendid plan.
We arrived to the southern part of the island at a speck of an airport and immediately boarded a Sandals shuttle van that would take us to our dream honeymoon. Three other couples filled the van with us. They were from: St. Louis (the divers of the group), Boston (the talk only when asked a question people), and rural Illinois (the poor folks who lost their luggage).
The shuttle driver’s name was Francis. He told us he had lived in St. Lucia all his life except for a short time in Tampa, Florida.“I want to be free” was the reasoning he gave us for leaving the USA and returning home to St. Lucia. Ironic I thought.
Francis was chattier than chatty and entertained the entire shuttle ride to the resort with his island knowledge, stories, and jokes. But before we reached our home for the week, we stopped for a Piton. Piton is St. Lucia’s local brand of beer. They are proud of it, too. The Pitons are the two highest points on the island and tower above this tropical paradise.
“See the mountains. Drink the beer,” Francis reminded us of the simple slogan.
The bar we stopped at was nothing more then a little hut alongside the road with a post card view. $5 for those two Pitons was the price today. For all I know, our driver Francis probably owned that place. Afterwards Francis guided the shuttle van to the resort where we were greeted and our treatment like kings began.
The week blinked by as great vacations always do. And just like that we were back on the same shuttle bus heading in the opposite direction back to the airport. This time our shuttle driver was a complete opposite of Francis and didn’t say a word. That was fine, as the vanload of me, my wife, and 3 other couples embraced the silence and looked out the windows staring at the paradise we were about to leave.
So as the banana trees, small poor villages, rich hillside mansions, valleys littered with green lush jungles, and ocean shores zoomed by my window I thought of my honeymoon and what a trip it truly was. I was reminded of a friend advising me the good advice to splurge on the honeymoon so it would be memories for life.
The white van zigzagged back to the airport on the winding road like a dog chasing a cat. Our van load of tourists had their vacation on life support with only hours to live. Soon we all would be 10,000 feet plus above this island dream. I think everyone on that van was thinking the same thing. I didn’t ask them, but you could just feel it. “Do we have to leave?” echoed in the van despite no one saying it.
“Does anyone want some pizza?” I awkwardly blurted out to the van to break the silence. I had packaged up a pizza to go from the all-inclusive resort. A bunch of slightly sad, knowing their time in paradise was about to end voices monotoned back, “No thanks."
The drive back to the airport continued to be funeral silent. However the landscape was so beautiful it was like driving through pages of a National Geographic magazine. Memories of the week continued to float into my mind like those two clouds from the beach--coming and going with no particular order or direction.
I remembered the Venezuelan man who sang the song “La Bamba” at karaoke the first night we arrived. As a result, my wife and I chuckled and referred to him as “La Bamba” every time we saw him around the resort.
Or the hilariously embarrassing moment when a young honeymooner decided a cannonball into the pool was a good idea. She jumped in and once she hit bottom shot back up with her arms in the air. She had made a splash all right. Her bikini top had shifted and part of the reason women wear a bikini was exposed.
Another memory was hiking to the top of two mountains in Pigeon Island National Park and being rewarded with a view a bird only gets.
And yet another was us two playing in the ocean all day long riding the waves into the sand. I laid down that night and my body still felt like it was bobbing up and down in the ocean.
This was a trip people only dream of, but I had just lived it. There was a moment on the honeymoon I realized just how blessed I was. I was dancing at the resort with my soulmate. The live reggae band performed poolside. It was the last song--an old school Bryan Adams song, but with a St. Lucian accent. Being the big softy I am, my eyes became blurry and tears blocked my view as I danced with my soulmate on this perfect island and sang to her along with the band:“Baby you’re all that I want. When you’re lyin’ here in my arms. I’m findin’ it hard to believe. We’re in heaven... And love is all that I need. And I found it there in your heart. It isn’t too hard to see. We’re in heaven...”
