Misstropolis

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Too Far from Shore

by Jennifer Bruni

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I am on St. John for less than 30 minutes when I down my first Painkiller, the unofficial drink of the island, made with dueling rums, a bunch of tropical fruit juices, and a smattering of ground nutmeg. The heat and my giddy vacation-induced state of mind make the alcohol hit me with a rush that obliterates what remains of my deductive reasoning.

The ride to my friend Lois’ house is fraught with harrowing hair-pin turns, wild donkeys and whimsically desecrated road signs. The terrain is so rugged that at times the truck gears protest in pain and we must unfasten our seat belts so as not to choke during a descent. Only 9 by 5 miles in size, and with an average speed limit of just 20 mph, it takes a good 45 minutes to cross St. John from any direction.

It’s really freeing to be in the tropics in the winter, and to have no children or men around – just some to flirt with madly when you go out – and then toss aside when it’s time to head home. There is no one to watch over or pick up after, and my friend and I remain blissfully unaware of the Super Bowl going on back home until we head into a bar that Sunday evening to grab a round of Painkillers before dinner.

At the bar – named Skinny Legs after the owner’s wife’s gams – Lois introduces me to two of her local friends, who begin a friendly competition to win my affection and, according to the one with dreadlocks down to his waist, even marriage – or, at the very least, to create another love child to add to his growing collection. I politely decline, saying that I have a boyfriend back home and anyway, I don’t believe in long distance relationships – even ones where a tropical island is involved. But over the next few days, because the island is so small, it seems as if everywhere we go, these two men are there, waiting to pounce.

The local people here call the tourists “one-horned butt fish” after the classic snorkeling position. Lois takes me snorkeling. After a few minutes, I pop my head up to get my bearings. We are far out –the water is so clear and the reef is so fascinating that I don’t realize we are way, way out and in about 14 feet of water. Even though the stuff is transparent and very salty, making it easy to float by barely moving my vacation-wizened, rum-soaked limbs, and even though Lois has assured me over and over that sharks and ankle-grabbing zombies absolutely hate the water here, and even though I promised Lois that I wouldn’t freak out, I freak out. My mask and snorkel fill with water and I start sputtering and screaming for my friend. Lois swims over to me and grabs my hand. We paddle over to a big rock dotted with poisonous black sea urchins.

Lois crouches on the rock while I sit on her lap and get my shit together. She teases me for being a wimp and a city girl as we sway together in the waves and I fix my mask; but I am dreading the swim back. I’ve cut the tops of my feet on the coral and thin rivers of blood pulse out in spurts into the water. It’s all quite dramatic – at least for me, anyway – and I pray for the millionth time that there are no sharks or blood-thirsty zombies.

Still, on the way back I spot a massive sting ray undulating a few yards away, which cheers me up quite a bit until Lois pops her head up and comments, “That’s how Steve Irwin died, you know.” Sting rays aside, we make it back onto the beach, where it is so hot that I want to head right back into the water but opt instead to plop down on my beach chair in the shade and rest and examine my stigmatic feet. All of my fears of the unknown and all that they symbolize – deep water, being attacked, losing control, drowning – surfaced out on the reef and subsided again on dry land. I am ready to return home and to my reality. Next time I come to St. John I will snorkel with my young son, who will keep me brave – and closer to the shore.