First Blog from Tortola

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There were a couple of instances of me forgetting where I parked my car in the YMCA lot before I left for Tortola. I was exercising after work, so when I came outside and it was dark, I was left wandering the lot, electronic key in hand, looking for my car, hoping I was within range to get the lights to blink as I pressed repeatedly on the key. It had happened enough for me to think, “Is this how the beginning of the end starts?”
I answered my own question on the morning I left. Chris and I had gotten a ride to the Bonanza Bus terminal and while we waited for the bus to bring us to Logan, I realized I had forgotten my luggage. Yes, you read that correctly. I forgot my luggage. Not all of it. Just the piece that held my clothes.
Fortunately (and with some pride) I fit into Chris’s clothes. The bad news is, he only lets me where certain items. I have three t-shirts to wear: one is a Westerly High School t-shirt with the arms ripped off into a wife beater look; the second says, “Old men suck”. This one looks really good when I wear a baseball cap sideways. I’m not sure if it was the low lighting in Bomba’s or an excess of alcohol that the girl had consumed, but one started to ask me when my second semester began. The third is a soccer shirt with ,’Portugal ‘ written in large letters on the front and the name ‘Figo’ on the back. The shirt is purple. People keep saying ‘Bon gia’ to me and I think that means ‘good morning.’
I could go buy clothes, but they only sell tourist clothes - wild Hawaiian print button shirts or t-shirts that say “The beatings will continue until morale improves.”
By the time I return, I imagine full blown Alzheimer’s will have set in. The dazed and confused man you see roaming the streets dressed like a teenage frat boy will be me.

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It always takes me a few days to adjust to the scorn that accompanies any service down here. When I bought my ferry ticket to go from St. Thomas to Tortola, the woman waiting on me mumbled so badly I had to ask three times what she was saying. Clearly, I still misunderstood because while Chris and I got off at West End, our luggage went on to Road Town. And of course, they wouldn’t drop it back off at West End. We had to drive to pick it up. And the office was closed for lunch went we got there. And we waited at the wrong door to retrieve it. And the customs agent insisted I know the brand of camera I had before looking ‘to prove’ to him that I wasn’t smuggling anything in to the country. Ah, yes. Welcome to da islands, mon.

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We’ve had surf everyday. EVERYDAY. Thank God for yoga and three months of hard training at the YMCA. Otherwise I would be dead. The first two days was small and choppy; the next two saw a major swell. Friday night Cane Garden was as good as it gets - 6 feet and breaking from way up the point all the way through. Saturday was great there but not perfect like the night before. Sunday saw Apple Bay with six foot peaks and a very slight onshore wind. Not enough to screw it up. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday have been 3-4 feet with no one out at Apple Bay. Just a few friends.

Cane Garden was insanely crowded. The surfers were not outstanding, just a lot of them. One wave an hour seemed to be about everyone’s count. I had one, and only one, from all the way outside and I had one over that shallow section that barrels and I rode way deep in front of a bunch of people who hooted. My 15 seconds of Cane Garden fame.
A drunk guy ran me over and his fin tomahawked my 6’6” clear through. Yes, you read that correctly. He was drunk, surfing big Cane Garden. He is some local idiot so there wasn’t much to say or do except get out of the water, drive back home and get another board. Sigh.

Okay, more soon.

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