Where my love is

In college we conducted this hostile takeover of the Baptist Student Union meaning we showed up, played cards and listened to the Devil’s music on the sound system. There would always be a lot of us playing “Spades” and someone’s favorite song would come on and the card game slowed while everyone sang along.

Stephen Bishop’s “On and On” was mine. Pretty girls down in Jamaica … dreaming and staying tan … tossing your heart up to see where it lands … on and on …

I’d always loved Tybee and the beach at Hilton Head before it became the traffic jam that it is today and Daytona Beach. But way back then I knew that I would make it to the Caribbean. Then Jimmy Buffett came along and added fuel to the flame and my soul started getting sand in it.

Key West came first and the drive across the seven mile bridge was orgasmic. Then the whole funky rock is a constant gyration of Cuban influence. Hemingway’s house is there and if you love the beach you love Hemingway and God the guy could write.

Next was the Bahamas … the Abacos … Hope Town … Marsh Harbor ... Eleuthera. We would get on a boat and sail to dinner in the crystal blue waters. I discovered fried Plantains and “rice and peas”. I started swimming with Stingrays.

St. Lucia followed and I would run every morning next to the side of the road out of Castries dodging goats and cows and women walking with large bundles on their heads. I hiked through a rain forest, slide down a water fall and swam with schools of squid.

When I actually made it to Jamaica, I fell in love with the prophet Bob Marley, learned that you don’t actually need a bathing suit on a beach, and studied Rastafarian. I would pound people’s fist and say “Respect” as they said it me. And Hemp was everywhere. It was hard not to get high.

Then I went to Cuba. I wanted to see it before it becomes Disneyland one day. I was invited to give a speech so it took ten days. The place is drop dead gorgeous! And the people are the world’s most beautiful people. I saw Castro, paid loving homage to Che, went to Hemingway’s other house, hitchhiked through the countryside and had students from the University of Havana move the furniture out of their tiny living room so that they could teach me to salsa. I also got busted coming back into the United States because our stupid foreign policy regarding Cuba.

St. Martin came next … half of it Dutch … half French … nude beaches … French wines … and I fell in love. For a decade now this is where I come. I make my way around the island and people call me by name. I’ve had supper cooked for me in the tiny little concrete cottages of my friends who work in the places I stay. Carlos took me to a lingerie show once where there were a hundreds of people watching … and I was the only white one.

“Stand here while I get us a beer,” he said. “Trust me, I’ll find you.”

It’s been a healing place for me. I went through a divorce here, left a career here, lost my Dad while I was here …

I counted up and this is my twenty-first trip to St. Martin. I know that I’ll be back. The place has taken root in me. I love these people. They love me. And … well … it is beautiful … well the French side is.

Every time that I’ve ever been here I just kept trying to stay longer. Normally I’ll weeks and weeks and still not be ready to go home. I almost threw it all away and moved here last year.

But last night I wasn’t in the mood for it. My friends all went out to dinner and I went to sleep. I’m ready to go home.

Maybe it’s all that I’ve been through for the last few years? I’m having fun … how can I not with Conner? And Hania makes me eat which I didn’t do last night so I am starving and all of the food is at their place which is way over there … and it’s raining.

But I am ready to go home.

Where my love is.