Scott William King

“There’s something about summer, isn’t there?” 

* * * 

You put your head down on the table, simply wishing for the time to go quickly. The boat rises and falls with each wave of the deep sea. In your previous experiences, rides across the deep sea hasn’t exactly been forgiving. Rising to your feet, you stumble with the swaying of the boat to the outside deck and steadily climb the stairs to the top of the ferry.  

“How are you feeling?” you ask Tom, your brother who’s standing with a camcorder and a smile on his face. 

“Dude, these birds are wild! I’ve been up here watching them this whole time,” he replies. 

“All right,” you sigh. “I’ll be downstairs.” 

You consider staying up to watch the birds to see what he was talking about, but you just didn’t want to risk the uneasy stomach. After all, you feel the rocking of the boat much more on the upper deck than down below. 

So you return to the bottom deck and slide into the booth, aside Peace Corps Volunteers Hannah Melin and Lili Gradilla, with Lili’s extended family of Caroline, Alex, and their baby girl. You put your head back on the table and close your eyes until the ferry reaches the small island of Carriacou. 

Roused awake, you gather your backpack and shuffle along the line and out onto the dock. After a short walk past the incessant offers for a taxi service, you settle into the small hotel room you’ve all rented for the day.

Going back outside, your entourage catches a bus that has pulled over at the small terminal next door. Spray-painted a glittering bright orange, you climb inside and take a seat in the back. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, the metal frames pressing through the worn-in cushions and into your backside. What it lacked in comfort, however, it made up in character. Laminated placards were pinned to the seatbacks of the driver and front passenger seats.  

Ask me for a joke!

Free rides for the grandmothers of anyone 80 years or above.

Free ride tomorrow.

You laugh to yourself, appreciative of the slapstick humor. The bus kicks into gear and you weave through the open roads of Carriacou. The last small island in the Grenadine chain that runs from St. Vincent to Grenada, its roads and landscape is much more open than that of Grenada’s. Small mountains protrude into the sky, but the valleys between them are more spacious than the rugged, cramped nature of the Grenadian mountains. You weave in and around these small mountains, passing cows and goats idly grazing on the side of the road. Simple homes sporadically spot the hillsides, clothes flowing in the breeze as they hang-dry on the line.  

After about fifteen minutes or so, the bus pulls into a dirt lot beside what appears to be a restaurant. 

“Well, here we are!” the driver exclaims. “Paradise Beach!” 

We pile out of the bus and pay the driver the fee, walking past the restaurant and the few small fishing boats mounted on the shore. You kick off your sandals and step out onto the warm, white sands of Paradise Beach. Jaw-droppingly beautiful, the short, sandy beachhead declines sharply into the most transparent, crystal-clear waters you have ever seen. Outside of a local couple off to the right and a few sailboats out on the water, the beach was void of all human life. To the left, two small mountains reach out from the coast like an arm wrapping around to hold you in. Straight ahead, a small green island rose from the sea while beside it lay a sandbar, palm trees fanning out across it. 

Dropping your things in the sand, you dive into the crisp, clear water; it was a truly refreshing reward for the long, early morning ferry ride you had just endured. The day is spent floating aimlessly in the water, getting out only when it was time to grab another drink at the restaurant’s bar. 

“Hey man, you want a drink?” Alex offers as you step up to the bar. “I’m chilling with these guys over here, you should join us.” 

You only met Alex a couple hours ago, but you already realize he’s the type of guy who’ll make friends with anybody he meets, so naturally you follow him to the nearby table.  

Walking up to the table, Alex introduces you to the three local men seated around it. A half-empty bottle of Carriacou Jack rum sits in the center beside a few small bottles of ginger ale. Introductions aside, you’re engulfed into the conversation at hand, ranging from European affairs, Shakespeare, Netflix, and wineries. It wasn’t long, however, until each one of us sat under the umbrella table with them, laughing together with our new-found friends. As it turned out, one of them owns a winery nearby and you’re all invited to dinner.

* * * 

You hang onto a pole and the side of the small boat, bouncing rhythmically with the high waves of the sea. Off to the right in the distance is another small fishing boat, a lone man driving it at break-neck speed as it goes airborne over each wave. He nods in acknowledgment when you make eye-contact, the unspoken language among boat-riders. He cuts in front of you a safe distance ahead, crossing over toward Union Island, a large strip of mountainous land rising from the water to your left.  

A few smaller islands sit in the distance, rapidly growing larger as we approach them. Although uninhabited, the green strips of land stand proudly, their lush, green trees evident of their untouched beauty. The boat slows to a crawl as you now find yourself in the center of the five small islands that make up the Tobago Cays. The dark blue of the deep sea abruptly turns into a bright, turquoise blue, enabling you to see several feet down to the now-shallow sea floor. As you drift up to a small island, the local tour guide drops an anchor. Jumping off the boat, he tethers it to the base of a palm tree.  

Hopping out into the water, a sandy, open beachhead spans out in front of you. Palm trees decorate the shoreline, giving way to the tropical green hillside behind them. Looking out across the horizon, a small island lies straight ahead while several, larger other ones loom in the hazy distance to the left. There’s a shallow sandbar in front of you, its crystal water sparkling and shimmering in the bright sunlight. Overhead, birds soar through the air with a watchful gaze before plunging sharply into the water. It disappears for a moment before coming up and flying away, its fresh catch of fish hanging from its beak. Distracted in awe at nature’s spectacle, a dark mass slides past your feet in the water.  

“Look!” you exclaim, taking a sudden step back. “A stingray!” 

Amazed, you hadn’t been that close to a stingray since your childhood days visiting the zoo. But right there in front of you, a large stingray was sliding gracefully and blissfully by.

Turning around and heading onto the shore, you and the others decide to hike to the top of the larger of the two hills on the island. Traversing across the beaten path between the two hills, you make your way to the backside of the island. The path gives way to a more rugged and rock-riddled beachhead; unlike the first side that was peacefully tranquil, waves crashed onto this shore. Yet, the water on this side of the island was just as clear, just as beautiful. Various sailboats sit anchored just off the coast, small flags of their home countries fluttering in the wind: Trinidad, France, England, St. Vincent, Grenada, and America. Walking along the beachfront, you find the path that leads to the top of the hill and dives into wood. Taking it and climbing to the top, you find yourself standing on large rocks, weathered and frail trees and shrubs all around you. Atop one of their branches, a large iguana is perched cautiously still.  

Scanning the 180-degree view of the horizon, the open sea spans out as far as the eye can see. The dark blue of the deep sea is speckled with pockets of sandbars where the water takes on that striking turquoise color. The very same boats still remain anchored offshore, bobbing in the waves but appearing much smaller than they did before. To the left a sole island sits in the near distance, while off to the right a few larger, yet also uninhabited islands also loom. The group of us gathered at the top silently take in the captivating panoramic view around us. 

“Whoa!” Alex exclaims, as a large thud and the sound of sliding rocks catches everyone’s attention. “That iguana nearly landed on my head!” 

You break out in laughter with the others as the iguana scrambles into the safety of the foliage.  

 * * *

Hiking cautiously down the front side of the hill, you return to the first shoreline where the tour boat was anchored. Climbing back inside, the rope is loosened and the anchor is pulled in as the boat takes off into the water. Coasting past one island and then another, it careens over to a stretch of open sea. The deep blue of the Sea now gone, suddenly you found yourself seemingly floating over the sea floor as the water was so clear and transparent, that you can see the sandy surface of the floor no more than twenty feet below. Dropping anchor again, your tour guide pulls out snorkel masks and flippers. Wiggling into the flippers and slapping on the mask, you flip your legs over the edge of the boat and drop into the water. 

Splash!

Submerged in the water, you’re momentarily baffled when your vision remains as clear as before. Just when you think the water can’t get any clearer, any more beautiful, you are once again proven wrong. Lifting your head above the water, you playfully bob up and down just to make sure that what you were seeing was real. Convinced, you turn and swim out to the sea, scanning the sea floor below.  

Then, off to the right, a small green leatherback sea turtle coasts through the water. You quickly but cautiously swim toward it, careful not to startle it. The sea turtle gracefully dives to the bottom and you dive down right beside it, unbothered by your presence. Coming back up to the surface, you drift quietly above it, watching it rest peacefully on the floor. Another, larger sea turtle swims by, catching your eye to the left. Your interest taken, you follow after it, swimming within arm’s reach of one of the most beautiful creatures you have ever seen.

* * *

You’re back on the boat, cruising even farther out to sea where a flat, strip of land comes into view. At the end of the narrow-ended strip of the small island of Petit Tabac, stone and coral-built structures stand guard, greeting newcomers to the island. Followed by a stretch of covered land, the island rounds off with a cluster of palm trees standing over an area of tall grass. 

“Hey, that looks vaguely familiar,” you think to yourself as the boat slows to a stop and coasts to the shore. 

“Here we are,” your tour guide says, “Petit Tabac was a site location of a scene in Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl.” 

Then it clicks. Jumping out and walking on shore, you visual the stranded characters of Captain Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Turner, passing out drunk on the beachhead before a glowing nighttime bonfire. Then come morning, Captain Jack awakens to the smell of smoke as he realizes Elizabeth has burned the remaining rum from the in-ground cellar for a smoke-signal.  

Cue the line: “But why is the RUM GONE?!?” 

* * *

Back in the boat, you’re cruising through the open sea, bouncing up and down on your seat in the boat. The sun has begun its descent, the sky beginning to leak an orange hue as the sun approaches the horizon. A small building comes into view, idly standing in its lonesome on the sea between two large islands. The boat slows down as we circle around the tiny building on the water and dock beside it.  

“Welcome to Happy Island,” the man at the open-sea bar greets with a toothy grin. “Rum punch is our special today and every day; would you like one?” 

You take a seat under the lone tree on this random, special bit of land. An almost mythical place, the bar known as “Happy Island” is built on conch shells, with barely enough space for a few benches and picnic tables for seating. A flag pole stands on the end, the flags of St. Vincent and Grenada flapping in the sea breeze. You sit back and take a sip of your rum punch, a DJ creatively singing freestyle soca on the small speaker system attached to the bar. You look over to Union Island, the sun casting its vibrant glow between its peaks.       

* * * 

A player in a pale green jersey dribbles the ball from the back corner of the pitch at the far end of the field, launching it with a sharp pass toward midfield. A yellow jersey, however, jumps between and intercepts the ball. He kicks the ball back toward the end of the field, where another yellow jersey navigates it between two defenders and hurdles it past the sliding goalie and into the back of the net. 

The crowd erupts in displeasure, the goal occurring just eleven minutes into the game. Jamaica, otherwise known as the “Reggae Boys,” just took a 1-0 lead over Grenada’s “Spice Boys,” in a FIFA-sanctioned international friendly match at Kirani James National Stadium.   

This is your second FIFA match, joined this time with Tom, PCVs Stephanie Peña and Amanda Cady, and fellow Camp GLOW counselor Khadija Browne. You found prime seating for the match, in the front row on the far right side of the field. To your immediate left is Grenada’s 15U girls football team, donning their jerseys and medals from a regional Caribbean competition they had recently won. Farther down the row, a man dressed head-to-toe in the bright red, green, and yellow national colors waves a large Grenadian flag as we walks up and down the aisle. From the lower bowl to the upper deck behind you, fans blow horns and shake clappers as they cheer and react to the match unfolding on the field.  

“One of you want to compete for a prize?” a man in a black polo with field credentials hanging around his neck asks us. 

Everyone in your row exchanges glances, unsure of who would be brave enough to take part in the half-time competition. 

“Yeah, sure,” Tom says, jumping up from his seat. 

The man directs him down to the field and a short while later, he’s the only foreigner at the end of a long queue of local fans on the field. Each fan took a turn spinning a wheel to determine what prize, if any, they would receive. It was unclear what the various prizes were, but what was clear was not everyone spinning the wheel was receiving one. As each fan took a turn, Tom slowly worked his way to the front. A few fans, having already taken their turn, congregated in front of the wheel and blocked your view. Tom disappears behind them, only to appear a moment later coming around the end, victoriously raising a new soccer ball in his hand. 

Laughter breaks out among you, celebrating what would likely be the only victory of the night (Grenada went on to lose 5-1). Tom returns to our seats, tossing the ball to a young fan a few rows back. 

* * * 

You push the chain-link door open and step onto the court. Walking up to those taking shots at the hoop, you introduce Tom to the guys. You quickly lace up your new shoes and hop up from the bench. Picking up your basketball, you begin dribbling around and taking a few warm-up shots. The clouds over the field adjacent to the park have taken on an orange glow from the setting sun. As per usual though, on the nights you play basketball there isn’t much time to take in the gorgeous colors of the sunset.  

Enough guys have gathered to break into three teams. Naturally, you make sure Tom’s not on your team. Attribute it to old sibling rivalries or what have you, regardless you were not going to play together. It worked out, however, as Nose and Alvon, the two brothers that took you to town on J’ouvert morning the week before, were at the court as well. So matching up brother on brother, you guarded Nose while Alvon guarded Tom.  

Alvon dribbles back and forth across the top side of the key, Tom sliding back and forth with him. Driving the ball, he dishes it out Immie, a teammate at the top of the key. Immie drives down the left side of the key and heads hard for a lay-up. Coming around the corner, however, he didn’t see Tom, who because he was in the right place at the right time popped the ball loose and stole it away to the top.  

A few possessions later Alvon once again has the ball, dribbling to create separation from the defense. On the upper right side of the three point line, you see the baseline has opened up. Darting down toward the open space, Alvon sends a pass on the far side of the hoop. Catching it and realizing a defender was on your immediate right, with a quick dribble you cross under the hoop and flip the ball off the backboard and into the basket. 

The night was a prototypical “sweat” as they call it, a few hours of pick-up basketball on a humid Caribbean night. It’s how you often spend your Sunday nights, a reason to get out of the house and into the community, not to mention getting a couple hours of exercise. Having Tom there to play with you and experience your Sunday night “sweats” at the court was one of the things you were most looking forward to in his visit. It didn’t disappoint, either, as the guys welcomed him in with open arms and friendly competition. 

* * *          

“Just jump out as far as you can toward the middle, and make sure you land straight-in like a pencil,” you call out to Tom. 

You sit cautiously on the rock overhang, water rushing heavily over the waterfall right beside you before it launches over thirty feet into the spring below. With no real easy way to stay balanced, you’ve found a notch in the rockface while clinging onto a nearby branch. Tom slides tactfully down to the edge, where a shelf in the overhang allows steady footing for a jump.  

Standing slowly, he crouches slightly before leaping out over the water, arms flailing momentarily as he disappears over the edge and a splash is heard from somewhere down below.  

“Well,” you mutter to yourself, “I guess you’re next.” 

You slide down to the shelf Tom had just jumped from. Trying to peer over the edge, you couldn’t see much beyond the shelf. You take a couple of breaths and envision where you’re jumping, out toward the middle and in front of the falls. You already searched the bottom of the fall earlier for rocks, so landing on rocks wasn’t in question. That doesn’t necessarily, however, make this jump any easier.  

“Okay. On the count of the three: One. Two. Three!” 

With everything you have, you jump out as far as you can. The air lifted from your lungs in a moment of thrill, followed by a moment of panic as you suddenly realize this jump was from a lot higher than you originally thought. Flailing your arms to regain balance, you splash violently in the water with arms stretched flat, the sensation of a flop instantly burning into your arms and hands as you’re submerged in the cold, icy water.  

You pop back up to the surface, laughing and excited despite the rough landing. A pained expression appears on the faces of Tom and PCV Hannah Melin, their reactions to the sound of your crash-land into the water. 

“So much for following your own advice,” Tom laughs.  

You climb out of the water, its refreshing chill sending goosebumps down your back. Underneath your arms and hands are already pink and swollen from the jump, yet you can’t help but shake your head and laugh. 

The three of you gather your things and hike off into the woods. After finally successfully jumping from the first of the Seven Sisters Waterfalls, it was time to hike into the bush to find the fifth waterfall known locally as “Honeymoon Falls.”  

Crossing rivers and climbing over rocks, you find yourself facing the fourth waterfall. The fourth one is a small one, water cascading down a small rockface and into a river below. Three logs stand up out of the water, bridging across the narrow creek to the top where the water comes down. You turn to Tom, gesturing the way up.  

Straddling the largest of the logs, he shimmies his way up to the top. You follow him up, crawling slowly but doing everything you can to maintain balance and not fall into the river below. Reaching the top, you hike along rockbed adjacent to the rushing water that flows to the fourth waterfall. Coming upon a large boulder on your left, you find a rock slope in front of you with water cascading down it. Stepping into the water, you carefully climb up the streaming rockface and make your way around the boulder to a small clearing on the other side. Gaining balance and standing carefully on the dry rock, another waterfall towers over twenty feet above you. Seemingly falling straight from the canopy of trees above, the water hurdles violently over the top and into a shallow spring before flowing down the slope you just climbed and taking a sharp turn toward the fourth waterfall. A golden orange substance oozes from the rocks surrounding the waterfall, the scent of sulfur filling the air.  

All around you is the overwhelming presence of nature, something that has always fascinated you and Tom since your days growing up and exploring the wooded lot behind your house. It doesn’t seem all that long ago when you two spent afternoons watching Bear Grylls scale waterfalls and climb over raging rivers in episodes of Man vs. Wild. Back then, you’d pretend you were doing the same thing back in the wooded lot. Now, years later, you find yourselves jumping thirty feet from tropical waterfalls and climbing over raging rivers as you explore the inner depths of what nature has to offer. 

* * * 

You’re hiking up the steep, paved road leading up to the first of the Concord Waterfalls. But for the second time this week, rain down-poured from the heavens. You and Tom had tried a few days earlier, but the heavy rains flooded not only the first Concord Waterfall, but the river that’s necessary to cross multiple times in order to reach the second waterfall.  

Knowing this was Tom’s last chance at seeing the second Concord Waterfall, a pit sank heavily in your stomach as you trudged uphill through the pouring rain. However, you were determined to reach the second fall, for Tom had always having been more of a cabin-in-the-woods than a cottage-on-the-beach type of person.

Honk! 

A white pick-up truck pulls up from behind as you step to the side of the road. You gesture up the hill for a ride as the driver rolls down the window. 

“Hey, you’re the Peace Corps in Gouyave, right?” the driver asks. 

“Yeah, I am. Any chance we can get a ride to the falls?” 

“I thought I recognized you. I teach at the Anglican school and have seen you around. Hop in the back!” 

Relieved, you jump into the bed of the pick-up truck. Tom and Peace Corps Response Volunteers Stephanie Peña, Amanda Cady, and Heather Smith hop in behind you. Once everyone is settled, you tap the bed of the truck and it jerks forward as he drives the rest of the way to the top. The rain is still falling heavily, soaking you through your clothes in the open bed of the pick-up. But you don’t mind, at least you caught a ride the rest of the way up.  

The truck pulls to a stop at the first waterfall. The waterfall, typically with beautifully powerful white water cascading down, was now once again overpowered with stampeding, soil-ridden brown water. The spring below, where one would typically bathe in chilly, fresh water was now flooded with the very same brown water that relentlessly filled its basin. Hopping out and thanking the driver, who teaches at the other school in your community, you take shelter in the lone shop overlooking the fall.  

“Good morning,” you greet the tour director, who turned you away the other day due to the dangers of the hike to the second fall. “It’s my brother’s last day on the island, I know it’s still raining but is there any chance we can still make it to the second waterfall?” 

“If you go back there, I don’t want to have to come retrieve you. I’ve had to go back and save people from the flooding river before,” he explains. “But if you must go today then I’d ask that you take one of our guides. I’d feel a lot better if you did.” 

“No problem,” you respond assuredly. “Whatever you want that will get us back there. We’ll take a guide.” 

And boy, were you glad you had Sylvester.  

Sylvester, your guide, was talkative and excited individual who was knowledgeable in the history of Grenada from its geography and history, to its agriculture. He often stopped to point out the various trees and plants along the trail. Equipped with high-set rain boots and a machete, he fearlessly jumps into the river. In the past you could easily dance and skip across the rocks to the other side, something you had to do numerous times on your way to the second fall. But submitting to the fact that you were already soaked from the rain and that all the rocks you’d normally dance across were entirely submerged in waist-high water, you step in after him. Always planted and secure in the water, you often used Sylvester’s support as you hiked through the river’s running waters. With each step, the current would push your feet downstream, making it a challenge to move in a straight line. Not to mention your feet disappeared in the darkness of the water, so you had to tactfully feel out each step before you took it.  

The rain continued falling as you navigated the trail, sliding through the mud, climbing over rocks, and treading through the river. The bush had a different feel that day than from what you’re used to, being the first time you’ve delved into it during heavy rains. The forest seemed void of wildlife, all having taken shelter from the rain. The leaves of the trees took on a shimmering green as the raindrops glistened in the light that managed to poke through the canopy of the trees. Climbing over one rock and jumping to another, you look up to see the top of the waterfall finally appear into view. Crossing over the river and swinging underneath a fallen log, you look up to find the waterfall looming powerfully before you.  

Only this time, it was different. Before the water always seemed to rush violently down, but this time it stampeded angrily down the forty feet from the top and into the overflowing spring below. The foliage and trees that typically clung to the cliffside to the left of the fall was cleared away, evidently having fallen in a landslide from the recent rains. It was here, in this moment, the reality of the power that nature holds began to sink in. What once was a tree-and-foliage covered hillside was now only a bare, rocky cliffside, all the trees and foliage strewn carelessly about at the bottom.  

 

* * * 

The hike to get to the second waterfall that day was one of the most challenging, treacherous hikes I’ve ever done. But having reached it, having completed the goal of showing Tom the second Concord waterfall on his final day in Grenada, I felt nothing but relief.  

In fact, that final hike to the Concord waterfall was largely analogous to my summer as a whole. From start to finish, from when school let out the first week of July to when it began again the first week of September, my calendar was booked straight through. From Camp GLOW, to St. Lucia, to my parents’ visit, to Carnival with friends and a week of exploring Grenada, Carriacou, and the Tobago Cays with Tom, I hardly had a day to catch my breath. In the same way that the rain worked against us that day, it seemed time was always working against me during each week of the summer. There was always someplace to be, something to do, somewhere to go, and someone to look out for with very little time to do it all.

So out of necessity, I once again took time away from my blog. I set everything aside, focusing instead on enjoying every moment with the people that I love, in the place that I have come to love.    

Which brings me to the theme of the series of blogs that I’ve come to title: “Something About Summer: A Series.” When trying to capture the essence of what this summer experience has been like for me, it was hard to break it down into separate, unique stories. After all, they were all interconnected in the same foundation. That same foundation, not only epitomizes my summer, but I believe every summer. Therefore, the only way to share this experience was by sharing the story of my summer as a whole.  

In the very first post of this series, I set out to ask a re-occuring question: “There’s something about summer, isn’t there?” 

Well, have you figured it out?

The answer, actually, is quite simple.  

Think about it: summer was never just about the sunshine, the smell of fresh-cut grass, baseball, and burgers on the grill during a 4th of July cook-out. It was never just about the time away from school, running free from the responsibility of homework and studying. It was never just about the hot, sunny days jumping in the lake and the warm, firefly-filled nights roasting marshmallows by a bonfire. 

It has always been about much more than that.  

It’s about love. 

That’s what makes summer so special. It’s a time spent meeting new friends and reuniting with old ones. It’s a time spent with family and the people you hold dear. It’s a time to explore, seeking out tales of adventure to be shared time and time again. It’s a time for trying something new, something so far out of your comfort zone that it scares you. It’s a time for celebration, whether the holiday calls for barbecue ribs and fireworks or dancing in the streets doused in engine oil.  

This summer, I was blessed to have my parents, my friends, and my brother all visit me in my host country. At times, the conglomeration of family, old friends, and new friends together here was borderline dizzying. But each individual mentioned in this series experienced in one way or another not only my summer, but what my life is like down here in Grenada.

Yes, they got to experience the beautiful, sunny beaches and the pristine waterfalls under the tropical sun. But more importantly, they experienced the warm, hospitable nature of the Grenadian people. They experienced the noise, hustle, and bustle that comes with living in the center Grenada’s, “City That Never Sleeps.” They experienced the adventurous bus rides that never fail to leave you without a story. They experienced the abundance of fresh fruit, herbs, spices, and chocolate. They experienced the flowing breeze as you hitch-hike in the bed of a pick-up truck. They experienced the intensity and cultural explosion that is Carnival. They experienced the excited children shouting, “Mr. King!” as we passed through the streets in the type of community where everybody knows your name. They experienced firsthand as the locals smile and ask, “How are you liking Grenada?” as though they already know your answer. They experienced Grenada for what it is, and for them and the Grenadian people, I am forever grateful.

As each person came in and out of my life this summer, I tried to approach each opportunity with them with the same amount of energy and love as I had with the ones before. Although exhausting, each part of my summer from Camp GLOW, to St. Lucia, to Carnival, and the various tours of Grenada and surrounding islands with my family and friends is something I wouldn’t trade for the world. This past summer was easily one of the best of my life, which might lead you to think that its conclusion was a difficult one to embrace.  

On the contrary, for this summer I learned an important lesson through my whirlwind of experience. In my first post of this series, I recalled a quote I had recently heard when I was at a local funeral. It was a quote Jamie Anderson had once wrote: 

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.” 

With all the people that came in and out of my life this summer, I’m not ashamed to say I cried with each goodbye. It was hard, because as with all goodbyes, it means that your time with the people you love has come to an end. But although grief may be love with no place to go, I learned that new people will always be entering your life. During this stretch of time, I had to say goodbye to two people who had become a focal point in my life here. However, I also had the opportunity to welcome in the next group of Volunteers to the island. So between the change in Volunteers on-island and my carousel of visitors this summer, I also learned that as long as you pour the same amount of energy and love into the new people as you did with the ones before, you will continue making memories with people that you love. Therefore, love will always have a place to go.

Yes, my summer is over, but I’m not upset. This summer will forever be locked away in my memory, each experience available to be recalled with as much as fondness as though experiencing it for the first time. But while this incredible journey is over, it’s time to return to the reason I’m here in the first place. I’m back in school and have big goals and ambitions ahead. Time is flying by, as we’re already six weeks into the new school year. I’m excited for what my second year holds in store. For there will be more stories to be told, more experiences to be had, and more love to share. 

Until next summer, that is.   

Cheers!

“There’s something about summer, isn’t there?”

* * *

You sit down on the concrete, national-colored stoop that runs across the front of the open-air market next door. The sun is burning hot, not a cloud in the sky as you take cover in the only spot of shade under the overhang. There was very little traffic that day, being a Sunday in the heart of Carnival. Yet every car and truck that did go by, you made sure to notice who was inside. The anticipation had been bubbling up inside of you ever since you received that unfortunate text that your brother’s flight had been cancelled two days earlier.

Just then a navy, four-door vehicle appears around the bend of the green, Grenadian hillsides and barrels into the first stretch of buildings of your town. Inside the vehicle and sitting on the left-hand side, in what would be the driver’s seat back home, was the familiar face you had long-awaited to see. This was it, Tom finally made it to Grenada.

The past two days had gone by like a blur. After your parents had left that Friday afternoon, you hosted a couple of the new Response Volunteers, Stephanie Peña and Amanda Cady, for a stop at Fish Friday and Mansa’s with Don and G before the big Soca Monarch concert that was taking place in town that night. One of the biggest events of Carnival, it’s the competition where artists vie to be crowned the next “Soca Monarch,” thus earning the recognition of producing the best soca song of the year. It’s the type of show that you don’t want to show up before midnight, because the actual party doesn’t begin until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning.

At Mansa’s, it was Don’s surprise reunion with Terry, one of the regulars over at “D Banana Bar.” They had an instant friendship from Don’s first time in Grenada back in December, so needless to say Terry’s eyes lit up with baffling surprise and gleamed with joy as they left the bar arm-in-arm and laughing.

A few games of pool and a drink or two later, we had caught a bus down to the National Stadium in town. Getting through the gates a short while later, you arrived just in time as the second performer of the night took to the stage. Weaving your way through the crowd on the field, you settled on a small, open spot in the grass. Lights flashed brightly from the stage, illuminating the faces in the crowd bright colors of white, red, yellow, and green. You knew all the hit soca songs from over the summer, particularly with all the bus rides you’ve taken in the past month; consequently, you knew which songs were going to be the hits. The artists danced across the stage as they performed their songs, the crowd jumping and dancing to the beat. Swept up in the euphoric environment of the show, you never noticed the passage of time as the sky began to lighten. The judges announce the winner of the Soca Monarch competition, Lil’ Natty and Thunda with their hit song, Get In Your Section. For the second time in as many years, they were crowned the soca monarch for Spicemas Carnival 2018.

The following day you went to the Panorama show with much of the same group: Don, G, Stephanie, and Amanda, while joined this time by fellow PCV John Lyness. The steel pan show, known as Panorama, was cancelled last year since the stage was not constructed properly. Therefore, the steel pan bands, having been disappointed and neglected last year, came back with a vengeance as the various bands across the island performed their songs. It was a fantastic show, an easy-going highlight in the action of Carnival.

That being said, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t take a small nap in the stands during the show. It’s a Carnival thing, you explain to the others, who had looked at you a bit confused when you did. After all, when you’re celebrating for five consecutive days and nights, you have to catch a cat-nap anytime you can. You see it all the time at each of the shows. Their confusion turned to understanding as at one point or another, you saw each one of them sleeping in the stands, as well.

After the Pan show was The Biggest White Fete, so after changing into a white T-shirt you moved to the next stage over as the Carnival continued. What ensued was much like the previous night at the Soca Monarch, soca hits being performed on the stage and everyone on the field and in the stands dancing to the rhythm. The only difference this time, however, was everyone was wearing white. In the midst of the show, Ayisha, the director of Camp GLOW, appeared as she walked past you, and after a brief celebratory drink you parted ways. The GLOW family vibes were alive and well, as that was just the first of many encounters with the former fellow counselors of the Carnival season.

And now you’ve come full circle as it is now Sunday and Tom has finally arrived; after greeting him with a hug, you take his luggage and settle him into your apartment. It’s a waiting game now, for the biggest days of Carnival, Monday and Tuesday, were fast approaching. You pour a few drinks for Tom, Don, and G, the trio set to take part in what will be the party of the year.

“Mr. King!” a voice calls in as South, a good friend of yours, appears at your open front door.

“South!” you respond, hopping to your feet. “Come meet my brother, Tom, he just got in for the Carnival.”

“Your brother?” he asks. “Respect, man.”

He explains to us he’s cooked up an oil down, Grenada’s national dish, over at your neighbor’s apartment. So after handing him a couple of plates, he takes off to return a short while later, sharing the national dish with you and your friends. The perfect Grenadian meal before the ultimate Grenadian celebration.

* * *

You’re standing at the end of the road in Gouyave, unusually silent this early in the morning. Due to some unforeseen circumstances, you got a later start than you anticipated. You’re waiting at the bus stop out on the road, while the others sit in the bus shelter. The crickets of the night still echo reverently, as it’s only 3:00 in the morning. The waves slap subtly against the rocks on the shore across from you. You were told there would be buses running, but you haven’t seen any for the past forty-five minutes or so. A few other people are standing by the shelter with you, giving you a glimmer of hope that a bus would still be coming. Your hope is dwindling, however, as the J’ouvert (pronounced: “joo-vay“) was already beginning in town.

You hear a car door slam shut off to the right, catching your attention. It’s Nose, a local guy you compete with at the basketball court and a teammate from the tournament you played in back in March. You run over to him as he walks back from his car to his house beside the bus shelter.

“Hey Nose, morning. You happen to be heading to town?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, just now.”

“Any chance me and my buddies could catch a ride with you?”

“How many of you are there?”

“Myself, my brother and two others.”

“I’m not sure if you can all fit, but we’ll check you before we go.”

You return to bus stop, relieved you have a potential back-up plan to get to town if a bus doesn’t come.

Another fifteen minutes pass with no bus in sight; Nose’s car backs out of the driveway and pulls toward the bus stop. Two other guys standing at the bus stop jump toward the car: “Going to town? Can we get a ride?”

Your heart bottoms out, thinking these guys were going to steal your only ride to town.

“Well, you see,” Nose’s brother, Alvonn, in the driver’s seat, says casually, “My brethren right here kind of already asked for a ride.”

“Really?” you ask, almost surprised.

“I mean, if you guys can fit.”

“They can’t fit there’s too many of them! They can take bus let us go!” the others shout.

“Nah, we can fit,” you say confidently, opening the door and diving into the backseat of the small, four-door vehicle. Tom, Don, and G pile in behind and on top of you.

“Integration at its finest,” you laugh to yourself, relieved.

When they drop you in town, you begin the long walk to reach the J’ouvert. The faint blue of early morning light was beginning to threaten the black curtain of night. Vendors lined the streetlamp-lit Carenage, where you stop to grab a salt-fish and bake to eat. Walking on, you follow the stream of people heading toward the fast-paced thumping of music in the distance. As the daylight begins to break, you find yourself being surrounded by more and more people.

A few of them were still relatively clean, but the farther you walk the more people you find covered head-to-toe in thick, black engine oil. A young man stands, laughing in the middle of the road, slapping oil from a bucket on himself and his friends.

“Kelson!” you call out.

A former Camp GLOW counselor, his eyes light up with surprise when he sees you for the first time since the camp.

“I got my brother and some buddies here, mind if we get some of that oil?” you ask excitedly.

“Yeah, man!” He laughs as he begins pouring the bucket oil on you and your friends.

You continue weaving through what’s now become an over-crowded road. More oil rubs on you with each casual bump on the shoulder, the air hot with congestion of body heat and motor oil as you work upstream against the flow of the crowd. The road beneath your feet seems to shake as you pass the massive trucks, loaded with speakers booming to the fast-paced rhythm of soca. People surround the truck, dancing on and behind it as they follow it down the road. You pass one truck and its crowd, then another, and another, keeping an eye out for a few familiar faces in the sea of oil and paint.

Reaching a roundabout junction, the crowd divides momentarily before merging again to continue the march. On the side of the road were the faces you were looking for, Peace Corps Volunteers Hannah, Stephanie, Amanda, and Melinda, who were standing on the side grinning and laughing through their oil-smeared faces. Finally having the whole squad together, we dove back into the downstream flow of the crowd and followed the trucks.

“Scott!” a tackling hug hits you from the right.

“Roya!” you reply, laughing as you hug your oil-covered, former camp GLOW counselor and fellow Single Ladies dancer, friend.

A quick exchange of hugs and hellos between her and the other PCVs, she marched on with her entourage and we continued on with ours. From early morning up through noon we marched, following the oil-covered masses and dancing behind the trucks all the way to town. The sun lingered behind the clouds, mercifully saving us an extra few hours from the unbearable heat that comes from being caked in engine oil and caught in the sun. Coming up the final hill, the penultimate turn before reaching the Carenage and the end of the march, you step aside momentarily.

“Dude, this is exactly what I saw in my dream,” your brother tells you. “Literally, this exact scene.”

You’re surprised by the comment, but then again you’re not. You look ahead to the sea of oil and paint, devil horns and dragging chains, drums and horns, bandanas and flags all moving past you. It stretches straight down the road tucked tightly between a warehouse’s chain-link fence and a football field, the field astoundingly clean in comparison to the raucous in the street.

This was your second Carnival, your second J’ouvert: a celebration derived from its roots in Mardi Gras, colonialism, and slavery. Unable to celebrate Carnival alongside their colonizers and slave masters for being unjustly perceived as, “descendants of the devil,” the Caribbean people took it upon themselves to embrace the discriminate label and celebrate the “Jab Jab,” during Carnival by wearing devil horns and dragging chains, doused in oil. If you ask around, other islands might have a better Carnival, but Grenada is notorious across the West Indies for having the best J’ouvert.

Although chilling and even prophetic as it might seem, it’s no surprise to you he saw this hill’s viewpoint amidst the J’ouvert in his dream, because that’s exactly what it seems like. When you’re partying with over a thousand of your closest Jab Jab friends doused in engine oil, celebrating a unique cultural explosion that J’ouvert is, it’s every bit of a dream as much as it is reality.

* * *

You’re roused awake by the ringing of your alarm. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you roll out of the bed. Stumbling through the apartment, you nudge everyone awake: Tom, Don, and G, all napping on various couches, beds, and chairs throughout the place. Spots of oil streak the walls and seat cushions of your apartment, remnants of the J’ouvert just a few hours before. Gouyave’s J’ouvert, however, never stopped as the music still reverberates through your windows from the road outside. You shake your head, baffled that they’re still celebrating out on the road and haven’t slowed down the least bit yet. But your J’ouvert being over, you dress in brightly-colored t-shirts and light-up hats and catch a bus to town.

Once again you’re walking along the Carenage of St. George’s, remarkably clean considering the oil-ridden J’ouvert that occurred earlier that day. Sand was strewn across the road, as if blown over from a strong gust of desert wind. Strategically, however, it seemed to have been laid out to absorb the engine oil from the morning’s J’ouvert.

Reuniting with the other Peace Corps Volunteers from that morning, you all stop and grab some roadside barbecue chicken, licking your fingers clean from its deliciously tangy sauce. The afternoon light has faded, taken over by a curtain of darkness. The U-shaped road of the Carenage is illuminated, however, as the orange glow of the streetlamps clashes with the bright white holiday lights strung between them. The moonlight glimmers peacefully on the surface of the water, evidently having sustained the cleansing oil bathes of the Jab Jabs that jumped in that day.  You walk along the Carenage, following the stream of people heading up the road and following the music just as you did early that very same morning.

A short while later, you reach masses of people waiting behind idly running trucks. The fast, pounding rhythm of soca, per usual, blares from the speakers. You walk past the first truck, then the second until you find the one you were looking for. Arriving at the band you were slated to jump with, Ignite, you found yourself suddenly surrounded by people dressed in the same t-shirts, fedoras, light-up swords, and mugs that you had. Gathering together, it was time for the Monday Night Mas to start.

What followed was another night of massive celebration, the streets filled with thousands of Grenadians and foreigners alike, jumping behind the trucks dressed in bright, blinking lights. The night was dark, but in the roads you wouldn’t know the difference, everyone’s faces illuminated bright as day by the overwhelming presence of lights. The rhythm of the soca once again melts into your bones as you begin dancing to the beat down the road. A man stands from atop the truck in front of you, his voice booming from the mic:

“The judges’ table is coming up! Wave our sticks to the right! Now left! Right! Left!”

You raise your blinking, light-up sword in the air and wave it in unison with the rest of the band. One light in an army of many, a sea of lights spanned as far as you could see both behind and in front of you. The judges’ table was coming up, though, which means our band was about to be judged for our coordination, performance, unison, and costumes.

The music slows suddenly as the crowd halts behind the truck, dancing in place and holding each other back. The rhythm begins beating louder, and louder, and louder as you can feel the pressure mounting behind you; suddenly, just as the gates explode open in the Kentucky Derby, everybody runs forward as the beat drops, waving our swords emphatically.

The Monday Night Mas once again, was the “highlight” of the Carnival in every sense of the word. It was a night spent in celebration with friends both new and old, foreign and domestic. It went by like a flash, dancing in the blinding sea of bright lights. With a snap of the fingers you found yourself back on the Carenage, the trucks turning back and forth along the U-shaped road as the celebration came together and ran on deep into the night.

* * *

Once again, you’re roused awake by the sound of the alarm on your phone. Soca music has continued all through the night outside your apartment, amazing you that anyone can still be out celebrating for so long.

“They really don’t stop do they,” you laugh to yourself, shaking your head.

It was Carnival Tuesday, otherwise known for its Fancy Mas. It’s the pinnacle celebration of Carnival, where men and women alike dress up in elaborate and decadent costumes. This parade, thankfully for your tired and aching body, you weren’t jumping in. But naturally, since the celebration wasn’t over, you still intended to go down to town and watch the bands go past. This morning, however, your numbers were finally going to dwindle.

“You all ready to go?” you ask Don and G, as they zip close their tightly-packed suitcases in the guest room.

Physically, they were ready. Mentally and emotionally, however, they wished they could stay for just one more day of Carnival. Unfortunately, a prior commitment forced them to take an early exit. They justified it, though, by arriving the week before while your parents were still on-island, which suddenly seems like weeks, not days ago. Their taxi arrives and you and Tom pile in after them, taking the opportunity for a ride to town for the Fancy Mas.

Don and G’s trip had a little bit of everything, from the beaches and waterfalls, the local bars and fish fry’s, to the jump-ups and chaos of Carnival. They took it on with every bit of enthusiasm and joy, a true testament to their exploratory and outgoing personalities. In fact, you found yourself laughing at how well they caught on to the culture, as if they were Grenadian themselves.

When you stepped out of the car after reaching town, they climb out as well for a farewell hug. Let’s be honest here: sometimes a fading wave from a vehicle doesn’t do certain friendships justice anymore. A certain bond forms when you go through a foreign experience like that, something as unique and stimulating as a week-long bender that is Carnival. You were happy to have friends as free-spirited and open-minded to enjoy the cultural celebration with you, for it certainly isn’t for the faint of heart. Don and G got to meet not only your parents and the locals of Gouyave, but your brother and the other Peace Corps Volunteers as well.

So with one last round of goodbyes, you send them on their way. As the car turns the corner and disappears down the road, you and your brother once again walk the length of the Carenage and up the road, following the music to the bands jumping in the Fancy Mas. You are sad to see them go, but you’re happy to have had them here for that experience. A quiet relief soothes you, admittedly, knowing now it was just you and your brother from here on out. With each entourage of visitors, you can’t help but feel a slight bit relieved when their trip finishes safely and successfully on your end.

“You made it this far,” you comfort yourself. “Now for the homestretch.”

You think back to the past couple weeks that have made up your summer already. You survived a week at Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). You powered through your business and reunion trip to St. Lucia. You completed the vacation stretch of showing your parents your host community and country. You endured a Carnival with your brother and a few close friends.

Finding a nice spot of shade on the side of the road, you and Tom sit back and wait for the bands of costumes, feathers, glitter, and music to come dancing past for the afternoon.

It’s hard to believe all that has happened since the summer holiday started just six, short weeks ago.

What you didn’t realize at the time, however, was that the best part hadn’t even started yet.

“Oh, look! Here they come now…”

* * *

To be concluded…

Cheers!

“There’s something about summer, isn’t there?”

* * *

Your feet dangle off the edge of a small boat, weighed down by a pair of long flippers and a snorkel mask that stifles your breathing. Pushing off with your hands you drop below into the cool, clear waters of the Caribbean Sea. Swimming away from the boat, you turn and watch as your parents drop into the water after you. Atop the boat, a young Grenadian man wearing an early-years LeBron James jersey, the wine color faded and worn from years in the Caribbean sun, gestures off to the right.

“Friendship Circle, right dey” he calls.

Following his pointed finger, you turn and swim in that direction. This isn’t your first time snorkeling the Underwater Sculpture Park, but each time it seems as surreal as the first. You kick your feet, propelling yourself through the surface of the water as you survey the untouched, underwater world below. The pale, sandy surface of the sea floor snakes through stretches of rugged, green reef. Flashes of vibrant blue and yellow catch your eye as small fish dart in and out of the coral-covered reefs below.

Suddenly, the reef stops abruptly and an expanse of white, sandy surface spans like a desert across the sea floor. However, it wasn’t long until a shadow loomed in the distance; it was connected to another shadow, and then another. As you approached them the shadows began to take shape; they’re children standing in a ring, facing outward hand-in-hand. They stood still and serene, blissfully at peace, undisturbed on the quiet sea floor.

Drifting over the top of the statues twenty feet below, you prepare to dive down. Inhaling deeply, you kick your feet up and dive. The pressure in your ear immediately builds up, popping as you exhale through the mouthpiece. Reaching as far down as you could go, you take a moment to silently float just above the heads of the children. Their facial features were faint but noticeable, overtaken by the coral, seaweed, and sea urchins in an eerie, post-apocalyptic way. The moment is fleeting, however, the pressure building up in your chest as you can only hold your breath for so long. Looking to the bright light of the surface above you propel yourself up, bursting through the surface and spitting the mouthpiece out to gasp in the sweet breath of life.

After catching your breath, you notice a dragon-shaped mass of land that juts out into the sea. The namesake of Dragon Bay, where the sculpture park is located, the green trees span the entirety of the “dragon,” riding the ridge of its tail all the way out to its head resting out on the water. Looking left, the Sea runs endlessly into the distance. Re-setting your mouthpiece and inhaling deeply, you prepare to dive for a next pass at the statues.

* * *

“Good night.”

Everyone in the bar pauses, looking up to see who had just walked in. A few faces light up with recognition, others with surprise or befuddlement. You nod an acknowledgement to the various persons at the bar and around the pool table. You walk over to the big man leaning on the speakers that were blasting soca music throughout the bar, a pool cue in his hand.

“Hey Mansa,” greeting him with a fist-bump. “I want you to meet my parents.”

“Eh, welcome to Grenada,” he says as he extends a hand out to each of your parents with a smile on his face.

“Cosa,” you place a hand on the shoulder of a man sitting at the bar wearing a black beanie, “These are my parents Tom and Janie.”

His eyes light up with delight, greeting your parents with the ever-so-common question of: “So how you enjoying Grenada?”

You order a round of drinks and throw some coins on the pool table. A short while later, the guys around the table, whom you’ve gotten to know well in the past year, hand a pool cue to you and your father. Typical to Grenadian hospitality, they opened up the table and took a seat to watch the foreign father-son duo duke it out for old times’ sake. With a smile on your face, you punch the coins in and rack the balls with the triangle. Chalking up your cue stick, your father breaks the set.

What ensues is a friendly but competitive game of pool; shot after shot and miss after miss, the game soon finishes…but with your father winning. You can’t help but laugh as you celebrate anyway, despite your father getting the best of you in front of the rest of “D Banana Bar’s” regulars.

The rest of the night moves forward, your parents getting a first-hand glimpse into what your life has been like since you left home over a year ago. This is your hang-out, the bar you frequent most, with the people you’ve become friends with, the place where you bring your friends when they visit. Naturally, you just had to bring your family there as well.

“I can’t believe it,” Cosa shakes his head. “You brought your parents here,” he says with a soft smile of disbelief and a glimmer of joy in his eye.

“Of course!” you laugh back. “How could I not?”

 

* * *

“Why don’t you lead us in a little prayer?” the deep, soft voice of your host-father murmurs.

A slight panic runs through your veins, caught off guard with such a request.

“Uh, sure. I can do that,” you respond.

Folding your hands in your lap and closing your eyes, you begin with something like this: “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for bringing us all here safely to enjoy this meal together. It is truly a special occasion, bringing together both of my families: one by birth and the other that has been my family away from home in every sense of the word. Thank you for this opportunity to bring the world a little closer together. Amen.”

You open your eyes, glancing over at your host father, who nods approvingly.

“Very nice, couldn’t have done it better myself,” he bellows.

Exhaling a quiet sigh of relief, you return your attention to the occasion at hand. In front of you is a beautiful display of fine china: elegant plates, bowls, and glasses seldom-used, except for the most special of occasions. To your right, at the head of the table, is your host father Dakka. Seated immediately to your left is your host mother Donna. Across from you is your own father and mother, the special guests of the afternoon.

That morning you had introduced them to each other during Mass at the local Catholic church. It was a beautiful service. A family reunion was being celebrated and the whole congregation was donned in their traditional African garb and dashikis, as Emancipation Day was to be the following day.

But now it was time for the Sunday lunch, the most popular family meal of the week in the West Indies. Donna uncovers the dishes of baked chicken, macaroni pie, cole slaw, sweet potatoes, plantains, brown rice and beans, and pours us all a few glasses of juice. Not a whole lot is said initially, as the dishes are passed around typical of the way a big-family Thanksgiving dinner begins at home. But when all the dishes are filled, the meal begins.

Dakka takes the reigns of the conversation, telling stories from his days growing up in Gouyave, his travels while studying in Canada and England, as well as his inevitable return to his true home in Grenada. Many men in his position move to town, the capital of St. George’s that is, for the stature and social standing that seemingly comes from living there. They all come back, however, he explains. They often miss the sense of community that you find living up in the country. They miss the sense of hometown pride in your community and the way things were when they were growing up. So they all eventually do come back; but not Dakka, because Dakka never really left.

A terrific orator, he continues the discussion about Grenada and its history, as well as touching on what he had learned about the States from his travels there. You and your parents didn’t have a whole lot to say to be honest, other than what they had seen around the island and the different fruits and local dishes they’ve tried up to that point. But that’s okay, for once again, your parents had the opportunity to see what your life had been like ever since you left that Memorial Day weekend in 2017. They saw the first place you called home in Grenada and experienced the same sense of hospitality from the very people who looked after and cared for you as if you were their own. They indulged in the stomach-stuffing Grenadian Sunday lunch, a meal that all but guarantees you won’t have to eat for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 “Who’s this kid that keeps showing up here?” you laugh out loud as an old friend arrives at your apartment.

“Scottie!” he laughs back, embracing you in a big hug.

It’s Don, a friend you made when you took a volunteer trip to Cape Town, South Africa a year and a half ago. This was his second time in Grenada, having visited you back in December. For some reason he couldn’t get enough of Grenada, or maybe Grenada couldn’t get enough of him; it’s hard to tell.

He introduces you to his friend Ghallib, or ‘G’ for short. You don’t know anything about him but you can tell right away he’ll fit right in. After all, a friend of Don’s is a friend of yours.

You introduce them to your parents, excited that they get to meet somebody you’ve met along your international travels. The introductions are brief, however, as you quickly lock up, hop on a bus, and head north with the crew you now have gathered.

Whipping around the bends of the road up and down the hills, you begin catching up with Don and getting to know this guy called ‘G.’ A short while later, the five of you are dropped in Sauters, the northernmost town in Grenada. After a quick stop in a local market, you strap on your backpack and begin the long trek to Levera.

Arguably the most challenging endeavor of the itinerary you set out for your parents, Levera Beach is roughly a five-mile hike along the backroads of the country. The hike itself, although long, isn’t so difficult. The challenging part of it is that the backroads taken to get there offer very little cover from the blistering Caribbean sun. Nevertheless, equipped with water, hats, and plenty of sunscreen, you set out on your way.

Roughly ten minutes later, you’re walking along a bend in the road. A concrete wall stands to your right, the closest resemblance to one of those sound barrier walls you find bordering a freeway back home. To your left are a few simple homes overlooking the northern coast from atop a hill. Pausing the entourage for a moment, you point through a gap between two of the houses toward the town of Sauters, its church clock tower looming over the rooftops of its schools, shops, and homes that rise up and down with the hills.

But Sauters, as beautiful a town as it is, was not what you’re pointing too. Beyond the town there was a hill, farther off in the distance. You explain its somber, historical significance to the history of Grenada. In 1651, the Carib Indians realized it was a mistake to have allowed the French to settle on the island, so they became violent and killed a number of Frenchmen. In retaliation, the French became determined to wipe out the Carib Indian population from the island and because of their superior weaponry, had quickly defeated the Carib Indians. The remaining Carib survivors, however, made a last stand in Sauters. Upon realizing they were surrounded and defeated, they opted to jump off the cliff to their deaths rather than to submit themselves to French rule. The French consequently dubbed the location, “Le Morne de Sauters,” otherwise locally known as “Leaper’s Hill.”

Continuing on for the next hour and at the mercy of the hot sun, you arrive to the desired destination. Large rocks congregate at the base of a clear, grassy hill. Rough waves crash onto them, as the rocks fall over into the long and vast beachhead of Levera. Sugar Loaf Island sits in the distance, looking more like a humpbacked turtle more so than a sugar loaf. Sandy Island and Green Island, small strips of green land and palm trees peek just around the bend of the coast in the distance. Deep in the horizon to your left are various small, uninhabited islands that marks the last stretch of the Grenadine chain that runs from St. Vincent to Grenada.

Taking off your shoes and jumping down into the hot, soft sand, you walk along the beach that seems not to have been touched in years. You point out the spot where you found a nesting sea turtle back in May, and explain how the beachhead shifts with the changing tides of the seasons. But enough of the talking and geography lessons, you tell yourself, for it was time to cool off in the churning waters where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Caribbean Sea.

Floating in the Sea, your body rises and falls with the choppy waves. The water soothes your hot and aching body, already sore and exhausted from the hike in, which all of a sudden didn’t seem as long as it really was. You’re surrounded by both friends and family, seemingly dropped in the middle of the tropics without a care in the world. After all, bathing in the cool waters of the Sea, soothing your hot and aching body under a blistering hot sun, surrounded by family and laughing with a few good friends, what more could you ask for?

 

* * *

Pushing through the bush-covered path, you pop out from its grasp and into a clearing. Large rocks spot a small river directly in front of you. Looking ahead, a scene unfolds that almost begs for the cliché, “Pinch me, I’m dreaming,” line. Lush, vibrant shades of green trees and shrubs lean drunkenly in over a two-step layer of waterfalls. The first one has a rocky little channel of water that cascades down roughly fifteen feet into an emerald pool. Following up its path, its source is even more impressive. An even larger spring sits tranquil and seemingly untouched by the influence of man. The second waterfall rises nearly thirty feet in the air above it, water rushing down into the spring below with a force that beckons you to jump in.

Excited, you hustle along the narrow path to the second, higher waterfall. You’re the first ones there but not for long, as the Seven Sisters Waterfalls are one of the most oft-visited sites on the island. In next to no time you’re balancing delicately, barefoot on the rocks before diving into the crisp, clean waters of the spring. Its icy, cold temperature numbs your limbs while your heart thumps violently against your chest, confused as to whether it should feel soothed or concerned by the iciness of the water. You turn, backstroking out farther into the spring, looking up toward the sun-streaked canopy of trees above. The rays of the sun cast their light through the branches, striking the water and illuminating it that emerald color you’ve never seen before. Your parents follow in, smiling broadly as they ease into the cool and refreshing waters of the spring. Don laughs uncontrollably in joyous disbelief, loving every glorious minute. G floats where its shallow, soaking in the cleansing feel of the spring. PCVs Hannah Melin and Melanie Figueroa sit on the rocks at the edge of the spring, enjoying the cool breeze of the rainforest.

You and your dad swim together behind your unsuspecting mother. After securing your feet in the rocks below, you two simultaneously lift her up on your shoulders. She raises her hands with surprise, joy, disbelief, and okay, maybe a dash of uncertainty. You pose for a picture. But between the collaboration of weight between the three of you, alongside the strength of the current, you guys are cast out into the water where you now have to tread to stay afloat. The laughter pauses a moment when, upon finally losing balance, you all come crashing down into the water. Re-surfacing, the laughter returns, solidifying the bliss of the moment of being submerged in a spring, deep in the rainforest of a tropical island.

 

* * *

You’re laying out on the sands of Grand Anse Beach. Exhaustion is setting in, it was your second consecutive day of hiking waterfalls by morning and bathing in the waters of Grand Anse by the afternoon. The fading sun burns yellow on the horizon, casting an orange halo around it. The orange rises to a shade of blue, increasingly getting darker the higher up you look. Across the top of the sky a few soft, cotton-strand clouds take the orange-pink hue of the fading sun. You couldn’t ask for a better finish for the day, or even for the 10-day week of touring your parents around the crazy, hectic life you live down here in Grenada. It provides for a quiet moment of reflection, truly at peace alongside your friends and family. You think back to the week you’ve had:

A scenic view from atop the historical landmark of Ft. George.

Touring the Diamond Chocolate Factory and tasting samples of cocoa beans in Victoria.

Snorkeling the Underwater Sculpture Park, followed by a stop at Grand Anse, Fish Friday in your local community, and a stop at your favorite community bar.

Hiking through Grand Etang National Rainforest on a rainy day before hiding out with fellow PCVs at the West Indies Brewing Co.

Mass at the local Catholic Church and a Sunday lunch with your Grenadian host family.

A day trip to BBC Beach and dinner at Grand Anse.

A day-hike and bathe in the beautiful waters of Levera Beach.

A double-filled day of hiking and swimming the Seven Sisters Waterfalls by morning and bathing in the Caribbean Sea at Grand Anse by evening.

Another double-filled day hiking to and bathing in two of the Concord Waterfalls and reaching Grand Anse by the afternoon, where you now find yourself watching the sun go down with your parents and two close friends.

As exhausted as you are, you would do it all over again in a heartbeat. Funny you say that, however, because you will. For the next day your identical twin brother, Tom, flies in to celebrate the Carnival and take in the sights and sounds of Grenada.

The sun being gone now, you return home. Not wanting your parents’ trip to end, you and your mother attempt making passion fruit juice right from scratch. Sweetening it with just a touch of sugar, you clink your glasses together in cheers. The vacation may be over, but it was done right.

 

* * *

You hustle back early the next day, having run to town to complete some things at the Peace Corps Office. The next batch of Peace Corps Volunteers were scheduled to come in a week later, but with Carnival and your brother coming in you wouldn’t have any other time to complete their welcome packets that are traditionally done by the island-VAC.

When you do arrive back to your parents, you sit on the banister of the veranda. The old, too-familiar pit in your stomach begins to weigh heavily, knowing your parents’ taxi to the airport will arrive within the hour. You quietly fight back the tears, choking up as you sign your regrets to your cousin’s wedding invitation for later that month. It was to be the fourth wedding you’ve missed in your time down here, and honestly one of the most heart-breaking things for you to constantly miss.

Your mother comes out and sits next to you. Not knowing what else to do, you lean onto her shoulder and the floodgates open. A scene of gravity, it’s the goodbyes that are always the hardest. The time, as it always does, goes by too fast.  Time passing inescapably like sand through your fingertips, you say your goodbyes as the taxi arrives and takes them off to the airport and back to the States.

Turning away as the taxi rides off, you cross the road and jump into a bus. You wedge yourself between two passengers, your hugging your backpack in your lap. You continue fighting back the tears, sniffling quietly. But not only do the tears fight back, they win. Tucking the brim of your cap down over the dark shades covering your eyes, you do what you can to prevent anyone else on the bus from realizing you were crying.

The tears wouldn’t have been as strong, the goodbye wouldn’t have been as hard, you tell yourself; if only your brother were still coming in later that day.

* * *

To be continued…

Cheers!

 

A strong, warm breeze blows in from the Sea as sizable waves crash on the surf. Plopping down onto a blanket covering the soft sand, I leaned back on an elbow and cast an eye to the nighttime sky. Gray clouds stifled the stars in the heavens, leaving me dissatisfied as I wondered what awe-striking beauty lay behind those clouds. I had finally made it to Levera Beach, my favorite spot on Grenada, at night. It was May, which meant it was the time of year in which the leatherback sea turtles, native to Grenada’s waters, come ashore to nest. Through some fortunate circumstances, I was able to join fellow Peace Corps Volunteers Sarah Bowman, Riley Doerrler, and their visiting friend Lexi Pretter to try and witness the nesting of the leatherback sea turtles.

So here we were, laying out on Levera Beach and passing time until our tour guide, Harviel, would hopefully return with the good news that a sea turtle was nesting on the beach. We were told the waiting process could take anywhere from two to five hours. Harviel, our knowledgeable, articulate, and soft-spoken guide, was to walk the length of the beach at half-hour intervals in search of a nesting sea turtle and retrieve us when he found one. Although May is peak season for sea turtle nesting, it doesn’t necessarily mean one will nest tonight.

But I was really hoping one would. From the time I arrived to Grenada, I heard about the sea turtles nesting at Levera Beach. Upon learning about it, witnessing the sea turtle nesting immediately became Grenada Bucket List Item #1. There were a lot of factors in the way, however, that would make witnessing such a beautiful phenomenon difficult. The first being that Levera Beach, one of the top five leatherback sea turtle nesting sites in the region, was also one of the most isolated and remote beaches on the island. The closest town to the beach is Sauters, but the buses coming out of there don’t run a route near Levera. This essentially forces you to hike roughly over an hour just to get there from Sauters. This goes without mentioning that the sea turtles come in to nest at night, when buses aren’t running anyway.

Given those circumstances, the only way one could see the sea turtles nesting was if a private vehicle was involved. Then considering that it is against Peace Corps policy to drive a vehicle in your host country and violation of this policy would lead to immediate termination of service, the realistic possibility for me to see the nesting was slim to none.

Then came some unexpected good fortune. Lexi, a sailing instructor who has lived on various islands throughout the Caribbean, returned to Grenada to visit PCVs Sarah and Riley, whom she met and befriended in Bequia last year. Since she wasn’t Peace Corps, she could rent a vehicle; all of a sudden, we had a car.

Let that sink in: we had a CAR.

That may not seem like too big of a deal to you at home, but at this point in my Grenadian life, riding in an actual car is a luxurious experience. Having become accustomed to relying on the over-packed, restrictive-timed buses of the island, I almost forgot what the term “leg-room” even means. This goes without mentioning the complete and total freedom that comes with having a vehicle at your disposal that you can take wherever you wish, whenever you wish. Suddenly, the doors of possibility opened as we could literally “drive around” all the obstacles that previously stood in the way of us and the nesting sea turtles.

But I digress. So let’s go back to waiting for Harviel while laying out on blankets in the soft sand, the waves of the Atlantic crashing on the shore while the warm Sea breeze blows in under a cloudy, night sky.

“All right, time to go! There’s one out there now,” Harviel calls out, his silhouette becoming visible in the darkness as he approaches.

I hopped to my feet instantly, hardly believing that the moment was finally here. Honestly, it came sooner than I thought. I was finally going to see a leatherback sea turtle.

We were on the eastern end of the beachhead and as Harviel explained, the sea turtle was on the western end around the bend of the coastline. So following the red light shining from Harviel’s headlamp, we began trekking toward the water (red lights were used so as not to disturb the sea turtles while they were nesting). My toes dug into the sand with each step as we made our way from the back of the beach toward the shoreline. The closer I came to the water, the more the damp, tangled mess of seaweed that washed ashore seemed to try and hold me back from reaching the ocean. Broken, saturated driftwood jabbed at my ankles in the dark, as if they too, were trying to prevent me from reaching the water. But finally reaching the drop-off of sand to the ocean water, I let the sand cave beneath my feet and slid down to the firm, hard-soaked sand of the shore. Turning left and walking along the water, the incoming tide slapped playfully at my ankles before receding back to the ocean, only to return again a moment later.

Off to the right, Sugar Loaf Island’s hump-backed silhouette loomed peacefully just off-shore. A single light shone from the home at the base of the island, carrying a mysterious aura with it like that of the green light resonating from Daisy’s dock in The Great Gatsby. Looking up, the clouds were shifting with the sea breeze, finally beginning to unveil the glimmering array of stars they had been hiding. We rounded the bend that marks the northern turning point of the island, where the churning waters of the Atlantic meets the calming waters of the Caribbean Sea. Then without warning, a rogue wave crashes into our knees, as we all make a break for higher ground. But the rogue wave had done its deed and my shorts were now soaked just above the knees. I didn’t mind, however, as up ahead three figures could be seen huddled around a sole red light in the distance. We were almost there.

A fallen hush came over the tour group the moment that lone red light came into view. The previously bubbly atmosphere had become tense with anticipation. We weren’t to speak above a whisper, Harviel told us, so as not to disturb the sea turtle. Climbing up into the higher ground of the beachhead, we prepared to approach the sea turtle discreetly from behind, another precautionary measure we were to take so as not to disturb her. As we walked upon the huddled figures, two of them were crouched under red headlamps, scribbling away at chart paper on clipboards. A third figure, bigger than the other two, was laying down on his stomach and digging deep into the sand. We stepped up just behind him and following his hands, I then realized it wasn’t the sand he was digging into. He was reaching into the nest made by a large leatherback sea turtle!

Just above his hands, what at first appeared like a smooth, sandy surface was really the sea turtle’s shell. Beginning from her tail, a simple ridge ran along the center of her back to her neck. The breadth of her teardrop-shaped shell was masked in a thin coat of sand, essentially disguising the sea turtle from view. Her large rear flippers, in an alternating fashion, were pushing more and more sand out from the nest so she could make it as deep as possible. Underneath her shell next to her right, rear flipper, a metal tag glinted in the light, signifying she had been marked for research. This sea turtle was by no means small, either. Envisioning myself laying down next to it, the sea turtle would likely stretch from my feet to my shoulders, well over five feet long. Evidently, they can grow as long as seven feet and weigh upwards of two thousand pounds!

Forming a semi-circle around the back of the sea turtle, we watched intently as the conservationists went to work. The man lying on his stomach reached deep into the bowels of the nest, underneath the sea turtle. Then, a handful at a time, he began pulling out slimy, tennis-ball-sized eggs and placed them in a black, plastic bucket. As he did this, the other two conservationists kept scribbling away at their clipboards, marking down whatever information deemed relevant to their research.

“These people are from Ocean Spirits, a research-based organization evaluating the current status of leatherback sea turtles in the region,” Harviel, now standing next to the sea turtle, whispered softly to the group.

“They are gathering these eggs to move them to a more secure part of the beach, as this sea turtle has made her nest too close to the water,”  Harviel’s whisper was surprisingly audible in the strong, relentless breeze from the Sea.

Harviel, before the tour, had previously explained to us the mating and nesting process for the sea turtles. Every two to three years, the female sea turtle will mate with multiple males during the mating season. Now, the mating season for sea turtles is entirely separate from nesting season. The female sea turtle during the mating season stores all the sperm from her partners before internally fertilizing anywhere from 100-150 eggs. She then returns to land in order to nest at the very same beach that she, herself, had hatched. After digging her nest and laying her eggs, she will then cover up the nest and scatter the sand around it to mask the nest’s true location from potential predators. Returning back to sea, she will then internally fertilize another 100-150 more eggs with the stored sperm before coming back to nest again within the next nine days. This process will continue until the female sea turtle has laid up to seven to nine nests during the nesting season.

Within the nests, small, golf-ball sized eggs are laid with the larger, tennis-ball-sized ones. These golf-ball-sized eggs are non-viable. They will not produce any baby sea turtles, but rather serve the purpose to humidify the nest in order for the viable eggs to develop. Warm temperature nests tend to produce females, while cooler ones tend to produce more males. Therefore, as Harviel smiled slyly, “We like to say that sea turtles produce cool dudes and hot chicks.”

Despite the high-production rates of each nest, realistically, one out of every one thousand sea turtles will live to reach adulthood. Before hatching, a nest can be destroyed by another nesting sea turtle that may be unaware that she is building her nest on top of pre-existing one, incidentally destroying it and the eggs already laid inside. After hatching, young sea turtles face a list of predators that include birds, lizards, and mongooses, most of whom take advantage of the opportunity to prey on them as they crawl from their nest toward the ocean. Once in the ocean, however, the sea turtles are still threatened by sharks and other large fish. Sadly, leatherback sea turtles may also fall victim by human means, ranging from boats, fishing nets, plastic, and poaching.

Consequently, organizations like Ocean Spirits conduct their research and work in the best interest of the leatherback sea turtle population. Through the work of these organizations, the population status of leatherback sea turtles has been upgraded from Endangered to Vulnerable, according to the World Wildlife Organization (https://www.worldwildlife.org/species/leatherback-turtle).

“If you guys would like, one at a time, you may come and take a photo with her,” Harviel whispers. “But remember, move slowly, quietly, and absolutely NO flash photography.”

My eyes lit up with excitement. Not only was I witnessing the leatherback sea turtle lay her eggs, I was going to be able to take a photo with her as well. Cautiously, I followed the others around the back and when my turn arrived, crouched beside the sea turtle. Placing a hand on her smooth, leathery shell (thus, the namesake), I was enthralled. She was absolutely majestic; she was focused, breathing, and birthing, all with me right beside her, yet somehow unbothered.

When she lays her eggs, the female sea turtle falls under a trance to ease the birthing process. Consequently, we were able to approach her from the side and touch her shell in a manner that was safe for the sea turtle. However, that’s not to stress enough the importance that we followed the rules set before us by Harviel. For, if we were to disturb her from the trance, we not only would harm her, but disrupt the whole nesting process altogether.

Having taken my turn, I climbed back up and around the back of the semi-circle and made my way to the far end on the left side. I looked on attentively as she lay there, the man on his stomach filling the black bucket with more and more eggs each time he reached down. Looking off to my right, the silhouettes of palm trees extended out in the dark night sky over the foliage of the shoreline behind us. The gray clouds were all but gone now, the sky now filled with a sparkling display of stars. I watched intently, scanning the heavens and almost willing a star to shoot across the sky. As much as I wanted one to, none ever did. So turning my attention up ahead, the hump-back silhouette of Sugar Loaf Island now seemed to look the other way, disinterested in what was happening on this side of the beach. To the left, the white water of the breakers washed onto shore in a soothing, rhythmic pattern. Beyond the breaking waters was a steep darkness, conveying the true immensity of the ocean. In the far distance, however, a faint, light haze hovered on the horizon. It was light pollution coming from the small island of Carriacou, just off-shore from the northern coast of Grenada. We couldn’t see Carriacou itself, but evidently there was enough light coming from its town to be seen from here. Looking back in front of me, the female sea turtle still lay there, basking under the surgical glow of red lights.

“Okay, she’s finished,” Harviel says, as the man collecting the eggs abruptly got up and gathered his materials from the sand. “Everyone, let’s step back now. Remember, it’s important that we stay remain behind her and not be seen.”

We all take a step back onto higher ground, a little over ten feet away from the sea turtle. She begins shifting back and forth, forcing sand back into her unknowingly empty nest. Once filled, she crawled slowly back and forth to mash up the sand all around the nest to mask its location. While she did this, the two researchers from Ocean Spirits quickly sprang to action, expertly and tactfully taking measurements of the sea turtle. She measured 149″ in length, 107″ in width. After scribbling the measurements onto their clipboards. The three conservationists gathered the rest of their materials, the bucket of eggs, and disappeared into the darkness behind us. Their job wasn’t over, as they still had work to do: the bucket of freshly-laid eggs was to be moved to a new nest they created in a safer location farther from the water.

A suction-cup sound suddenly drew my attention, as the sea turtle’s flippers slapped against the wet sand. She was getting frustrated, Harviel explained, as the wet sand was making it difficult for her to move and cover her nest. Despite her struggles, she eventually managed to mask her nest after a short while by turning in slow, 180-degree angles. Consequently, as we tried to maintain a safe distance behind her and remain out of sight, we often found ourselves shuffling as a group from left to right to left again. Taken out of context, it must have been quite comical to see us rotating angles as we shuffled back and forth behind the sea turtle for such a length of time.

The red lights were turned off and her figure momentarily vanished in the surrounding darkness, but she was still there. As my eyes began adjusting to the full darkness of the night, a faint silhouette could be seen slowly crawling toward the incoming tide. She would linger, Harviel said, until she feels that the nest is safe and confident that the nesting process had gone unnoticed. Hypnotized by her presence, we began walking out to the sea, quietly following her into the waters. The whites of the crashing waves wrapped around her darkened silhouette as they washed ashore. With each incoming wave, it was becoming even harder and harder to see her. Then a wave suddenly wiped over the top of her shell and she disappeared into the darkness, never to be seen by us again.

We stood there, watching, waiting, wondering. Wondering where she was headed next and wondering when she might return.

Looking back, the beach seemed as surreal and untouched as ever in the peaceful, Caribbean night. The waves crashed rhythmically onto the shore. The silhouettes of palm trees stretched into a sparkling, starry sky. Sugar Loaf Island loomed peacefully offshore. A strong, warm breeze was still blowing in hard from the Sea. But in the sand, not a trace of the leatherback sea turtle could be found.

It was as if she was never there, as if what I just witnessed didn’t happen.

But it did.

Witnessing the nesting of a leatherback sea turtle was not only the coolest night of my life…

It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

And I loved every minute of it.

Cheers!

 

Note: If you would like to learn more about Ocean Spirits or S.P.E.C.T.O. (the tour group we went out with), you can find their websites listed below.

http://www.oceanspirits.org/

http://spectogrenada.com/

 

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