Gone Native

John Frum 
He Mus Come
Look At Old Fellas
Give Us Some Big Presents
Give Us Some Good Tok Tok
Mus Stap Long Kastom
Mus Keep Kastum
He Mus Come
(Chant of the Vanuatu Cargo Cult. Melanesia, South Pacific.)

We’re stuck waiting for a good “weather window.” It’s been blowing a steady twenty-five knots all week, soon forecasted to hit forty. Our vessel’s tucked up behind the bluffs on Long Cay, just outside of Cockburn Harbor, South Caicos. Most harbors are named for landmarks: Sapodilla Bay, Salt Pond, etc. I keep looking for a tall, phallic outcropping with a reddish hue with no luck so far.
We need twenty-four hours of moderate seas to attempt the deep passage to the Dominican Republic. Plus another twenty-four before that, so the waves have time to lie down. Add another twenty-four at the end in case of trouble. That’s three days of fair wind in the middle of hurricane season.
Potential windows keep collapsing. The weather analyst we paid big bucks to advise us (via radio) when best to go has disappeared, so we wrap our laptops in garbage bags each day, then bounce into the harbor. After that it’s a half-mile mile slog through town to the health clinic where their waiting room has internet. There we download charts and consult the NOAA website while the television blares soaps in the background. I’ve gotten good at reading groundswell and wind shear patterns while fast becoming a fan of Divorce Court.

A hundred years ago this was the epicenter of a thriving salt industry. The network of salt pans that cover the island have long since been abandoned along with most of the dwellings. Once you leave the small commercial center it has the feeling of a ghost town; make that a sleepy ghost town.
We attempted to check in with Immigration for three straight days. On the fourth we spied a vehicle out front. Three dogs lazed underneath it. Inside were three people asleep at their desks.
“Where have y’all been?” I asked.
“Oh man,” an attractive woman drowsily replied. “Our AC’s been out. It’s been too hot to open up.”

The same incessant twenty-five knot breeze we’d been riding out was blowing through the open windows. It was quite pleasant.
“We’re on our way to the clinic” I continued. “Can we check in on our way back?”
“Better do it now” she said while the other two employees stirred, then put their heads back down. “We take lunch from 12:30 until 2:00. I don’t think we’ll come back after that.”
“If only I was a Cox or a Forbes” I thought. “That could be me snoozing behind one of those desks.”
We paid the customs fee and now that we were legal, we felt free to roam about the harbor. Every few blocks, friendly folks waved from perches underneath the meager shade trees with little plastic cups of rum gingerly held in their hands. Down on the pier, a mountain of fish traps were piled behind a chain link fence. In the center of one of the stacks was a kitten. There was a woman in our party. She was the one who spotted it.
“We got to get it out of there!” she cried.     
“How?” the three lethargic males, which included myself, replied. “There are traps above, below and beside it. Plus the gate’s locked.”
“It’ll die!” she exclaimed. 
She had a point.
The Captain, whom we suspect has the hots for our female companion, took control. He roused a guy who was peacefully stretched out on a bench. No, he didn’t know who had a key. Undeterred, the Captain entered the marina office. Ten minutes later he returned with two locals and a ladder.
The idea of scaling some guy’s fence and disturbing his livelihood didn’t appeal to me. I also figured five people were sufficient to rescue a two lb. kitten, so I sorta wandered off. I had missed noticing the feline, but I didn’t miss the bar sitting across the street. Beer in hand, I watched the rescue troupe shinny up the ladder. Then the mound of traps slowly disappeared. The woman directed. The men did the demolishing.
“Great executive skills” I reflected between sips. 
They got their cat. Injuries were minor. One of the locals got bit on the nose. Everybody else got sprayed. 

Suddenly a dirty Ford pickup truck flew up to the gate.
“What are you people doing to my traps?” the driver hollered.
Everyone looked at each other. I ordered another cold one. The mountain gradually reappeared while I drank my beer.
A short while later the gang made it over to the bar, with the cat.
“You got the cat! I said with mock surprise. “That’s great!” Uh, now what?”
“We didn’t want to leave it there” our female friend explained. “We thought it might run back into one of the traps.”
“Are you going to keep it?” I asked.
“No” she sighed, sounding as if only Sinead O’Connor had been with her. She would’ve known what to do. “I think we’ll set it free under that tree over there.”
The local next to her nodded in approval. A small stream of blood trickled down his nose. It was obvious that he needed a beer. 

We all had a round, my third. Then the Captain popped the top off of the milk crate that held the feral kitten. It leapt out, looked around and shot up the nearest tree. My guess is it’s still there.
I think we’ll be here for at least another week, fervently hoping one of those weather windows will hold long enough for us to make our escape. In the meantime, we’ll continue to mix with the locals. I believe more adventures await. Who knows? Perhaps the annual cock burning competition is just around the corner!