Caribbean Ice

Posted by Mike Collins on Jul 20, 2010 in Featured, Travel Stories | 3 comments

It’s that smell. The same aroma that is associated with every Caribbean bar in the morning. Like a coke gone flat, the flavor is merely reminiscent. A bar in the morning is a bubble-less party. Sun tan oil, perfume, vacation only cigar smoke, sweat and liquor hang in the atmosphere like the hundreds of dusty bras displaying Spring Break 2000 and Love From Michigan – in the standard black Sharpie of course.

The sign outside reads the customary incongruous name, The Purple Penguin, Drunken Dolphin or some supplementary attempt at wit; or dare I say uniqueness. ICE. That is the only sign I needed to see. To me this bar represents arrival and ice. Nine days at sea translates to an empty ice bin and any tropical port that will have me.

Many years ago when the horizon turned into an irregular grey line it represented an adventure. The sense of accomplishment received by crossing a large body of water sent shivers of pride through my entire being. My battle with Mother Nature won, I stood tall at the helm as I sailed into harbor. That same grey irregularity is now an ice cube. I no longer shiver from accomplishment. No waves of excitement at the thought of white sandy beaches with steel drum bands. Absent are the thoughts of bikini clad co-eds with the “what happens on the island stays on the island” mantra. Ice. Popping and crackling ice. The splash of the anchor and rattling chain is a song sung by a beautiful ebony faced bartender dropping glacial cubes into the tallest glass in the house.

The physical bodies in the bar add up to ten. The essence of hundreds linger from the night before. If I closed my eyes I could see the crowd. Foot-tall neon plastic cocktail trumpets tied around the sunburned necks of gyrating summer blondes. Cuban cigars held awkwardly by 21 year old identity challenged studs. There’s a place near the back that looks dark and cool.

Excitement and love are two very different things. When I say the excitement has waned it is not to say that I no longer love sailing the Blue Jungle. I have a very happy marriage with the sea. The honeymoon is over, but the love is strong. We understand each other. There is a predictability that is both comforting and nurturing. She knows the sacrifices I make for her so she treats me well. Ice. My biggest sacrifice is those glassy little squares that bring me so much happiness. Moderately cool beer instead of icy cold heaven. I could easily run the generator all the time to keep my ice-bin stocked. But a happy marriage requires sacrifice and I love the sea too much to pollute her unnecessarily with coughing diesel fumes. The wind will carry me where I need to go.

“Yuh wan sum ting fee drink mon?” The bartender’s words rang out like a choir of angels.

I pull out the bar stool savoring the moment, Wooden legs scratch across the floor with a dry grating sound matching my reply.
“The largest glass you have packed with ice and filled half way with Goslings Black Rum.” My words ring out with the same enthusiasm as the time my mother took me to see Santa at the mall when I asked for a Penn fishing reel, which I never got.

“Ice makah din work. Beer, it nice an cool.”

 

Holidays to the Caribbean