“Bequia is like St. John was about 40 years ago,” sailors and Caribbeanheads told me.  Upon first impression, I’m thinking they should have said 55.  Or more.  But our ferry pulled up, and we disembarked, aiming to find out. 

“Island time” works well for, well, not working. Not living off deadlines. Not getting anywhere by any particular time or worrying about much. But “island time” fails miserably when trying to catch ferries and make airplane connections. 

The ferry floats away from saintly St. John.

The good news is we made it off St. John and on to St. Thomas.  Then Anguilla.  Then Antigua.  And eventually to our destination, the island of St. Vincent.  And it is breathtakingly beautiful.  Worth the hassle?  Of course (but that’s easy to say now).  The bad news is the day was, as expected, an endurance test, only worse. 

"Island time" and flying skeds don't mix well.

“Island time” was taken to new levels, and I don’t mean 20,000 feet in the air.  I mean:  Refusing to let planes land.  Stranding people in airports.  Canceling flights.  Holding passengers hostage and inventing a form of “island torture.”  They call it a “soft strike.” 

It comes courtesy of the air traffic controllers on the island of Antigua, a hub for Liat island-hopping airlines.  Seems the Controllers want more money, or something, and the government won’t pony up.  So…they create chaos out of flying (which is already chaotic down here) and make everybody really, really mad (in all senses of the word). 

We’d already received angry and defensive e-mails from the airline.  Every cabbie or airport employee was talking about it—or refusing to.  And frankly, there probably hasn’t been this much drama down here (other than hurricanes) since Reagan and Troops invaded Grenada 20 years ago. 

As for me, I got scolded by a flight attendant and frightfully threatened by a security officer (who was about twice my size).  A Gamegirl was stolen from right under my nose.  And I witnessed unprecedented airport panic and paranoia.  And that’s saying something, since air travel has been increasingly unpleasant since 9-11, if not before. 

In the Antigua airport, most chairs were taken.  Most garbage cans were boiling over.  And the food stand was down to hot dogs and warm beer.  At one point, I stared at an (empty!) garbage can for an hour or more, convinced that this was the appropriate mediation focus for the day. 

Stranded. I meditated on this trash can.

A TV preacher barked in a Patois growl while a nearby CD stand played short samples of reggae, Jamaican toasting, and soca at full volume.  At one point, I thought I would scream.  But instead, I must have zoned out, because that’s when the new pink GameGirl (a necessary drug for CurlyGirl on a day like this) was pilfered.  Disappeared like magic.  

We got lucky.  Our plane flew.  We got out of there, and onto St. Vincent only a few long hours late.  Needless to say, we went out for a celebratory dinner and stayed up way too late.  When getting there is not half the fun, getting there feels twice as good. 

• On St. Vincent, “island time” is alive and well.  And suddenly, slowing down to soak it all in is a euphoric experience.

There must be other places as beautiful as St. John, USVI. And if there are, I sure hope to see them before my travels cease. Meanwhile, leaving is not easy. The packing and practicalities stink, naturally—but moreso because here is that rare place that makes it easy to relax, let go, and lose track of time.

Trunk Bay. On just about every "Top 10" beach list.

Where have these 18 days gone? And how could our BreakAway be 1/4 over? Despite a gradual descent into Island Time, hours race by like the swift little bananaquits that flit about crazily every morning.

The days have flown by like 3 little bananaquits.

Maybe the next island on our itinerary won’t be in such a hurry to teach that you can’t slow down time, even while you can slow down yourself. Hope so. But I’m in no rush to find out.

I AM always in a hurry to get long travel days over, though. That’s St. John to St. Vincent. A hellish day of travel that, with any luck, will be a “good” adventure—never mind that Liat Airlines (an island hopper down here) has already sent out emails warning of impending delays, cancellations, and worse.

Some sort of air traffic controller’s strike. Or something. “Plan” on it.

So what does this travel day look like?

• Pile the luggage in the Jeep.
• Drive across St. John to Cruz Bay to board a boat.
• Ride that ferry to port Charlotte Amalie (on St. Thomas).
• Catch a cab to the airport.
• Do security, customs, luggage, and wait, wait, wait.
• Walk on a runway to board a little plane.
• Fly to one island, but stay on the plane. Wait.
• Fly to another island; transfer planes (after a 3+ hour wait).
• If possible, leave the airport to have dinner and see something.
• Arrive on St. Vincent, late.
• Cab to our hotel.
• Find something to eat. Swim in the pool? Move in and C-R-A-S-H.

We’ll be in St. Vincent for 3 short days, before moving on again.

It's hard to leave St. John, where beauty abounds.

Moving on to see “more” seems silly at the moment. Perhaps no island could be better than St. John. But I’ve been here many times, even lived here for a half-year.

But back in Minnesota, in the throes of winter, in fits of courage and excitement and seductive web-travel-planning, we set out to see the Caribbean. Get lost, but NOT in America.

Pack those bags. Fasten your seat belts. Spread those wings. Let’s fly.

Yes, it really is called Drunk Bay.  And it’s arguably the wildest, waviest, rockiest beach on St. John.  Hardly anybody goes there.  It’s a long walk.  Gets real hot.  Swimming is impossible.  Ain’t no bar.  But visual grandeur and surprises?  Guaranteed.  The latest trend (and surprise) seems to be making coral humanoids.  

Here are a few.  To meet more, visit my flickr page...

What do you do with a drunken (coral) sailor?

She likes to tan in the nude (and needs sunscreen).

He should have read the fine print on the Viagra label.

Spaghetti dinner with friends was fun, but nobody wanted to stay up to see the years collide. Except the kids, of course. But they need sleep. I don’t. So by 11, this modest house party was over and there wasn’t an awake soul around me.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! In coral! In Coral Bay, USVI.

I’ve never missed a NY midnight, yet hitting the hay became my decision. I was nearly horizontal. But then the church bells started ringing…

“Come to church!”

Oh yeah! I remembered. The Moravian Church just across the bay holds NYE service at 11—and rings bells like crazy at midnight. They sing and sing and then shake hands and wish each other Happy New Year with smiles of contagious hope.

So my clothes came back on, and I headed out the door. I was late to church, but God don’t mind. And neither do Moravians. Once in the classic old structure, I was clueless about which hymnal or page to follow—and not being a Moravian, that happened a lot.

The Moravian Church has been there for many, many New Years Eves.

But not to worry: A parishioner would appear—head bobbing and voice booming—from beside or behind and hand me the right book and get me on the same page.

All singing was a cappella—no piano, organ, no guitars. Just loud, proud voices echoing through this gorgeous old sanctuary. A church like this thinks nothing of hymns with 12 verses and a chorus each time between them. The lyrics were all about starting anew, the passage of time, faith and renewal.

Repeat! Repeat! Until you believe!

In between hymns, the pastor might say a few things in Christian Island Patois. Through his words, through wide-open windows, two live bands—one reggae and one classic rock—came crashing in like noisy (but not uninvited) guests.

"This better not end up on some stupid blog!" they said.

“Legalize It!” “Tumbling Dice!” “Suzy Q!”

We must sing louder to drown all that out!

At midnight, hoots and howls from the streets and bars joined a clamor of car horns, conch blasts, and fireworks. But nothing compared in sheer volume to the peeling of the bell we sat under in church. That thing must have rung hundreds of times, for five minutes or more.

The sound was glorious and made it impossible to think. Feel it! Listen! Resist the temptation to plug your ears!

One more hymn, and we received the benediction. May the Lord bless and keep you…lift his countenance upon you…and give you peace and prosperity fo’ the who’ yeah a-haid!  Amen Amen Amen!  

Church is out. A New Year begins. It’ll be just like starting over.

Then came gentle handshakes from folks age 3 to 103. The only other White person was a beaming, elderly lady with messy hair, a humped back, and a yellow rain slicker. A number of fellow worshippers kept hold of my hand and said,

“I’m glad you came tonight.”

So was I.

Unlike the island-bro many-moves handshakes (that’s so fun, but so macho), these grasps were simple, caring. And nobody worried about that pushy, dated, dress-for-success suggestion: Always assert a firm handshake.

Early January 1, 2009. A new day, and year, dawns.

On the way home, I stopped by to sing more, but now on to rock and reggae with fellow St. John sinners. “Work of Art” was thumping big backbeats at Skinny Legs while dressed-up natives and dressed-down locals rubbed shoulders with Yachty babes in black lace and their East Coast boyfriend bums in Polo shirts.

The bartender charged me half the usual price for my red wine and knocked twice on the well-worn wooden bar. I took communion.

Then on to Island Blues. Drunks danced with abandon and filled the air with smoke to the sounds of butchered Hendrix and Stones. One local cutie would soon have her choice between two tan men competing for her attention like the geckos here lazily joust over a bit of sugar.

I stayed till almost 2. The party had only begun. Happy New Year.

A private landing assures much untouched booty.

Focusing on fatherhood may be more natural and convenient when we’ve stepped away from our routines and out of (most) ruts. And for that, I’m grateful! Pursuing mutual passions like being on/in water and chasing nature also helps. Here was our strategy today. Perhaps when we’re back home again, we can find the same groove during fishing mornings, baseball afternoons, and bowling nights.

• Rent a 2-person kayak for a ½-day excursion.
• Pile on snorkel gear, lunch, bevvies, camera.
• Relax for a while; let Boy wander off, climb rocks, and collect sea treasures.

AllBoy seeks sea treasures on private beach.

• Paddle against the wind to a private beach cars can’t reach.
• Snorkel one hour around a steep peninsula through gi-normous swells.
• Return to beach, exhausted, for enthusiastic chat and lunch about ocean life.
• Search seashore for shells, coral, crab carcasses, and cool stuff.
• Take pictures and select a few perfect ones for Mom and Sis.
• Throw the rest back into the deep.

Corals, conchs, crab carcasses, critters: Incredible!

• Eat a candy bar and gather up the gear.
• Kayak back, watching for jumping fish, distant sailboats, and lobster traps.
• Let wind and waves carry you home while sun slips behind mountain.

As Vice President of Shirkery for makeyourbreakaway.com and 2 Heads, one of my top career–and continuing education–goals is to perfect the art and practice of leisure. And to pass it on. Fortunately, I’m not alone. There are even consultants like Alison Link whose job is to coach the leisure-challenged on how to find more fun and balance. Marci Alboher of the New York Times conducted an insightful interview with Ms. Link. Please read it–at your leisure, of course.

Sailing and leisure are good for you--and your career.

When conducting workshops or just chatting about Sabbaticals, I’ve been blown away by the number of people who want free time, but also proudly proclaim that they are workaholics.

When I ask, “What’s the closest thing you’ve had to a Sabbatical?” the answers range from bar-hopping to an hour of gardening to maternity leave. Tough crowd. It’s not easy to inspire such un-slacking un-seekers. And yet Ms. Link validates that the value of leisure can be found in small doses:

Leisure has many different definitions — some involving time, some relating to an activity being done, some relating to state of mind. Personally, I am most at leisure when I feel free, present and integrated. I like this definition for myself because it allows me to experience leisure at any moment, even in just a few minutes.” 

Knowing that so many people see the world through “What do you do?” glasses, Ms. Link also asserts that leisure deserves an elevated place in one’s self-perception:

Wouldn’t it be great if we didn’t define ourselves by our work? It should be just as valid to define ourselves by our leisure.” 

Even the pelican knows to take flight from his work.

And finally, my favorite suggestion (and the genesis behind this website) is that leisure is worth planning for. It may not just happen. Work usually does, oddly enough. But whether it’s bowling night or pottery lessons or taking a year off, you need to sketch and scheme to make leisure work for you.

We need to plan for leisure — perhaps by doing one small thing every day, identifying long- and short-term leisure goals, putting enjoyable activities on the calendar — like we do other aspects of life.” 

Thanks, Ms. Link, for helping us see the leisure light. When people feel more free and at ease, they help make the world a better place. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go cram for an upcoming Leisure Studies exam. Because believe it or not,

I’ve been shirking the completion of my own Masters in Leisure Studies for most of my adult life…*

* Actually, I do hold a MALS degree from Hamline University in St. Paul. While it actually stands for Master of Arts in Liberal Studies, it took me nine years to complete the dang thing–and to realize that it does NOT stand for Masters in Leisure Studies.