Rainbow Season


Another Island Note…

Another rainy season is upon us.  Yes, on Bonaire we receive most of our rain this time of year culminating in a spring harvest of sorghum in April.  But what happens in this tropical clime is not a constant deluge of rain like in the Amazon or other jungle-scapes. Rather, rains here are repeated short bursts often coming from one large black cloud. But soon the skies open up and pour golden sunshine onto our rock in the Caribbean Sea.  And that is when the magic begins.  Mix mid-air droplets with brilliant rays and that incredible, invisible cosmic bending of light occurs, sending rainbows to the opposite horizon from the sun.  Where I live that means morning rainbows are over the sea with the elusive pot o’ gold ending up fathoms deep off the coast.  Evening displays hover above the ridge of hills to the north where squawking parrots frolic and begin their  nighttime roost.  Yes, it is rainbow season and I don’t have to wait for spring harvest. “Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?” Chilean writer Pablo Neruda once asked.  For me, I gather the color now, soothing chromatic collections in my mind.


Back On The Water

23157988_10208468374186201_1745039841_oAnother Island Note

When something is taken away from you that you yearn for, that you breath with passion, that because you do it so much you just might take it a bit for granted… well that can be a mess.

After seven months of not being on the water, I was not right.  After all, I live on an island.  And I am a sailor.  I usually go once or twice a week sailing solo or with friends.  Many times more than that. But life got in the way this year with a 15-foot fall causing six broken bones.  I wish I could say I fell from the mast.  But no, it was a pedestrian, domestic prat fall with no redeeming qualities.

But I got a message from my sailing buddy, Patrick Hulsker, saying he was returning to Bonaire for a two-week vacation a few weeks back.  Pat and I sailed numerous times together on my boat Kontentu and on a four day voyage on a 43-foot sloop to the uninhabited Venezuelan islands of Las Aves (the Birds) where we stuffed ourselves with fresh-caught fish turned into delectable ceviche and washed down with rum.  Ah, the island life of a sailor.

But I digress.  Pat offered to take me out on my own boat when he came to visit since my bones are still on the mend.  What a friend.  I called Luti who was working on Kontentu-land bound and due for new bottom paint-4 weeks ago.  “Luti, I need Kontentu in the water by October 21st.  I have a friend that will take me sailing.  It would mean a lot to me.”  “No problem, Patrick.  We’ll have the boat in the water soon.”

The word “soon” in the Caribbean as in “soon come” means you better be ready to wait for a long time.  My boat is still on the hard and not in the marina.  But my buddy Patrick not only rented a house for his family’s vacation, but also his old fishing boat which he sold before moving back to Holland.  So today I was back on the water with Pat and his son Tico.  They rigged a comfortable captain’s chair for me midship and we went to sea, fishing.  23134690_10208468373266178_1399454383_oActually, only Tico was fishing and he caught enough for lunch.  Patrick and I talked about boats, the island and travel. 23134947_10208468372186151_1684510554_o In between chats I smelled the water, heard the water lap against the hull and watch a flying fish soar for 20 yards.  A turtle popped his head up for a look.  A few new boats passed by and many familiar ones that in know so well.  Ah, yes.  I was back on the water.  No place that I would rather be.23131380_10208468374586211_1924775274_o

Poolside Reflections…



Another Island Note…

It’s hot, humid, windless. The two tempests, Irma and Maria, are not only threatening our dear friends who live on islands to the north, but the double trouble is sucking up all the trade winds here on Bonaire.  That’s what enormous Cat 5 hurricanes do in our neighborhood.  So while I sweat away the day and worry about my amigos, I feel a need for more than a cooling rum drink.  Yes, it is time for poolside reflections.  I stare into the clear water, slightly rippled by a ghost of a breeze. Five feet down I see my nemesis, the pool robot.  There was a time that I held the prestigious position of pool boy at our household on the hill.  I relished the job.  Early morning shirtless, I would rhythmically move a 16-foot aluminum pole back and forth vacuuming the bottom.  The sun was soothing.  The early birds of tropical oriole, parakeet and parrot cheered me on.  It was bliss.

Thoughts ran back to my teenage years when I tried to score a summer job as a lifeguard at a posh Cleveland suburb country club.  I was foiled by more mature, buff dudes that impressed the management.  Undeterred, I applied to be a pool boy.  What better than to get a tan, watch bikini-clad girls frolic poolside and make minimum wage?  But again, I was rejected.  I resorted to washing cars and mowing lawns.  It was an endless summer, but not in the good let’s-surf-around-the-world kind of way.

A half century later, I own the damn pool.  I immediately proclaim myself pool boy.  I don the surfer shorts and cool sunglasses, Ray Bans of course.  I quickly absorb the intricacies of the pump system, conquer the chemistry of sequestered water and scrub the opalescent tiles with vigor.  Then the accident happened.

After a fifteen foot fall and five fractures I could barely stir my cup of coffee let alone maintain a pool.  My sidekick didn’t fancy doing the vacuuming so with a rapid keystroke on the Amazon dot com site, I was replaced by The Pool Cleaner, a robot vacuum system that proved to do a more thorough cleaning than even yours truly, the overachieving pool boy.IMG_1220

So I sit here today in my wheelchair staring at the machine that replaced me.  I watch the four-wheeled gadget crisscross the pool in its arrogant, haphazard manner.  I’m steaming, not so much from the sultry weather, but out of indignant rage.  How could this clump of plastic, gears and hose take away one of life’s pleasures?  Pool boy was now obsolete.

As rocker Stevie “Guitar” Miller once sang, “Some things are better left alone. Like that bulldog in the bathroom. Like that wombat on the phone.”  Perhaps this applies to The Pool Cleaner too.  It is sometimes better to first understand your enemies before aggressively confronting them.  So I sit and watch the contraption with slight contempt.

After a few minutes I realize the mechanical beast and I have some commonality.  I watch it spin in circles incessantly in the middle of the pool.  I flashback to doing donuts with the family’s red 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport in the snowy parking lot of my high school, abandoned on a winter weekend.

The Pool Cleaner then abruptly changes direction and heads for a wall.  It collides with the side, spinning its wheels, dead in its tracks.  This reminds me of too many times in my life I was in a similar stalemate.  The most recent was when I was in my 50s, trying to score on the last job of my career.  Nobody wants an old dog anymore in spite of the fact that you have decades of experience to draw upon.  Paying your dues has become obsolete.  Silly.  I applied for jobs nearly every month for two years.  The rejections piled up.  I felt much like The Pool Cleaner might, grinding against the wall, if only the thing had feelings.  Finally, after nearly fifty applications I got a job of a lifetime, which ended up being a joyous capstone to my career.

Suddenly the robot breaks away from the wall, scurries ten feet and deflects off the side to only head in another direction.  I recall another time from the past when I did the exact same maneuver. Friends and I were sailing south in Chesapeake Bay for most of the day.  As the late summer afternoon sun burned into a golden haze, the crew’s thoughts turned to pistachio-crusted crab cakes and cold beer that could be had at our destination port.  We arrived there in fading light and I was at the helm.  My mate had no chart but read how to enter the harbor from a cruising guide.  Not an ideal situation. We saw the town ahead, its lights twinkling to starboard and decided it was time to turn.  Wrong.  Our sailboat hit a shoal.  I immediately turned to port, gunned the engine and the boat bounced off the mud bottom, just like the robot glancing the wall.  We continued south for another hundred yards in deeper water and finally found a channel marker that led us to those cherished pistachio-crusted crab cakes and cold beer.

As The Pool Cleaner grinds on, a soft, tropical rain begins to fall.  The drizzle turns the surface of the placid pool into an obscure aquatic mosaic.  I can no longer see the gizmo below and I’m getting pleasantly wet.  Gone is the opportunity to witness more mechanical metaphors that strangely mirror my life.  I end my poolside reflections remembering the wise words of Ernest Hemingway as he sloshed down an endless procession of rum daiquiris at La Floridita Bar in Havana, “A man can be destroyed, but not defeated.”  Pool boy will rise again some day.

Banana Grove Revisted

IMG_0885Another Island Note…

It was 11 months ago that I became ‘tropical farmer’ and planted a small banana grove with a lime tree (posted May 25, 2016).  Picture big straw hat & flip flops–that kind of farmer.  Then I thought I would never address this topic again on this blog for my talent with plants has never been a strong point.  I wasn’t very confident.

But hold the boat!  Yesterday, friends visiting pointed out a cluster of baby bananas hanging above a huge bulbous flower.  I didn’t even know they were hanging there.  Oh yeah.  Banana daiquiris on the horizon.IMG_0889







Island Notes-The Coconut Grove


I always wanted to have a coconut grove.  You know.  One of those botanical erogenous zones that provide sweet shade from the tropical sun, coconuts begging to be made into that afternoon elixer-a coco loco* and a place for hammocks to gently sway by the warm trade winds.

Now that I have a bit of island land I decided to plant a mini coconut grove.  I bought three Suriname coco palm plants from a lady in Hato, a neighborhood just down the hill.  Throughout the ages, these plants have traveled from Suriname via  the Guiana Current (#8)… f1-large-a massive ocean stream that sweeps between Trinidad and the northeast corner of South America, bends west entering the Caribbean Sea, and then steams toward Panama.  Coconuts that end up being beached have the potential of sprouting and, beyond those palms transplanted by people, that is how the ABC Islands received coconut palms. I was informed that my particular plants were offspring from a half dozen, towering Suriname palms that were planted on Hato’s shore in the 1940s.

My plan was to plant a triangle of palms equidistant from each other allowing for three hammocks to be hung simultaneously.  Easier said then done on my moonscape land formed by uplifted coral terrace that looks more like a Mauna Loa lava flow than anything else.  The trick was to find spots between the klip where some soil existed.  I found three such spots, but my triangle quickly went from equilateral to obtuse in a Havana heartbeat. No matter.  The differences in distance will be solved by longer or shorter hammock lines.


Natural hole in the klip (right of the palm)


The walls of the hole are built up with extra klip and soil put in.


Palm in ground.

I had to sledgehammer off some pieces of klip to form a circle in two locations.  Then I dumped in a base of soil, set the palm in the hole, put in more soil around the plant and formed a dish to capture water.  Next I’ll put in some drip irrigation that is fed by my gray water system.  On Bonaire we can get days or weeks without rain so the drip will help the trees during the dry times.dsc05608

Two hours and a quart bottle of water later, the trifecta was complete. My humble coconut grove has begun.  I have no idea how long it will take the trees to grow big enough to hold hammocks, but it will be fun watching the race.  And who knows, I may be drinking coconut milk before you know it.dsc05607

*coco loco  Cut off the top of a coconut without spilling the water inside.  Put in a shot of Mount Gay Eclipse rum, a squeeze of lime and a bit of ice.  Go find a hammock and enjoy.

Dah Shimaruku Shake, another Island Note


Bonaire has had abundant and welcomed rains in the past two months.  One of the benefits of the deluge are a profusion of shimarukus, our native cherries.  Thanks to  friends Laura & George who have a number of cherry trees, I got to pick my share.


I decided to make a smoothie, which involved getting three pits that are in each cherry separated from the good stuff.  Most of what ended up in the blender was juice and skins.  The smell is heavenly delicate and distinctive.dsc05369

Then I added fresh ground cinnamon that I bought in Grenada last month, a banana from Panama, yogurt and almond milk.


Before you know it, I was doing dah Shimaruku Shake.dsc05374

Island Notes. Last Lime on the Island


I did the obligatory rounds—Bon Di Gro, Warehouse Bonaire, Van den Tweil, the Bonaire Food Group—all to no avail.  I even went to Zhung Kong and Lucky Supermarket, Chinese outposts that often carry fresh produce.  No luck.  I was in search of limes.  In the last two days, my poolside sundowner was missing the citrus.  Sure, I had the requisite Mount Gay Eclipse Rum, sparkling water and ice.  But there was no lime, no heart, no soul, no zing to my fling.

The fact was I could not find a lime anywhere on the island.  Even last night at the Breeze n’ Bites Restaurant bar, the waitress just shook her head when a customer asked for a slice of green to go with his Corona.  “The problems are in Venezuela,” said the woman.  “They aren’t shipping fruit anymore-no bananas, no mangos, and of course, no limes.  Things are really bad.”

Bad?  You’re damn right, bad!  What will happen to mojito night at Eddie’s?  How about the rim-side trim for margaritas at La Cantina?  Anyone dreaming of making a key lime pie?  Forget about it. Thoughts of scurvy darkened my thoughts.  This was an island crisis.  There was trouble in paradise.

Back home on the hill, I sat defeated.  I had exhausted all the possibilities of finding a lime.  But wait!  I had not check my lime tree in a month.  I sprang out of the hammock and ran below to the banana grove.  Hanging low on a bottom branch, there it was—a dark green whopper, the largest fruit that my little tree has yet produced.  I plucked off the cue ball-sized sphere and immediately the air filled with a citrus scent, an amorous aroma, a tropical treat.

I could not believe my good fortune.  I quickly looked around to ensure that no one had seen my discovery.  All clear.  I scampered up the stairs to find the Mount Gay.  I was one lucky guy, proud owner of the last lime on the island.  Squeeze time.