Rage and Courage in the Caribbean

Rage and Courage in the Islands

I suppose in today’s psychobabble category of the moment, it would fall under a dysfunctional upbringing, but I was never taught to either identify or how to handle some of the most rudimentary basic human emotions. I grew up in a working class family of faith and was, however, given an unshakable morality and sense of values. My father was a hard working family man who made sure there was food on the table and that the kids did not talk back to their parents. At this point in my life with my dad long gone, I now understand that he was also filled with unrealized dreams and much repressed anger.

He was filled with unexpressed rage over the unfairness and seeming injustice of life, particularly for a working class man whose choices were limited by his dedication to his family. Consequently, I was driven to exercise my choices and take my chances as early as possible in life before those same limitations could ensnare me.

My ambition would lead me into a succession of small business ventures until, in our early thirties, I convinced my wife to take the ultimate chance with me and buy a small oceanfront resort in the Caribbean.
I had learned how to deal with your garden variety bout of anger to some degree as a young small businessman although very often it was inadequately or poorly expressed. As I was soon to learn, life in the islands is a relentless teacher.

Enduring a class four hurricane that almost wiped our little island off the map ten days after purchasing our resort was our welcome to the islands. The challenges of leading my wife, business, employees and later daughter through this class four and other class three storms tested me in ways that words will never adequately retell.

Two interesting consequences were that I was learning about the everyman, everyday type of courage that my father must have needed to muster in order to face each day of his life. I got up on no sleep for months on end and worked every day in seemingly hopeless circumstances to save our future and our dream. I worked in absolutely debilitating physical and emotional pain (in a community that offered extremely limited health care resources) that at times, literally took my breath away.

I learned to respect my dad in a way that would otherwise never have been possible and I am forever grateful. As you will see, I also was given the opportunity to learn another type of courage. The islands would soon give me the chance to learn about a courage more related to the battlefield than everyday life.

As we built back our dream from the brink of destruction on more than one occasion, both my wife and I took a very intense, protective attitude towards our little corner of paradise. I would definitely have to say a little rage was behind this defensiveness. On more than one occasion, I was put in a situation where the expression of this rage was actually appropriate and thinking back now, probably healthy. I learned during these episodes how to handle an occasional dose of anger that was literally blinding in its’ intensity.

My rules were simple. Think fast, talk fast, act fast, keep it short and try not to get arrested! Like the time I caught a man I knew to be a local thief on our property just getting started on a break in and, while not getting physical with him, told him if I ever caught him on our property again I would go get my gun, stick it where the sun doesn't shine, blow off his manhood, and turn him into a woman! He left and never came back. Or there was the time I went racing out into the early morning hours to chase away two teen age would be burglars and as they ran away fired a coast guard flare just over their heads “for effect”.

The following story relates the final chapter in my education regarding rage and courage. In it, that shy sensitive non-confrontational boy that I once was learns that he is now free to choose the peaceful path, the non-violent path. This choice is now made possible in an honest way because I have demonstrated a fearlessness to myself that I never knew I could possess. I would also like to think that I learned that battlefield courage, however, is something only ever needed in short bursts and can be just simply foolish if one is not truly prepared and trained to exercise it properly.

“They Didn’t Shoot the Sheriff”

One story in a series from my life in the Caribbean

As I find myself racing down the narrow, twisting, pothole-ridden road past the overgrown stands of multi-hued bougainvillea on a remote Caribbean island, I think to myself, what an appropriate metaphor in progress. I am on the verge of losing control of my beat up vehicle as I have seemingly already lost all control of myself. I am flushed with rage, naked with the exception of my dripping wet suit, chasing after a twenty year old Chevy sub compact with a five-minute head start. This all too typical island jalopy is loaded with three Rasta thieves, or “tiefs” (hard “t”) in the local vernacular and their booty, a television and some minimalist furnishings from one of my rental cottages.

This chase was totally out of character for me. As a boy, shy and sensitive in the extreme, I followed in my father’s psychological footsteps. When it came particularly to the emotion of anger, repression was the only methodology in my repertoire. The desperation and frustrations of my everyday existence as a small business owner in the tropics had brought me to a point, however, where repression was not an option. On a remote corner of a relatively undeveloped island in the U. S. Virgins, to my family, employees, guests and business I was father, policeman, fireman and politician. Over time, protecting our lives, livelihood and assets from the ever present threats posed by hurricanes, crime and the prevailing anti-business climate all forced me to consider, for my own sanity, previously unexplored avenues of expression.

For me, this particular day had begun as average as can be expected but after a decade of owning and operating my own small seaside scuba diving resort and restaurant in the islands, I should probably speak in relative terms. Since liquidating our lives in the New York suburbs, my wife and I had shepherded our business through multiple class three and class four (Hugo, Louis, Marilyn, etc.) hurricanes, (one complete with ensuing social unrest and disorder), a recession, showers of ash from the active volcano on nearby Monserratt and I won’t even mention the constant paperwork roadblocks set up by a local government and populace that treats private business as the enemy.

Consequently, when I find myself raking our little piece of beach as the radiant ochre sky contrasting against the turquoise sea heralds a news day, perhaps a more honest characterization would be “it began as a damn nice day”! The solitude and serenity of my early morning beach grooming would very soon give way to the realities of cleaning the kitchen and hauling away the trash generated by our open air seaside restaurant. It was at this point in the day with bags of refuse slung over each shoulder that I would often joke, to any early rising hotel guests that caught me in my chores, about the proposed title to my as yet unpublished memoirs, “Janitor in Paradise”. My alternative title was “Miracle in Paradise, the miracle being that I lasted twelve years!

On this day, my early morning labors were followed however by a labor of love. In my role as dive instructor, I was booked to take a small group of our hotel guests on a guided scuba dive of the extraordinary undersea landscape just off shore. Since just a short swim from shore was a drop-off wall plunging thousands of feet, beautiful shallow coral gardens would be to our one side and cruising pelagic creatures such as rays, dolphins and even humpback whales on occasion would be going by on the other as we swam forty feet down along the edge of this underwater precipice. We would simply load all the gear into my van, drive one block down the street to the nearby beach and enter from shore.

Unfortunately, peace and quiet always seemed to be of a temporary nature in my life in paradise. If you had anything of substance to protect from the varying threats, you always slept with one eye open, had one ear cocked for danger.

I had just returned with my diving party to the hotel when I noticed an old compact car slowly cruising by, often a sign of criminals “casing” an area. As I continued to work, I watched. The car turned around in a driveway just down the street at an adjacent seaside villa that was one of our rentals. My suspicion was piqued by the fact that the turn around took a little too long, so I watched carefully as the vehicle came back past me. All I noticed was that the car had three young “rastas” inside and that it had headed back in the direction that offered only one long, winding and very steep mountainous route out of the area. This route allayed my suspicions, as this was not the direction to take for a fast getaway in an underpowered vehicle.

Within a few minutes, I had the scuba gear unpacked from the van. I should note that although this vehicle had only thirty thousand miles on it, the seaside elements and my abuse of using it for carting around wet people and dive gear had it very nearly ready to be dropped at the junkyard. The motor and drive train were still great but the body was literally falling off the frame, a fitting carriage for a man whose body was wracked with stress related disorders and only managed to be kept going on multiple medications, the constant flow of adrenaline and an unrelenting will to succeed or die trying.

So these are the relevant facts as I pull alongside my quarry. I am a desperate man from the years of struggling to provide for my family and concurrently, build some seemingly elusive equity for our future. My life is, if anything, over insured, a possible escape for my wife and daughter that I dwelled on often. The vehicle I am driving is, as well, in desperate straits. It was a short leap as I pulled up behind them eyeballing the small cache of booty in their rear seat to the thought, “I have nothing to lose, these bastards are mine!”

I fearlessly (and perhaps mindlessly) pulled up alongside them and ordered them to pull over. When they recovered from their initial surprise, the driver sped up. I accelerated alongside again (now traveling at about 50 miles an hour) and announced that if they did not pull over, I would wreck their “freaking” car.

I guess I didn’t intimidate them because they sped up again. It is worth remembering here that this is all playing out along a narrow, winding, two-lane backcountry road. The next thing I know, I am alongside once again and begin carrying out my threat by “ramming them amidships”. It took a couple of these “side by side while ramming” maneuvers to convince them to pull over. I guess I had convinced them that I had the advantage in vehicle speed and when it came to “cohunes” (or stupidity, desperation, take your pick) it was no less than a draw.

In my ongoing, self taught, anger mismanagement lessons, I had learned that when slipping into rage, a short, quickly thought out plan of action and/or speech is absolutely a necessity. With this in mind, I quickly decided on a two-part plan. One, do not get out of the truck and two, leave the engine running. The next thing I know, a six foot two, two hundred and fifty pound well built, (from exercising in the prison yard as I would later find out), “local” with dreadlocks steps out of the car with his hands held up in the air in a gesture of surrender. To add to my astonishment he is announcing, “we give up, take your shit”.

Remembering my plan, two him and his two comrades I commanded “you take it and put it in the back of my truck”. After relocating the approximately five hundred dollars worth of loot into my van, per my next hollered demand, they got the hell out of there while I memorized their license plate number. I then drove hurriedly to the nearest telephone, called the police and hurried home.

By the time I got back to the hotel and told my astonished (and angry) wife that I had actually retrieved the stolen items, the police were calling and asking for me to come to the station and identify the perpetrators. I told my story while the police laughed about the white, half dressed, businessman with no weapon, who had spooked into submission a muscular three time loser Rasta man and his crew. It was revealed to me that the ringleader had spent twelve of his twenty-seven years in prison and had a rap sheet that included armed robbery, rape and suspicion of murder. I even had the temerity to demand that the police remove the screen hiding me when I identified him in a line up because he knew where I lived and I wanted him to know, in no uncertain terms, that I was not afraid of him or intimidated by his track record! Ah, the wonders of enough rage, desperation and pharmaceuticals!

When the cops finished laughing, they highly recommended that I go directly to the pistol range and qualify for a permit if this was the way I was going to conduct myself. At a minimum, my wife demanded that I immediately start carrying a cell phone so that, in the future, I could at least call for police back up.

Upon qualifying for the pistol permit however I realized that if armed, I would need to have an absolute resolve to shoot if necessary. If it became necessary to shoot, I must also be prepared to shoot to kill. Under the appropriate circumstances (physical threat to myself or my family) I did not doubt my ability to do this. The question that I could not answer, that then precipitated our eventual departure from the islands, was why would anyone allow him or herself to, by choice, remain in a situation where this needs to be a considered alternative on a day-to-day basis?

The locals all had pet names for themselves, colorful “handles”, if you will, that were even used in police reports and legal documents (Cecil “iron lion” Hamilton, Bobby “bad ass” Katsikaris). After the events of that day some of the locals in my little corner of the island, drawing on an old television series about the police in Hawaii, created one for me I was told.

Sometimes, after the sun had dropped below the yardarms into the Caribbean Sea and the drinking lamp was lit at the local beach bars, when the storytelling was in high gear they would laughingly refer to me as “five-oh”!