Sunrise Mojo

  *******

Tortola, West Indies 25 Years Old

Barefeet dangle over the open-air, top-deck edge of a barnacled, puttering, paint-chipped sea ferry, heavenly combination of cool breeze and tropical sun on bare chest, far far away from the smog hanging in the thick air of the passenger area, where most remain.

I pull an apple from my pack and gaze in cat-eye zen over the turquoise sea to a tiny speck growing green on the horizon. What new adventures await on this little island of Tortola?

My buddy Will’s been living here for a few months, after crossing the Atlantic on a 100-foot sloop with a crew of seven.

The island expands as we near, a big green volcano with a single road around the perimeter, pastel huts speckle the hills over the cove.

A narrow wooden plank bounces hard with every step as we shuffle off the ship.

Will is there waiting at the dock to drive us up a zig zag mountain to a white villa overlooking the whole Caribbean channel.

It’s a secret guesthouse owned by a seacaptain. Will and I and his lady Missy are the only ones here.   We hug and ride the energy buzz of reunion and don’t even tell stories and don’t even have to…the eyes say it all.

We hop back in a jeep with Will at the wheel. Down tight switchbacks and along the teal waves to a thatch-roof beach bar bombashack.

It’s the week Michael Jackson died and his music is everywhere…blasting from passing cars and echoing from dance halls. A funky band bounces and loose bodies pulse as red sun melts into sea.

Will introduces me to a well-built boat captain at the edge by the shadowy sand. We become quick friends and he says he has a job as a deckhand on his 53-foot catamaran. Beyond knots I have little clue what I’m doing, but you gotta dive in somewhere, so I agree to meet him at dawn.

3 hours later, laying in bed, a loud deep roaring grows on the black ocean. I step out on the balcony.

10,000 stars glisten over the channel and the roaring intensifies. It’s definitely two batboats blazing on the black mirror moving stealth with no lights.

The next morning over coffee Will tells me those boats are smugglers, hauling who knows what.

We arrive at the dock at dawn to spray down the boat and prepare the sails. Our first charter is a family of 12 Peruvians, who seem the very relaxed kind.

I toss away the bowline at the captain’s command and we’re off. Sailing out here on the clear teal sea is pure bliss, Wind on sunny cheeks tickles and the slapping of waves on the hull.

The captain has to go below deck to check on a pump so he hands me the big silver wheel, the secret of sailing he says is to aim for a point far away on the horizon, to keep focused on that point no matter how the waves toss you.

“There’s no need to compensate for every little variation,” he says, “Just hold true to the ultimate goal.”

Diagonal waves toss left and right…every few cycles a big one comes and I aim straight at it to crest over the top.

“When the wind quivers or the waves swell, just dance with it. Always keep your focus and your eye and your everything on that far approaching point.”

Both sails are full and we’re really cruisin’ now.

The captain returns and I go mix a few sweet rum drinks for the Peruvians, who are laying laughing on white net trampolines up front.

We moor up to a snorkel spot called Indians…3 tall rocks stick out of the sea like feathers. I fit the kids with snorkels and we swim around watching thousands of tropical fish, wild rainbows of underwater fantasy creatures all over this massive reef, alert but chillin’.

There’s a secret underwater reef tunnel here. You swim 20 feet down and then 15 feet through, a challenge Will and I accepted, with nosebleeds a few hours later.

We set off and I keep the run drinks flowin til we anchor down at Jost Van Dyke, a beach of bars you have to swim ashore to reach.

White hammocks sway in the sonic bath of reggae souls playing tattered acoustic guitars with smiling eyes.

Sometimes the crews here play pranks on each other. Today while we were ashore someone tangled our anchor chain with the chain of another boat 14 feet deep.

The captain says it looks pretty twisted. I grab a mask, take a breath, and dive.

Underwater gurgle booms and fades to silence between thumps of whale-size hulls looming above. I start untwisting the mess but I’m running out of air. I surface and gasp big to dive again.

It’s quite twisted, but all knots can be untied. Three dives later we’re untangled and drifting. We sail home across the Caribbean channel and pull into our slip at the dock. I hop out and crimp the rope to the grommet and help the beaming Peruvians off.

Jorge and Rosa give me hugs and an email and tell me if I’m ever in Peru I have a place to stay. Who knows what mysteries await?

We spray down the boat, cover the sails, and walk up the dock as the sun sets maroon to join Will for a drink at an outdoor bar by the sea.

Will’s there already with his wild tan smile and “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough” is playing on the jukebox. I have no clue what the plan is, just taking it all as it comes, and I’m happy.

A few days later, we’re sailing back from Jost Van Dyke when an afternoon storm rolls in over the whole channel and there’s no way around it.

We’re going to have to sail right through so we tell our nine British passengers to go below deck and strap in. We near the storms roaring grey edge and the sky booms as we pass into a sheer wall of rain.

I’m running low on the wet deck in the onslaught. The captain yells a command as lighting smacks heavy from cloud to cloud. The hull rocks and slams as I pull the thick line.

Thunder quakes the air and water rushes over the edge in slippery streams in the blinding rain.

I climb back under the canopy and we aim straight for the white sky beyond the storm and sail right at it until we’re all the way through.

At the end of the day, the Captain gives me a ride to the foot of the big hill, says ‟You did a good job today. We’ve got another group tomorrow. Also, I’d like you to be my crew for the winter and spring. Just get your International-Mariner license and I’ll get you a work visa from the island.‟

I trot-skip up the big zig zag hill through the orange door of white villa and Will’s gutting a sequined silver fish and groovin around the kitchen, in the zone.

I blurt the news and he drops the knife to give me a giant hug.

For a few days we live like this…soapless baths in crystal coves…diving for underwater mysteries with tourists from around the world…quiet night walks on the white sand beach.

It’s July 4th so Will and Missy and I roll into smiling Roadtown glow. Guys lay back in packs playing dominos and laughing. “Beat It” comes on the radio and Will spins up the dial.

We pick up a calm, bright-eyed local named Jimmy and drive way up on a high hill to watch rainbow rockets over St. John Bay.

Fireworks scream and explode into light over ocean rippling red and orange and green and purple, making everything new again.