Swimming in the rain
Iain Murray on tropical storms in the Caribbean
For all I know, there may be those who go to the Caribbean to broaden their minds, to absorb the local culture and to stretch their limbs in exploratory walks. But most of us who visit the islands are there with but a single purpose — to do nothing.
The Caribbean is for sybarites. For us northerners, starved of sunshine, it is a paradise on Earth fashioned with indolence in mind. For an Englishman, Eden is not an Arcady landscaped by Gertrude Jekyll but a sandy, palm-fringed, sunkissed white beach lapped by warm, azure waters and bereft of other humans save those who bring the drinks.
Of course it’s never quite like that. God mocks us for seeking heaven on Earth and teases us for our folly. Beneath the gentle waves there are stinging fish, under the sand sharp shell shards, and in the air creatures that bite. But there is enough truth in the myth to draw us to the islands again and again, especially in the depths of our endless winters.
And so it was that, in the company of my wife and grown-up daughter, I set off for a ten-day break in Antigua, picturing in my mind days spent stretched on a lounger, an ice-cold beer at my elbow, a book slipping unread from my knee, and a glistening, emerald vista gladdening my half-closed eyes. At night we would dine by candlelight in the beachside restaurant to the sound of lapping waves, chirruping tree frogs and other tropical noises.
Our destination was Siboney, a small, privately owned hotel on Dickinson Bay built by an Australian, Tony Johnson, who fetched up on the island on a sailing trip about 50 years ago and never left. I cannot recommend the resort too highly. Our neatly furnished rooms (with no TV, thank heaven) led through louvred doors to a balcony overlooking an artfully cultivated jungle garden with its own swimming pool. The Coconut Grove restaurant, right on the beach, is said to be the best on the island, and I can believe it. The food is beautifully prepared and served, and the catch of the day — swordfish, tuna, mahi-mahi — is a treat to be looked forward to all day.
For those seeking a respite from midwinter London there could be no better place. Even the penalty of an eight-hour flight, with all the attendant tedium and discom fort, is worth the pleasure that awaits. And, as we stepped from the plane at V.C. Byrd airport and into that poultice of hot air that is the first experience of every traveller to the Caribbean, everything was going according to plan. But wait. Something was missing. Was that sky really grey? Were those dull, scudding clouds really that black? Never mind, it’s an aberration, a blip. Tomorrow the sun will shine, it always shines in the Caribbean, and our sojourn in paradise will begin.
True enough, the sun did shine the following morning — for two hours. Then the skies darkened, the wind gathered, the sea turned from a benign turquoise to a surly grey and the rain came down in great dollops. It was the same every day, with the exception of Wednesday, when it poured all day without interruption.
This is where being English and of a certain age comes in handy. Anyone who has spent childhood holidays in Margate is equipped for life for the worst. Neither rain nor wind nor the furious malevolence of the ocean can dent his determination to enjoy himself. The ability to smile through clenched teeth and eat ice-cream in a blizzard is a special gift vouchsafed to the English.
And dammit, we did enjoy our Antiguan holiday, even when the weather played its trump card. As we sat at our favourite table in the Coconut Grove celebrating my wife’s birthday with lobster thermidor and Dom Perignon, we could see far out on the horizon thunderheads lit by jagged shapes of lightning. So what? A tropical storm was quite in keeping with prevailing conditions. At length, we scurried through sheeting rain back to our room and slept peacefully.
The following morning brought fresh surprises. The storm had whipped the sea into a fury. The waves were boiling and dark with slimy weed and lumps of flotsam. Boulders had been thrown on to the beach and, worst of all, the restaurant was awash. Disaster. Or it would have been but for the staff whose ability to smile — not through clenched teeth but with undimmed warmth — was remarkable. I can still picture our waitress, Tessa, in a red dress, a flower in her hair, wading towards our table in outsized gumboots, her poise and confidence intact.
After breakfast my daughter, who is of course braver and hardier than I, decided to face down the Caribbean and go for a swim. Shamed into following her, I entered the water employing the Margate shuffle, two steps forward three back, until I was hit by a huge wave — it must have been at least three feet from base to crest — and dumped on my backside several yards back up the beach. It was not the indignity that worried me; it was the two pounds or so of wet sand that had been thrown into my swimming trunks. There is nothing to compare with a crotchful of wet sand to remind one that we are not put on earth for pleasure alone.
And so, as they used to say in the travelogues, we bade a reluctant farewell to Antigua, the jewel of the Caribbean. And shall we return? You bet. Given a fair trade wind and a dose of global warming, there is every chance that next time we call the island will be returned to its corner of paradise, a place where every prospect pleases and even middle-aged man in his shorts is not entirely vile.
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