A Discouraging Development
I first visited St. John in the US Virgin Islands in the spring of 1990. Still a newlywed, my wife and I decided to embark on our first married road trip; it was an exciting plan, so much so that my mother-in-law strongly suggested that they join us; nothing like a great trip to the islands with your in-laws in tow.
With a simple upbringing that didn’t include trips like this, I was apprehensive, but eager to see something different than the Golden Isles in Georgia. Landing in St. Thomas, I wasn’t impressed; it was loud, busy, a little dirty; I didn’t have anything to compare it to, but I knew I didn’t care for it. And then we caught the ferry to St. John and my whole perspective changed; a thirty-minute ferry ride from chaos landed us in peaceful, quiet, and slow Cruz Bay. It was captivating; I had never been here and yet thoughts of home infused me. I liked its style, pace, and the people; It was where I first heard someone tell me no worries mon; best I could tell that was because they didn’t have any.
The island has two settlements: Cruz Bay and Coral Bay—a little over six miles separating them in distance, fifteen minutes by jeep. In between is the Virgin Islands National Park; established in 1956 from land donated by Laurance Rockefeller—in 1962 Rockefeller donated the Caneel Bay resort to the National Park adding to its size—today over sixty percent of St. John is national park lands. Included in the park is Honeymoon Beach, Caneel Bay, Hawksnest Beach (my favorite), Oppenheimer Beach—named in honor of Robert Oppenheimer who built a home on the beach and lived much of his final years on the island—Gibney Beach, Jumby Beach, Trunk Bay, Cinnamon Bay, Maho Bay, and Leinster Bay. You would hard pressed to find a collection of more beautiful beaches in the world lined up so conveniently.
In the subsequent years my family has spent a little more than six months of our life on St. John; memories flow of good times, adventures, misadventures, great food, and too much sun. I am forever grateful we found this pearl—even if I had to include my in-laws. Each time we travelled to the island the routine was the same, it was predictable; its predictability being part of its draw. I assume readers know the feeling of returning to a cherished familiar destination that grabbed you and never let go; I trust we all have a place like this. If you do, you know what it feels like as the anticipation builds; your mind begins to replay what comes next, and memories of past trips circle in your head. Even today, sitting in the frigid cold, I can recapture the excitement I felt, the look on my kids faces, and the soft, beautiful smile of my wife as we sat atop the ferry traversing Pillsbury Sound.
As you know last month I was in the islands for an extended trip; the trip began in the British Virgin Islands and ended in St. John. Hurricane Irma’s impact—a category five hurricane in 2017--on the BVI was noticeable, but subtle; some things looked a little newer but generally the charm remained; Virgin Gorda looked like it might have added a new coat of paint, that being the extent of its post hurricane renovation.
On the ferry to St. John, I was ecstatic; a sense of returning home filled my heart. Man was I caught off guard. St. John too had been devastated; Caneel Bay resort was wiped away, never to be rebuilt; I knew this and expected a level of remodeling had occurred, what I noticed immediately, was more than that, the island looked transformed. No longer was the arrival slow, void of hassle, and people; sleepy St. John had become a tourist hub--not to the level of Pigeon Forge, nothing can compete with that monstrosity of the masses.
As we arrived from Tortola and went through customs I noticed the dock used for ferries from St. Thomas was bustling; a revised schedule now meant every hour a boat load of people arrived, eager to spend the day like they had just disembarked from some Carnival cruise; ready to digest everything they possibly could about the island so they could tell everyone they had been to St. John and seen all the sights. Glancing at the end of the pier, I noticed, a legion of open-air taxis with seats for a dozen or more vacationers; I say vacationers because, in my mind, vacationers are committed to seeing as much as they can, as fast as they can, without exploring anything below a superficial layer. Travelers are keen to exist in the new place they have landed. They want to live the life of the location they are visiting. There weren’t any travelers on the boat; just a hoard of loud tourists ready to see the island.
Despondent I went to my favorite hideaway on the outskirts of Cruz Bay; thankfully not much had changed and I grabbed a glimmer of hope that my initial reaction was wrong; the island hadn’t changed. That sense was lost immediately after I checked into my room and went to pick up my jeep. I love renting jeeps in the islands; I get to drive on the left side of the road, turn on a local reggae station, and slowly traverse the pot-ridden roads seeking solitude. The jeep I rented was new, beautifully new, and represented everything I didn’t want; I could have reasonably assumed I was renting a jeep in Colorado. I wanted my old jeep; the one whose tires were bald, its air-conditioner didn’t work, and it had suffered more than its fair share of dings and scratches and generally looked like hell; it was lovely.
The final blow for me was the next day when I reluctantly climbed into my modern vehicle and headed for the Northshore beaches. Recognized for their beauty and solitude, these beaches are best spent with a few towels, a beat-up ice chest filled with marginally cold Carib Beer, a hastily thrown together turkey sandwich, and a mask and snorkel: everything you need for the perfect day.
My drive was worse than I feared; those taxis full of pasty white tourists, in outfits that were more suited for a Jimmy Buffet concert, were destined for the previously undisturbed beaches; and what do throngs of tourists need? They need all the comforts of home. Maho Beach now has a massive parking lot, filled to the brim, a T-shirt shop, ice cream stand, hot dogs and hamburgers at the new mobile restaurant; I felt ill. Sadly, this was the same story at each beach, too many people, too much stuff.
I have spent time thinking about my reaction to the trip. On the one hand it is crazy to expect things to remain the way they were when you fell in love with it. On the other, I can’t get over how in seven years a special place had been deflowered.
I don’t drink anymore, but I was close that first afternoon in Cruz Bay; despondent I went to my all-time beach bar dive; it was packed and all the old crew that used to work there were gone. I did find one person who had been on the island for more than a minute and during our conversation I wondered out loud what happened and what she thought about it. With a sad, half-smile she responded, “after the storm a lot of investment was made in the island to bring more tourists, more tourists came and, guess what, when they got here, they wanted the same things they had back home, or they weren’t happy. Welcome to Florida.”
You might suggest I am being silly; progress is good for all, and I should get over my whining about my secret being out for the world to enjoy. Okay I will accept that counsel, like I do when people get ugly with me when I ask questions about Trump; I ignore it, you get the point.
While I was there, I wanted to know how the locals, the few I could find, felt about my observation. Guess what? Not one of them was happy, in fact, I found them to be depressed. I don’t blame them.
I wonder are Americans so sheltered that we can only find happiness when we are entertained. Can we not enjoy life by enjoying an alternate lifestyle? The world is smaller than it used to be and thus it is harder to find authenticity; I hate that. I know how I live, how I grew up. I am interested in learning about other people and their history. Surely the US hasn’t become so full of itself that we intend to dominate the world with our need to be comfortable.
Some of my best days were days when I was out of my comfort zone; when the conveniences of life were absent, and I was in touch with the reality of that moment. If that becomes harder to find, that truly is a discouraging development.
