As is our custom
in a new port, the crew of Spice of Life decided that a qualitative examination of the bar’s rum punch was in order, and we proceeded to the bar to conduct our scientific study.
If you learn anything about the islands it is that rum is very cheap – often cheaper than fruit juice and other punch mixers. As a result, rum drinks tend to be lethal, and a couple of them will cause even the heartiest pirate to forget where he buried his treasure.
Our crew, having given the Palm Island bar our highest rating, decided to make our way back to the ship. We weaved our way down the path to the dock and our dinghy. First aboard was Cathy, and she stepped confidently into the boat, immediately pitching forward and falling squarely on her face. The rest of us, humors bolstered by rum, laughed loudly. When the laughter died down, Cathy, still on her knees in the dinghy, said, "Guys, I think my nose is broken".
Our response was to continue to laugh.
"No guys, really. I think my nose is broken."
She looked up at us, her face covered with blood.
I’ve often wondered why, when people have had too many drinks, that they are not just shown pictures of really horrible scenes. It would surely sober them up. I was so sober at that moment I could’ve flown a fighter plane while doing problems in differential calculus.
And then, the adrenaline kicked in.
George and I jumped into the dinghy, and helped Cathy back to the dock. Our problem, of course, was what to do next? We were in the middle of a fairly undeveloped part of the Caribbean. You couldn’t call an ambulance.
We half walked half-carried Cathy back up to the hotel. They were in the process of serving dinner in their small outdoor restaurant. We were quite a sight: Cathy, bloody and crying, me, shirtless (I had taken it off to help catch some of the blood), Liz and George trying to do whatever they could. One look at us, and the hotel staff forgot about serving dinner. A chair was taken from a table, and a waiter showed up with a napkin filled with ice. The rich patrons, wondering what had happened to dinner, craned their necks to see what all the commotion was about.
One of the waiters appeared to get an idea, and ran into the restaurant. A few minutes later she returned with young, bewildered-looking couple. They were on the last night of their honeymoon, and she was a doctor.
The doctor, who will remain nameless, flew into action. Of course, in a hospital emergency room, it would’ve been with phrases like "Get me an IV, stat!", or "Get that cat out of here!". As it was, our new friend appeared about as helpless as we were, but she had much better bedside manner.
After several minutes of head leaning and application of ice-filled napkins, one of the resort staff suggested that we take the resort’s launch over to the small medical clinic on Union Island. The young doctor and her husband were somewhat dubious about spending the last honeymoon night fulfilling her Hippocratic Oath.
Being the good husband that he was, George turned on the southern charm.
"Would you please do me the honor of coming with us?"
Refusal was not an option.
So the parade started down the dock – the boat driver, George and I with Cathy in-between, and bringing up the rear, a hungry looking young couple who were probably thinking that Niagara Falls must be wonderful this time of year.
The launch was a slim Cigarette-looking thing that probably spent its early life running drugs. With all of us aboard, big dual outboards roared to life and we took off toward Union Island. "Took off" was a good description – I think we touched the water once on the whole trip. Somewhere in mid-flight the doctor, who was busy puncturing her husband’s arm with her grip, revealed her water phobia. Of course, this left everyone wondering about the wisdom of a honeymoon in the middle of the Caribbean.
Arrival in Clifton Harbor saw our parade bravely marching up the street, and up the hill, toward the clinic. Cathy was delirious by then, mumbling about the best plastic surgeons in New Orleans, and planning full facial make-overs. Within a few minutes, a small pickup truck appeared, loaded us aboard, and we were driven the last few hundred yards to the clinic.
I’m not sure what our expectations were of the clinic, but it failed to meet all of them. A small block building with a few beds and smelling of disinfectant, we were fairly certain that had been the site of many emergency appendectomies and splinter removals. The expert staff consisted of a slow moving local woman who had probably never heard the word "stat!" in her career.
The doctor flew into action.
"Bring me ice, and lots of it!"
The nurse eventually appeared with a tray of ice – apparently the only one on the island.
Ice expertly applied and Cathy bedded down, we left George to protect his beloved for the night. Their plans were to fly to a doctor in St. Vincent the following day. The rest of us boarded Palm Island’s rocket-launch and returned to the resort. On the way back, I attempted to calm the doctor by telling her about the fun of splashing in the warm Caribbean water at night, watching the glow of phosphorescence in the water.
By the time we arrived back at Palm, dinner had been cleared away, and our new friends anxiously parted from us, with our profuse thanks. Liz and I returned to Spice of Life.
Later, sitting in the cockpit trying to calm down from the evening’s events, I heard someone splashing and laughing near the beach.
I guess the doctor had a little fun that evening.