Ode to the One-Eyed Lady - Youth Edition

CHAPTER ONE

THURSDAY, AUGUST 10, 1978

Silently in space, deep in the black void of the ionosphere, the weather satellite’s searching eyes found the earth. They penetrated the blackness of the ionosphere and the mesosphere, the color changes of the stratosphere’s greyish-black turning dark violet-grey then dark mauve to dark violet. Finally, a dark blue then changed to the translucent marine blue of the troposphere. The satellite’s field of vision moved over North America searching the Gulf of Mexico, the Western, Central, and Eastern Caribbean. All was clear, serene, tropical, except for some cloudiness and thundershowers in the Gulf of Honduras associated with a dissipating tropical wave.

The Western Atlantic was next viewed and photographed, the information stored in memory cells and transmitted to the National Hurricane Centre in Miami where it would be reproduced as photographs. A line of clouds covered six hundred miles along longitude 57.0 degrees west, just east of the Lesser Antilles. Its width measured two hundred miles. The satellite’s next photographs would confirm the westward movement of the tropical wave and its intensity. It would confirm the embryo of the hurricane.

In the Gulf of Honduras, just over the Belizean coastline, fork lightning ripped through dense clouds to the thick jungle below lighting the dark night momentarily, then all was black again. To the west, the waxing half-moon had not yet sunk behind the Maya Mountains, but dark cumulonimbus clouds were quickly walling off the dim moonbeams. Once again, rivulets of lightning eroded the night causing the pilot, Eddie, to close his eyes. The lightning was upsetting him as it played unwanted games with the dark accommodation of his vision. Light rain whispered against the cockpit as Eddie looked into the darkness below, banking the small old cargo plane from side to side, trying to see into the obscurity. He had reduced altitude to one thousand feet as he approached the mainland from the sea. He would have to increase altitude or turn back out to sea if the airstrip was not located soon for, beyond the narrow coastal strip, the Maya Mountains grew precipitously towards the Cockscomb Range and the majestic Victoria Peak. He had flown in worst weather, but the drizzle, turbulence and lightning were especially annoying at a thousand feet. This was his fourth trip, but that made it only a little easier for him. He came out of a cloud and sighed, thankfully, as he saw the rough unpaved airstrip, or rather the vehicles lights indicating its position. Two pairs of dim lights were at either end indicating the length, and another pair on each side indicating the width. He poked his co-pilot, Lawrence, who was nodding, and they began preparations for landing. They had hardly spoken.

The sky was ripped apart again in brilliance and Eddie wiped the sweat from his forehead as he made his approach to the short, bumpy, and dark clandestine airstrip. He was contented, however, knowing that with the money from this pick-up he would be able to stop that type of flying. All he had to hope for was that all went well, as it usually did. He had decided it was time for him to be at home with his family, living a safe and normal life.

The plane landed without incident and came to a stop, but the engines were kept running, the propellers still spinning. All six pairs of lights moved quickly and expertly towards it. Lawrence left the cockpit for the back of the plane and opened the cargo doors just as the first truck was reversing into position. Two men jumped into the plane while two others in the back of the truck started throwing sacks. Men from one of the other vehicles were already working at filling the tanks with aviation fuel. Eddie, still in his seat, wiped the sweat from his forehead, once again, while Lawrence ensured that the sacs were being stored properly. It was only when lightning struck, and only momentarily, that Eddie could see the faces of the groundcrew. He was sure, however, that where he was in the cockpit, his face could not be seen. The lightning was, once again, becoming continuous, but the roar of thunder was not heard above the sound of the plane’s engines. The work continued, rapidly, a second group of men replacing the first to ensure that the tossing of the bags continued at maximum efficiency.

The second truck was unloading when the rains increased. Lightning flashed wide sheets overhead and the airstrip, plane, men, and vehicles were almost always made visible. Eddie shook his head, concern growing because of the strong thunderstorms and torrential rain. The job was risky, the weather poor, the runway bad. It was only the money that was good.

Tell them to hurry, Eddie shouted to Lawrence. We need to get out of here now or we’ll soon be a foot deep in mud.

The third truck was being unloaded when the lightning showed two jeeps approaching slowly from the opposite end of the airstrip.

Oh damn! shouted Eddie, jumping from his seat and rushing to the cargo area. Visitors, he yelled again, angrily.

Immediately, the groundcrew jumped from the cargo door and Lawrence began closing it. Eddie was back in his seat and the plane began to taxi down the airstrip, but also towards the approaching vehicles. The plane gained momentum while the groundcrew vehicles sped down the airstrip towards the opposite end where, unfortunately for them, there was no outlet road. Eddie knew that, without unexpected difficulties, he would be able to lift-off before he reached the two approaching jeeps. He remained calm, but was afraid, however, that if there was gunfire, that an unlucky bullet would damage some important part of the plane. He was a long way home. He held tightly onto the yoke as he felt the plane slide in the mud and move towards the trees.

There was no one in the plane or in the various vehicles scattered about the airstrip when the anti-narcotics squad arrived. As it would have been pointless to search the jungle in the darkness and rain, the soldiers took up defensive positions and waited for daylight.

CHAPTER TWO

FRIDAY, AUQUST 11, 1978

Hot! Too bloody hot, Dad grumbled as he parked his pick-up truck off the road across from the river bank where his boat, Cool Breeze, was moored. He was completely soaked from sweating, but the drops he found particularly annoying were those rolling from his brow to his nose and down his neck. He took a dirty handkerchief which was on the seat beside him and wiped his face. He swore loudly as the metallic smell and dust made him sneeze. He opened the door, putting one leg out, but hesitated, trying to remember if he had forgotten something. He couldn’t think of anything so he stepped out and slammed the door.

Mr. Benito came towards him from the river-bank, his face made up in deep concentration and his usual grin absent. What happened, Benito? Dad asked. The heat getting to you too?

"Disya heet, Mista Richard. Disya heet. Disya heet wahn hayl wahn harikayn. Lang taim now wi noh gat wahn heet laik dis ahn jos now az Ah luk eena di waata Ah si kyato gwaahn laik dehn krek. Jos laik how kyato gwaahn da Bileez Siti wentaim pipl domp slapan enna di kinel dem. Ahn di maskita ahn sanflai? Oah Laad! Bad tings deh gwain tu hapm."¹ He shook his head and stared out to sea.

Listen, Benito, responded Dad. All I need now to mess me up completely is another piece of bad luck. On the hottest day of the year, my air-conditioning stops working and if that wasn’t enough I get a bloody flat. And there are other things Benito, other things. Now my allergy is starting and you’re talking about a hurricane just when I am trying to get away from all the problems of this … this town and valley. Come Benito, let’s load up the boat and I’m out of here.

Mr. Benito shook his head. "Bad tings deh gwain tu hapm," repeated the fifty-five-year-old gentleman.

Dad stared and muttered, Let’s hope not, Benito, as he smiled, almost absentmindedly, trying to think only of the islands awaiting him.

The houses along the river bank were typical of those of the small town of Dangriga.² Some were two storied concrete structures with zinc roofing; others were wooden and on posts some eight to ten feet off the ground. Most were without fences or with broken down fences. Dust from the un-paved streets gave the houses a reddish tint and, behind each passing vehicle, clouds of dust drifted lazily. It was not that Dangriga was always a dusty town. It was just a dusty time of year. As it was after midday, there were not many people about. The town people who walked the streets, at that time, did so only because they had to or because they were on their way to the river, the North Stann Creek River, which ran through the center of the town and on which the Cool Breeze was moored.

Naked children, their black moistened skin glistening in the sunlight, jumped repeatedly off the river-bank while young adults and older adults swam, sat, or stood in the clear cool water. Some women had brought their washing and were lazily scrubbing and soaping clothes while others laid the clean garments to dry on the grass and purple water hyacinths that lined the river.

The almost mournful sound of the conch shell made Dad look towards the marketplace on his left. Fishermen on a smack were discharging fish and the call of the conch shell was telling the people of Dangriga that fish was available at the town’s market.

The 135-horsepower engine had started without any hesitation and Mr. Benito had pushed Cool Breeze away from the bankside. Dad had not submerged the engine’s lower-unit completely due to the shallowness of the river, but yet, and much to his satisfaction, in the quiet of the August day the engine simply purred.

Hot. Hot. Hot, grumbled Dad, again, as he took off his cloths, remaining only in his shorts, as he maneuvered the boat, slowly, towards the bar-mouth which opened up into the sea. He wiped his brow then rubbed his hand on his shorts as sweat continued to pour off his body. Loading the boat during the hottest part of the day was tiring, but thankfully done. He wrinkled his nose as a current of air made him aware of his own smell.

He wiped his hands again, trying to get rid of all the moisture, but without success. He sat and pushed the throttle down a bit as he was passing out of the shallows of the bar-mouth, thanking the Lord that even at the height of the drought of the ‘meagre-season’, as August was called, it was deep enough for the boat to pass without much difficulty. As the water deepened, he lowered the propeller of the 135 a little more.

Although the sun was already tilting towards the west, away from where he was heading, he still had to squint his eyes as he stared to the southeast. The sea was oil-calm, totally un-rippled, and reflected the sun in brilliant flashes, hurting his eyes.

Yes, too hot, too calm, grumbled Dad, frowning. Foreboding he added, reflecting on Mr. Benito’s conversation and words of warning.

He gazed up at the sky. It too was calm and like the sea, deep, blue, and penetrating. There were no clouds, just a blue powerful emptiness. My Dad’s eyes matched well his environs. His eyes too were deep, blue, and penetrating.

I should have kept up the darn awning, he mumbled, as he looked towards the sun. He turned away quickly, however, as the glare became painful. He glanced into the sea and being satisfied that it was deep enough, lowered the engine completely and shoved the throttle down. The boat surged forward and rose powerfully out of the water. Its sharp fin-simulating-bow cut the water gracefully as if, like a shark. it was moving towards the annihilation of an unsuspecting prey.

Dad looked back at the 135 and smiled. It was new. That was the first trip he would be able to go full throttle for the engine had by then completed the required ten hours of running at the reduced speed necessary for proper breaking-in. He was excited about his new engine. He was excited about his boat. He was excited about his life even if at that moment there were a few drawbacks. He stood behind the wheel, legs slightly apart, and felt the power of the 135 sending soft vibrations across the boat and through his body. He was happy.

He stood, his already bronzed body absorbing the full strength of the hot sun. He was almost lean, each muscle stood out as its own entity, and his hair hung loosely in ragged curls that were the same color of his skin. His face was narrow and his nose aquiline. He wore a thin moustache which, somehow, emphasized a sternness about his lips. We often teased him about his moustache and Mom begged him, often, to cut it off, all to no avail.

It was 1:10 pm. Dad had left the bar-mouth only ten minutes earlier and was already rapidly encroaching upon the first line of islands situated on a broken reef, one of many found between the Belizean mainland and the main barrier reef. He glanced backward to see the disappearing town of Dangriga, but the sun had already begun its dive to the mountains, and he looked away to avoid the strong glare. He stared at the panel. The temperature was 92°F, barometric pressure 29 millimeters of mercury, humidity 40 percent. Everything was beautiful. The weather was fine. A 92° temperature was a bit hot for August, more like May temperatures, but in his boat and at the cayes, the heat never really bothered him. He smiled, contented, as he passed a small sailing boat moving very slowly towards Dangriga, moving only because its lone sailor was paddling. Dad waved, knowing that it was Captain Willie Paali trying to get his load of corned-fish into town.

The boat sped past Round Caye to the north and Ragged Caye to the south. Although that was a relatively deep passage, Dad looked out for the solitary patch of rocks that momentarily changed the safety of the deep into the sharp jagged hard coral of the reef and its shallows. He trembled slightly as he saw visions of the Cool Breeze and the new 135 smashing through coral and coming to lie at rest, out of the water, with its side torn and shredded. The patch of coral was called Jackson’s Rock, the name reminding all who used that passage of the fate of Captain Jackson’s boat on a stormy night long ago. The coral patch, just submerged, flashed past to the north as the boat sped to the southeast towards the 190-mile-long reef and its 288 square miles of islands, Frangipani Isle being one of them. The island lay just five miles ahead.

I stood at the head of the pier, along with my two sisters, Natasha and Erika, and my brother, Gabriel. They stood behind me, I having the privilege of being first as I was the eldest. Natasha was next in line being nine, then Gabriel who was six, and lastly three-year old Erika. My mother, Emma, as she always did, sat on a post at the base of the pier.

As the awning of the Cool Breeze was down, I saw my father pull the throttle into neutral then into reverse as he neared the caye. I didn’t really have to see him do that for I had ridden the boat many times and had even docked it, on occasions. The boat stopped just a couple inches from the pier and I was sure that my father had puffed out his chest at such a precise docking. I would make reference to the docking, at some point.

How many minutes, Dad? I asked, taking the bowline and securing it to another post at the head of the pier.

Twenty, he answered, smiling proudly.

Illustration 12: The Southern Coast of Belize and the Cool Breeze track from Dangriga to Rum Point, Frangipani Isle.

Wow! I jumped up and down in exhilaration. No one can beat us now. That 135 is god of the sea.

Come on, Edgar, I heard my mother call out. Don’t say God’s name in vain.

Sorry, Mom, I answered, but, honestly, I wasn’t really sure that I was. The excitement I felt at the Cool Breeze’s speed dominated everything, at that moment.

My mother was thirty years old and, to me, was the most beautiful woman in the world. She was from the northern part of Belize and was a Mestizo.³ I turned and looked at her. She was wearing a black bathing suit and her dark hair, olive complexion, and dark eyes fully complimented it. I smiled remembering how my father was always telling her that her ‘fit and beautifully sculptured figure’ in no way displayed that she was a mother of four. I suppose that was when he was feeling romantic. Erika and I had our dad’s complexion, eyes and hair, while Natasha and Gabriel took my mom’s. The rest of our bodies were mixed up between the two. I must add, unblushingly, that I am the handsomest of them all.

Okay, shouted Dad. You kids help me get this stuff up to the house. He started unloading from the boat onto the 35-foot pier which stood a foot above the clear water and led onto the beach of Rum Point, the northernmost part of Frangipani Isle. The icebox, filled with two hundred pounds of ice, gave us some trouble, but it was finally onto the pier. Then followed the box with assorted liquor. There was rum, whiskey, gin, vodka, and various wines.

Handle that carefully, ordered Dad. Maybe, I should carry that.

I can handle, Dad. I’m almost thirteen, a teenager.

Dad gazed at me. Yes. I’m aware of that and I am a little concerned. Teenage years often bring problems and you’ll be in a lot of problems if you drop that box.

I won’t, Dad. And with respect to my teenage years, I won’t do anything you haven’t done, only the things you have.

That worries me even more, he responded as he rubbed my head. We both laughed. But let’s get this job done."

A small tank of butane gas, two boxes of groceries, some fishing gear, among other things, were being unloaded when Erika decided to provide some excitement. Whenever a boat arrived and the goodies were being unloaded, activity at the pier-head would be at its height and everyone, including little busy-body Erika, would be trying to see all the treats and wanting to help. Thus, it was not too surprising when there was a small splash.

Erika’s in the water, cried out Mom, who was still at the bottom of the pier, but then cradling the box of liquor on her lap.

I was going to jump in for her, but Dad, unsure but assuming correctly what had happened, jumped off the edge of the boat. Unfortunately, he hit his foot on the edge of the pier and even before he hit the water with a heavy belly-splash, I heard his choice cuss words leaving his mouth. Mom did not like when Dad cussed, often telling him that was not being very paternal. When Dad cussed, however, it was not because he was angry. It was just his choice words under the specific circumstances and hitting his ankle against the pier was definitely a specific circumstance. I knew that his ankle must be really hurting and the belly splash probably took the wind out of him. A moment later, he rose with a screaming, wet, and terrorized Erika in his hands

Jaws! shouted Natasha, looking and pointing out to sea.

Dad, standing in just three feet of water was probably going to continue cussing when he heard Natasha’s shout. He literally hurled Erika amidst the luggage and leapt onto the pier. I put my hands over my ears and it was not to protect them from Erick’s screaming. It was not that my dad cussed a lot, but it seemed that the specific circumstance needed was occurring frequently on the pier that afternoon. As Dad jumped onto the pier, with one leap I must add, he hit his ankle again, the same one.

When Dad had finished his vocals lying on his back, he slowly stood. I’ll be dead even before I reach the beach. Where is it? he muttered, looking out to sea.

There was silence on the pier.

Well, Natasha, he continued. Where is the shark? There was no answer from Natasha who was already beginning to feel very sorry at her poor joke. Dad promptly boxed her on the ear after which she scurried to the house making as much noise as the further terrorized Erika, who thought she would be getting her share for having started the whole incident by walking at the edge of the pier. Dad gave her a sharp look after which her screaming quickly quieted to a whimper.

Okay, exhaled Dad, sounding annoyed and in pain. The show is over. Everyone was quiet, the only sounds being Natasha’s which still came quite forcibly from the island. I suppose it isn’t right for an older brother to think certain things of his sister, but I couldn’t help believing that Natasha was not going to stop bawling until all the goods had been taken up to the house. Several trips were made to the house and we sweated.

"The cayes are lovely, but carrying this luggage is a bos-yu-raas,"⁴ Dad grumbled as he passed Mom at the foot of the pier. She glanced at Dad and smiled, not commenting. Somewhere in that smile I saw the words, Better you than me. Before long, however, the harassment was over and Dad anchored Cool Breeze a few yards off the pier and swam back to shore. I wanted to joke and ask him if he wasn’t afraid of sharks, but I thought it better not to.

Frangipani Isle sat on the barrier reef, fourteen nautical miles southeast of Dangriga, was sort of comma shaped, and about a mile in length. There were four small houses at Rum Point. Two belonged to Dad, one to his Uncle Arthur, and one to his cousin, Uncle Victor. Dad often commented that when all houses were occupied, Rum Point seemed to be a little village with just enough people and not too much people. Dad liked it that way for everyone was part of his family and the few invited friends that came were always known to all of them. There was also a fishing hut near the foot of the pier where our watchman, Captain Willie Paali, lived. He was a fisherman by trade and had a number of turtle-nets and fish and lobster pots. I had always wondered how he got a name like Willie Paali. Uncle Arthur one day explained that the captain had a parrot for a very long time. He had named the parrot Willie and whenever he wanted to call the parrot he would say Willie Paali. Willie Paali. That’s how he got the name. But back to what I was saying. Actually, nearly the entire island was owned by members of our family except for the piece adjoining Rum Point, which was owned by a friend of the family, Santiago Moreno. The extreme southern point was owned by the Catholic nuns and used mainly during the summer holidays.

Dad had built two houses, Yellow House for us children, and Blue House for himself and Mom, saying they wanted their privacy. Yellow House was a two-storied wooden building, the upstairs having bunks and beds scattered all over and being divided by a single partition. The downstairs was L-shaped, also filled with bunks, and used only when more than enough guests were present, or for a maid when Mom decided she would need some help. The roof was made from a type of hardboard as zinc roofs tended to rust very quickly. A big wooden vat for storing water stood nearby, gutters leading from the roof. The house was only a few feet from the sea and just north of it was a small pier at the end of which stood the outhouse. It was jokingly called Cape Canaveral Launching Pad and described as a well-ventilated and automatic-flush feces disposal unit.

Just south of Yellow House was Blue House and it was similar in some respects. It was two-storied, the upstairs being one big bedroom for Dad, Mom, and Erika who was yet too small to sleep with us. I suppose that took care of the ‘privacy’ bit. A big veranda was attached to the bedroom and the downstairs comprised the dining room and kitchen.

The roof, however, a great source of controversy, was outstandingly different. Not only was it different, but it was an amazing piece of construction. It had begun as an experiment aimed at reducing the cost of replacing zinc roofs which rusted every few years because of the proximity to the sea. Before the introduction of the hardboard type of roofing, rusted zinc was always a problem for, at times, the zinc would appear quite intact when in fact it was being held together only by camouflaging paint. It was not unusual for an occasional southwester at night, traveling up from the Gulf of Honduras with rain, lightning, thunder, and high winds, to dislodge the paint and rust and create leaks all over the place, allowing rain to percolate onto the sleepers below. Thus, one day, it came about that Dad had an ingenious idea. He informed Mom that he would put on a fiberglass roof. Immediately, Mom resisted, mainly concerned about the cost.

A fiber glass roof! Mom had exclaimed. Do you have any idea what that will cost? A fiberglass-roof? We will be the laughing-stock of the island.

"I don’t give a jankro bret⁵ if they laugh, Dad had responded, a smile on his face. When they are ripping off their roofs every other year, we’ll be drinking gin and coconut water on mine and we’ll be the ones laughing. Anyway, the job will cost just