St Croix Diary

My job requires or allows me, depending on your point of view, to travel down here to St. Croix every now and then, about one or two weeks a month currently. I am down on this island again tonight. St. Croix is an enigma for me. I am excited the first few days and nights I am here. It never fails to be a welcome change from the humdrum of long, tiring workdays in Maryland. But by the end of the week, I want to go home. Island paradise it may or may not be.

I am sitting at the Deep End Bar writing this while gulping down a crab and cabbage spring roll. The waitress who meant to serve me initially saw me swimming in the big, bright pool before dinner. I was doing flip turns and swimming as hard and fast as I could. She asked me if that was what I did when I'm down here and said she and her friend were in the swim team and were watching me. I said yeah, that's what I do when I'm down here -- it gives me a workout.

What I didn't tell her, the water was cold tonight. What I didn't tell her was that I swim all the time. I swim every day, almost. Sometimes I'm tired from work or kept from swimming by work, and don't swim as hard. And it's about the only sport I do now. No friends exist in Maryland to hit tennis balls with. Swimming alone keeps me company.

What I didn't ask her was, was I good? Where did you swim? I never did ask her. Instead I must have appeared reserved and reluctant to make conversation. In fact, I definitely did. Was it because I was uncomfortable with speaking loudly in a very public place so everyone would hear what I say? Or was it because I was afraid to admit that I was working here, that I'm always here alone? Maybe it was the fact that I'm afraid to admit my conflicted emotions about... about what, about many things in my life that I've had too much opportunity to think about, being alone most of the time now. No, I've become rather afraid of talking with strangers now, afraid to let them know I'm a pathetic foreign misfit in a land that I almost cease to exist but for my own little world.

The wind is blowing strong now. This bar is right beside the ocean and tonight, at this time of year, the wind is gusting up strong from the northeast. It seems to want to sweep away all my thoughts. But all my thoughts remain bottled up in my head and pouring onto this diary. All around me, soft romantic little golden bulbs light up the wonderful, wispful, festive, northern music playing soothingly on the deck. I see groups of people, friends saying goodbye, the waitress talking with all her friends who seem to be here at the restaurant tonight.

Strange this is not the first time all this seems to be happening to me.

Whenever I think like this, I feel like jumping into the pool again to swim away all my thoughts. Not only those thoughts, but everything. I'm working hard and soon they will change!

Before all this happened though, I was out looking for groceries. Why do I say "looking"? Because I didn't find any? The vegetables looked limp and the meat clunky. I am inspired to become a good cook by Jamie Oliver. Did you see his new book, "Cook with Jamie"? I remember when I was about 17, I took a 700-question "What is your career?" test, and the one and only result that came out from it was "chef"!
Did you know it belongs in one of the many dreams I'm dreaming?

But of course, I didn't find anything resembling Jamie on this island. Though another curious thing, perhaps of note, happened while I was at Pueblo. A cute 20-something white guy suddenly appeared in front of me (and then was gone in a flash). He was rather tall and had a short buzz cut. He looked extremely familiar but as soon as I saw him, an odd feeling came over me, as acute as his appearance was sudden. Where had I seen him? Was it back in Maryland? Was it in a picture, one of the many cute guys I see in pictures all over the web? Was it a ghost from the past coming back to haunt me? Then I realized he worked at the refinery, one of the cute ones. He had a funny naughty sly look about him, as some cute ones can be. As is the guy sitting across at the other table right now. Older, but cute, and naughty-looking.

It's not just naughty-looking, but like the type you would loathe. And they're here for the refinery, like me, but they must like it better? How could they? To me, it's great only in comparison with what goes on back at the office.

Last thought for the night: I really want to finish up the "goals" list a few notches down.



P.S. Nights are silent in the northern winter, but nights are alive with the cries of insects in the tropics.

(December 14, evening: At the Deep End, the guitarist is playing and singing, and I hear the waves crashing and feel the ocean breeze.)