I squint at the gauge reading on the whip of the compressor. 2600 psi. I am filling scuba tanks and, with 4 sets left to go, it is looking to be a long afternoon. The breeze is in denial, ferociously attempting to convince everyone that the sun is not as relentlessly hot as it feels. At this point in the afternoon, the gusty 15 knots just feels like the same hot air being blown around and around. I fight the urge to check the gauge again – a watched pot and all – and pick up my book. I recently discovered Tom Robbins upon recommendation from a friend and have been tearing through his writings like a toddler set loose on Christmas morning. His work just teeters the line between incredible description and tangent rambling, but I love it. The extent of his vocabulary baffles me. My most recent obsession is Jitterbug Perfume; it’s the kind of book that makes you simultaneously want to share with the world and keep as a secret all to yourself.
I begin to read, “Upon those travelers who make their way without maps or guides, there breaks a wave of exhilaration with each unexpected change of plans. This exhilaration is not a whore who can be bought with money, nor a neighborhood beauty that may be wooed. She is a wild and sea-eyed undone, the darling daughter of adventure, the sister of risk, and it is for her rare and always ephemeral embrace, the temporary pressure she exerts on the membrane of ecstasy, that many men leave home.”
As mesmerized as I am by every word (frankly, I would read Tom Robbins’s grocery lists), it is simply too hot for literature. I put the book down and in three short strides am suspended in the air, temporarily weightless as I leap off the bow and plummet into the Caribbean Sea. I erupt through the water just in time to spot a turtle surfacing surprisingly close to me. It is a medium sized Hawksbill (the second most common to spot in this area), and about as big as a microwave oven, if microwave ovens were an appropriate parameter for measuring the size of sea turtles. I check my watch: 11:53 am.
“You’re the seventh I’ve seen today,” I tell the turtle, who startles and dives back under the surface. Hawksbills like these can hold their breath for anywhere between 3 to 10 hours, depending how active they are. Their lungs are spread out over the inner surface of their shell, which maximizes surface area as well as gives them impressive buoyancy control. My all time record number of sea turtles spotted in a day is 39, though I suspect at least a couple were seen surfacing more than once. To me, it still counts.
People often wonder if living in paradise makes paradise less entrancing and I ponder this as I gaze down into the water. The salt makes me almost buoyant and I gently kick my legs just enough to stay afloat. The spot we’re moored in is over 15 meters deep, but I can see straight to the bottom. The water is piercingly blue; if the color of this sea was manifested in the eyes of a person, I would fall in love without so much as a second thought. As it is, I am in love with the sea and its otherworldly organisms. The turtle is feeding below me and has been joined by a friend, today’s number eight. I look up at Karla, my floating home of the moment. The wind is causing her running rigging to clank gently against the mast, a sound barely audible over the compressor running. Waves lap at her from all sides and she bobs gracefully, content to be serving the purpose she was built for. The blue sky sports cotton ball clouds, and a couple lazy birds hang in the air, going minutes on end before flapping their wings. Occasionally one folds itself up and dives directly into the water towards an unseen meal, it’s agility and speed making it appear an entirely different animal than its almost motionless counterparts above. I’ve only been here 65 days, but I decidedly reject the idea of paradise becoming mundane over time. After all, it’s paradise.
I grab the mooring lines and haul myself over the bow, flopping over the edge like a whale then rolling, limbs flailing, onto the tramp, the epitome of grace. I get up, simultaneously close the whip and tank handle, release the pressure, and switch the tanks over. My official work title here is watersports and logistics coordinator, but the reality is that if you work here, your job description includes whatever needs to get done. Today we’re in Saba. The entire five square mile island is a marine conservation park, or MPA (marine protected area), so no watersports are allowed, and I am full-time embodying the role of logistics staff.
For me, Saba days consist of trips to the doctor, taxiing to shore, setting up the water maker, refilling tanks, getting petrol, provision runs, and anything else our fleet might need. It may not seem as illustrious as living and working in the Caribbean sounds, and it isn’t. Hard work does not distinguish between latitudes, and a lot of earning your keep here is hard work.
Don’t get me wrong this job carries substantial perks. I have advanced two levels of diving this summer, receiving the normally thousands of dollars in training and certifications virtually for free. Factor in how many sea miles I have gained, the things I have learned, the places I have visited, and the connections I have made, and I wouldn’t trade being here for anything else.
Of all the islands we visit here, Saba is my absolute favorite. The degree to which the surrounding sea is protected is admirable, and the efforts of countless dedicated individuals (shoutout to Jelle and all the folks at Saba Conservation Center) is reflected tenfold in the health and diversity of Saba’s ecosystems. The scuba diving here is exquisite and I am blown away each time I descend into Saban waters. Everywhere you look is a new combination of colors unimaginable to the ordinary human mind. The coral is vibrant and thriving, the depth of the textures is mesmerizing. I absolutely love to watch the behaviors of the fish, they are so much more expressive than I knew was possible in such small scaly sea dwellers. On my most recent dive, I saw a fish I had never seen before with a horn and stripes AND spots. Convinced that I had discovered a new species and armed with Reef Creatures Identification: Caribbean Edition, I quickly identified it as the extremely common Spotted Drum, Equetus punctatus, in juvenile form. In other words, the pigeon of Caribbean fish.
The island itself holds just as many hidden wonders as the underwater world that surrounds it. The whole thing is one massive mountain; it’s jarring cliff faces look quite formidable on approach, like something out of a Jurassic Park movie. You can’t see the top most of the time as it is hidden in the clouds, inviting the imagination to run wild as to what is up there and how tall it actually goes. Then there’s the hike to the top, called Mount Scenery. At 877 meters (or 2877 ft) it defies anything your imagination could have come up with. The topography consists of a lush and diverse tropical rain forest and hikers can munch on wild raspberries and bananas while bushwhacking their way to the top (machete recommended). The tropical rain forest is spectacular in the way that all unique ecosystems are. Elephant ear plants grow bigger than people, tree ferns droop down from mountain palms (a cousin of the pineapple). The ascent provides gorgeous views of the town and the sea, but once at the top (locally known as the Elfin Forest), you’re enveloped in a cloud and in a world of your own.
In terms of inhabitants, Saba consists of two towns (The Bottom and Windwardside) and, subsequently, 2 roads (Couldn’t and Shouldn’t, as in, they couldn’t and shouldn’t have been built). As a result of the mountainous terrain, Couldn’t is steep, with 180 degree switchbacks guiding the way out of The Bottom. It can be a scary drive, especially when unrestrained in the bed of a pickup truck while clinging onto numerous full jerry cans of petrol, an exciting experience I have had on numerous occasions. You can’t help but laugh aloud at the ridiculousness of it all and I often think of the drastic contrast between my daily experiences here and the life that I live in the United States.
The thought of a petrol run snaps me out of my reverie, and I swap tanks again while mentally listing off the things that I need to get done. Absentmindedly I finger the bead around my neck. The bead itself is unique, but its presence is a common adornment among Broadreach instructors and students alike, as the beads are created here in Saba. Each individual crafts their own, more or less carefully supervised by Jo, the wildly eccentric owner of JoBean, a Venican glassblowing shop in Windwardside. I sit back down, the seawater on my skin finally making the incessant breeze surprisingly pleasant, and gaze out over the water.
I’ve had a passion for sailing, unrivaled by anything else I’ve ever done, for a long time, but I was late to discover it and didn’t start regularly racing dinghies until college. Many of my peers in the college sailing world have been racing this circuit for years and I have always felt a separation, like there was a crucial secret component between knowing how to race and being good at it, that I was missing. At one point, I think my positive passions for sailing could have turned with the tide into resentment for not having started earlier, jealousy at those who were so infinitely better, despair that I could never catch up. For the longest time, many of the idiosyncrasies of the sport remained a mystery to me, no matter how many books I read or people I talked to.
It wasn’t until this summer that I finally feel like the door is opening up on the secret world that I have spent so much of my life desperately longing to be a part of. I noticed this like a mother notices her child growing up- slowly at first, then all at once. People had expressed to me that wind shifts are something that you ‘just feel’, a frustrating phrase that I had come to take as one of those things I would never learn. However, sitting on the bow of Karla in this moment, I knew exactly what they were talking about. I could read the wind shifts as easily as you are reading these words on your screen. Seemingly out of nowhere, the wind communicated in a language I could understand. I could see puffs and lulls on the water, I could see how they changed the flow of the air around them, I could see their progression along the surface, which direction they were going in, and where one stopped and the other began. I smile to myself, proud of how far I’ve come and looking forward to what this means for the upcoming sailing season. I almost get lost in the anticipation of it all when the radio calls out over the sound of the compressor.
“Karla, Karla, Karla, this is Carambole, Carambole, Carambole”
“Go for Karla, over,” I respond, mentally praying that they don’t need tanks.
“Hey Madeline- we were wondering if you wanted to come on a dive with us to Man O’ War in about 20 minutes. It will be your sisters last Advanced dive before she is certified and, if you want, you can be her buddy. Over”
I catch my breath and look over at Franny, the Assistant Course Director living on Karla with me, currently standing over the stove cooking lunch. She gives me a smile and a nod, knowing how important it is to me to spend time with my sister while she’s visiting. I couldn’t possibly say yes fast enough.
“I’ll be there! Thank you thank you, Syd. Standing by 72”.
“Standing by 72”. I couldn’t see her, but I could tell that on the other end of the radio, Sydney (my sister Megan’s instructor) was smiling too.
Pulling my dive gear out of the lazarette, I start assembling it like it’s second nature. I strap my BCD to a freshly pumped tank, screw the octo on, clip in the low pressure inflator, tuck in my alternate oxygen source, grab my mask and fins, and am in Uber (the RHIB that I drive) in 6 minutes- a new record for me.
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