Marooned January 14
In 1790, the Dutch merchantman Van Dyck had almost completed a month crossing to deliver settlers to St. Kitts. A small pirate sloop gave chase after passing St. Maarten but could not catch the bigger ship, that is, until the winds failed, after which the lighter vessel gained steadily for a week. Fearing for the families in his charge, the captain sent them off with provisions in the longboats, pointing south-southwest, where a stationary cumulus cloud in the distance indicated an island peak. A two-day row, maybe.
On the next night, the castaways, still adrift, watched in horror as “Christ’s blood streamed in the western firmament and, far beyond the eastern horizon, the red glow of a ship on fire. The wind had freshened too late to save the Van Dyck from the marauders,“ according to the account told by Peter Stone, a descendent of one of the survivors.
Just as the captain had hoped, the twenty or so English and Dutch emigrants found an uninhabited island, called Saba. They beached the longboats on several sandy coves but could find no safe routes to climb the headlands on the windward side. On the lee, they fared better. Bottomland is the name they gave to their settlement on the tiny Grenadine Island, where they spent the rest of their grateful days—fishing, chopping wood, raising families, praising God, and feasting on guava and plantain.
After a swift sunset, three oversize black SUV’s pull up to the front of my apartment building, parking at odd angles, blocking traffic, but there is little of that behind the gates of the Towers. Six oversize black men step out, armed, dressed in sharp black suits and shades. They guardedly scan the perimeter and talk into their lapels. Then their client emerges from the middle vehicle.
This guy must be quite a prize. He is certainly dressed for it, businesslike, with a slim tailored brown suit and matching polished shoes. He carries a heavy locked briefcase, leather blackened from use, undoubtedly full of some expensive information. Young and fit and tan, projecting mixed Asian and Latino features and an exclusive gym membership, he nevertheless looks haggard and sweaty. This has been a long day.
With a bag of groceries in each hand, I may pose the nearest threat but not much of one. A few other neighbors stare frozen at a distance, but these diet ginger ale cans of mine are getting heavier, so I march past the entourage with purpose. The assault rifles shine like the shoes and tinted windows.
Inside the lobby, I wait for the elevator. A minute passes, and my plastic bags are threatening to rip. The black vehicles pull away, and suddenly I am alone with him, the man with a bounty on his head, waiting. I think about the pirate story I have been reading and how long it can take to capture a ship when it flees.
“Weekend,“ I say, as if there is hope for escape.
He looks over and nods but says nothing. Then he returns his agitated gaze to the reflexion in the elevator door. It is not particularly hot tonight, yet his face is covered with fine droplets. I look at the briefcase and wonder what the treasure is worth.