End of the Island April 16
Bloody Bay is more beautiful than I remembered—pristine powder-blue, surrounded by old-growth, with a fine lagoon in a tropical meadow that ought to be a screensaver for every lapwing’s imagination. An old Rasta man sells coconut-nutmeg ice cream under the shade of a wiry silk tree. Two young spear-fishermen drag a spotting-buoy beyond the dying reef, above the graves of slaughtered British sailors, to hunt over free water. Not far from here, a diver recently was chased by a bull shark, swept away by swift current, and ended up forty miles from shore. It took him 36 hours to swim to Toco. He could not walk when he reached land.
Charlie and Megan join me on my deepest penetration of the islands, to the northern edge of Tobago and a place that has colored my dreams for twenty-four years. Charlotteville represents a magical past for me, when living was easy, youth bloomed in full, and happy adventure was boundless. I pledged to return someday—to see it, hear it, feel it, and know it actually happened. Indeed, a few have suggested this as the real reason I moved to Trinidad last year—to be close to the heart of a memory. Tobago was always the prize, they said.
Back in the ’90’s, the only way to reach Charlotteville, on Man o’ War Bay, was the windward side, the Atlantic, through Roxborough and Speyside. Back then, the lee side was little more than a rough track winding north, from Parlatuvier and Bloody Bay, twisting like a squeeze box, up and down, over ridge lines, through old landslides and creeping jungle. Even as late as December 2018, the new road was impassable due to the rains of October.
Charlotteville has changed very little over the years, which is remarkable for such a lovely little paradise. Discovery is elusive—it is too remote even for Trini tourists. This allows a simple rural lifestyle to endure, one based on community, just the way Sharon likes it. Her old-style dining terrace on the hill, called Sharon and Phebs, serves fish and creole sauce on white linen, and she watches while you eat. Her daily special is kindness.
Sharon lost Phoebe six years ago. When her daughter was born with a failing heart, they were fortunate to be able to take her to a New York hospital. Sharon spent four months with her little girl in Stony Brook, on Long Island, but it turned out all right, and the next year she and her husband opened the pink restaurant and named it after their miracle child. This was the year my own family visited Charlotteville. The lady acts like she remembers me, which cannot possibly be true. Nevertheless, Sharon is sincerely happy to meet Charlie and Megan: “Such blessings. My Phoebe was such a blessing.“ With good reason to say grace, she beams at our clean plates.
Not far down the beach, we pick our way through familiar hedgerows of poinsettia and bird of paradise, and Charlie immediately recognizes the small wooden cottages and the patio stage of a muster point. The white paint is salt-weathered and peeling but otherwise the same. This is the place where we once played music and danced. It looks uninhabited, but the hedges are cut, and the stage has been swept. Man o’ War Bay has been waiting this whole time.