The Isle of Seduction

Chapter 3

The Garden of Eden

This story takes place on Saint Francis “the patron saint of small animals,” West Indies. Saint Francis is, in my opinion, the most beautiful of the Lesser Antilles. Its position relative to the trade winds is perfect. The island rests perpendicular to the trade winds most of the year. During hurricane season, it appears as if the island turns ever so slightly to present more of its windward side to the storms. Fortunately, my humble abode, as always, during the heavy storms is located on the leeward side of paradise.

Most of the Caribbean islands, as is in much of nature, are an alchemy of opposites. They are slowly dying mountaintops of ancient volcanoes. Born of fire and horrific violence, the islands are now a glorious cornucopia of vegetation, numerous varieties of birds, and colorful insects. “Sin Fran,” as the locals pronounce Saint Francis, their home, also has a few small relatively insignificant but stunning waterfalls.

I have always been fascinated by the physical and human history of the Caribbean. It is the birthplace of modern Western Hemispheric culture and history. It is where indigenous, African, and European cultures clashed much like the cataclysmic violence that gave birth to the islands. The Caribbean is where the tropical depressions that originate in Africa gain strength from the warm equatorial and Caribbean waters on their way to North or Central America, often becoming hurricanes. When I look at my island, I am reminded of how pain and pleasure, horror and beauty, birth and death are but mirror images of symbiotic relationships.

Yet the hurricanes purify the air and wash the dust and sand from the plants and replenish the underground freshwater aquifers, leaving behind a renewed sense of hope for the future. The shards of warm Caribbean water flowing northeasterly up the North Atlantic coast before turning due east and beyond, the Gulf Stream, has a significant impact on North America, the British Isles, and Western Europe, giving birth, for example, to the British Isles’ infamous fog.

I, like many other humans who share this island with the plants and animals, rally behind the diminutive gecko. This ubiquitous little lizard-like monster’s favorite dish is the bloodsucking mosquito. One of my favorite pastimes is to lie in my hammock and watch the predatory small remnant of long-ago prehistoric reptiles stalk its prey and, with what appears to be the speed of light, strike and digest the flying pest. It is only the female mosquito that bites and sucks the blood out of its prey while, at the same time, inserting its highly irritable fluid that causes itching and disease.

I said, I live on the leeward side of the island. For you landlubbers, that is the side with its back to the prevailing winds. OK, so it is hotter and I don’t have many neighbors. Both are just fine with me on both counts. My house is more of a tricked-out shack than anyone would consider a real house. It is open on three sides, with a single-sided concrete-reinforced wall providing what little privacy I need for my commode, books, electronics, kitchen, and closet.

My shower and other freshwater needs are supplied by the rainwater that falls on my roof and runs down into a cistern beneath the house. Before you begin to think all is perfect, if I am not careful, my cistern will be depleted in the winter months during the dry season. Imagine flushing and showering with seawater. Ugh.

But my little piece of paradise is to die for. At the end of a tropical-flower-lined path leading from my house is a lagoon. The lagoon is, among other things, a hatchery for hundreds of species of marine life. They allow me to enter their world when I swim and move aside to give me all the space, I need to flail my arms and legs in what must look like, to those who glide seamlessly through the water, a clown show.

These once-mighty volcanic, mostly underwater mountains are slowly being eroded by wind, rain, fauna, and flora. Yet they are still one of nature’s wonders to behold. The greenery on the windward side is like a lush carpet of emeralds. The sun provides, thanks to the absence of any airborne pollutants, a bright spotlight on this island paradise. The combined effects provide a very sensual atmosphere. The warm Caribbean breezes and the azure, blue-green water engulfs the tourists who visit Saint Francis in a consistent message of plea-sure, anticipation, excitement, and s****l arousal.

In the summer months, witnessing the parade of the majestic cumulonimbus clouds pregnant with rain is awe-inspiring. But all things must end. Global climate change is causing sea levels to rise. Many atolls and smaller islands have already vanished.

Little did those of us on Saint Francis know that in the heart of our island paradise, deep below the sea level, existed a giant cavern formed by ancient lava flows rising from the tectonic plates on which the sea and land rest. The cavern, or bobble, as I like to call it, is the remains of lava retreating from its upward march, leaving behind the cooler walls that have maintained their shape for millions of years. The rising sea waters of climate change have advanced upon weak spots along the subterranean cavern and began the erosion process that would hasten the cavern’s demise and thus the death of the island. It was like a tumor lying and waiting to metastasize and kill its host. The death of beauty.