Honeymoon Diamonds

When my boyfriend and I announced at Christmas that we would get married in March after two years of cohabitation (known then, 1975, as "living in sin") our families were relieved, to say the least. As my Aunt Rose put it, "So, you're going to make an honest man of him at last! Let's see the ring!!"

That's when the relief turned to disbelief, then distress. There was no ring.

We had decided that our limited funds would be spent on a memorable honeymoon, not on mere diamonds. Our friend Harry was the only one who understood. "You will always have the memories," he said, " but you may have to pawn the ring,"

So we gathered glossy brochures from tropical places, spread them on the floor of our tiny one-bedroom apartment, scrunched up our eyes tight, and each selected one. His was someplace with a French colonial history, where they still spoke that language, which we did not; mine was a tiny Bahamian island reachable only by boat, where the locals still spoke Shakespeare's English. We would honeymoon on Spanish Wells, Bahamas.

The travel agent promised economy, and assured us that this was a simple trip, despite the changing of carriers at every airport, and the remoteness of our destination. She gave us a list of confirmation numbers and times, took our money, shook our hands and wished us well. We trusted, and packed new summer clothes in our new suitcases.

Our wedding day turned out to be glorious, sunny, and warm for March, but the weather forecast predicted a strong storm for the next day. We enjoyed our own wedding, and fell asleep tired and married, hoping that the airport would be open for the six a.m. flight.

Our takeoff was slightly delayed; the wind was picking up and snow starting to fall. That flight, we found out later, was the last one in or out of TC for three days. We deplaned in Detroit and immediately made our way to check in at the next carrier's counter. They expected us, but they expected us thirty minutes ago; our flight was minutes from leaving the gate! RUN!!

We made it just as the door was closing. Panting, we buckled up and snoozed our way to Miami, waking up briefly to watch the sun crest the horizon as breakfast was served. We made jokes about the airline food -- not knowing then how far away, literally, our next meal would be.

Miami, afternoon. The next airline's check-in counter. They aren't expecting us. Never heard of us. No, no reservations on our record, despite the numbers on your itinerary. Yes, we have two seats left today for Nassau, yes, we'll take your credit card, check your passports. The plane leaves in forty minutes. Baggage? Oh. Well, you will have to go and collect your bags from the carousel and bring them back here to check for this flight. The gate is at the east end of the airport. The luggage carousels are on the west end.

We hurry. Triumphantly, we claim our bags and hurry back to check them in. Ten minutes before the flight, mission accomplished, we RUN!! Make the gate just as the door is closing. Panting, we buckle up and head for the tropics at last.

Nassau. Late afternoon. Yet another carrier. They expect us. But this time it is our airplane that is late. Stuck in the mud on an out island, they say, but it will be here in about another hour. Food? we ask. There is a bar in the airport, we're told, but no restaurant. We debate venturing into the town for food and decide against it. Once the plane gets here, we'll be at our destination in two more hours, we can wait. We'll be there in plenty of time for dinner.

Three hours, then four. The singsong charm of Bahamian speech has worn out. We want answers and we are not getting them! Finally, a jet arrives and we are herded on board. We buckle up grimly, then sit on the runway for another forty-five minutes. Are they scraping mud from the wheels? Can I have some to eat?

At last we are airborne, the sunset fading as we climb. The pilot welcomes us, sounding tired, too, then drops his bomb. "This flight was originally destined to land at North Eleuthera," he singsongs. "Since that airport has no runway lights, we cannot put down in the dark and must instead land at Governour's Harbour. Transportation for North Eleuthera passengers will be provided." Starving, sleepy, and in shock, we consult the map. Eleuthera is a long, skinny island, like an open parenthesis. Governour's Harbour is smack in the middle. Our fate is no longer ours to determine, we decide, and try to sleep as we buzz through the night.

We waken to a change in engine noise; we are descending. There are few lights below, but we can see the purple runway lights, and eventually we touch ground, lose speed, bumpity-bump to a stop in front of what looks like a carport. We descend the steep steps through humid air onto still-warm asphalt. The terminal has two walls of openwork concrete block supporting a flat metal roof. There is one naked light bulb hanging inside from the center of the roof, and concrete benches along the walls. Nothing else.

In their shirtsleeves, pilot and co-pilot are heaving luggage out of our airplane into a pile. We watch, helpless, as they close the belly doors, mount the steps into the plane, pull them up and shut that door. The engines start, and the airplane taxis off, thunders down the runway, and disappears into the starry sky. Black figures are pulling bags out of the pile and disappearing into the night, until all that's left are six suitcases and four people. The other couple stands by their luggage, staring daggers at us. We stand by our scuffed suitcases, staring back. We finally ask them, in a friendly way, where they are going, and receive a volley of hostile-sounding French in return. We are all marooned in the dark and the lines of communication are down.

Suddenly, headlights rake over us, and a battered station wagon skids to a stop in front of the terminal. A very tall, thin man in flip-flops, shorts and a torn tee shirt emerges from the driver's door and shouts "all aboard for North Eleuthera" like a train conductor. We shout, "Spanish Wells?" He grins, nods, and opens the tailgate, gesturing for us to heave our own luggage in. We do. The French couple mutters together, then follows suit, and we all scrape in on to torn vinyl seats for the roughest ride of our lives. The driver requests names and destinations. We give him ours, and he nods. The French spit out "Rhhhroberrrr" and "Cloob Mehd" The driver looks puzzled, and they repeat. Then he grins, nods twice, and lets out the clutch.

Half an hour of potholes and craters later, we slow down and come to a stop at a couple of gas pumps at the side of the road. A huge padlock dangles from a chain wrapped around them; there is nothing else to indicate civilization except a small clapboard building with tall, arched windows across the road. It is brightly lit, and we can see many heads facing a man at a pulpit. He is gesticulating extravagantly, like a cartoon preacher. Our driver is terse: "De tank near empty, mon, you got some dollah?" Of course we're dreaming. Of course.

Wearily, my husband pulls out his wallet and hands the driver a ten. The French shake their heads and shrug their shoulders. Clutching our money, the driver disappears into the dark. We wait, almost too tired to wonder -- then he appears among the heads across the way! He makes his way to the pulpit and confers briefly with the preacher, who then follows our driver back down the aisle. In a moment, they appear at the gas pumps, the preacher unlocks the padlock and unwinds the chain. It seems to take forever for ten dollars worth of gasoline to pump, but this is, after all, a dream.

At last we are bouncing among the potholes again, on this nightmare ride to nowhere. Then lights begin to sparkle out of the darkness, and we can smell the sea. The scrubby trees and underbrush along the road gives way to manicured-looking shapes, with palm trees, and suddenly a sign shows up in the headlights: Club Med. We turn right, onto a paved drive edged with lights; past tennis courts, and finally stop in front of what looks like a plantation mansion on steroids. The French silently retrieve their luggage, turn their backs on us, and nearly run toward the building. I'd like to do the same -- but the place is probably full of Rhhhroberrrrs. I stay seated.

"Jus' a couple minit more, mon," our driver promises, as we leave the luxury of pavement and return to pothole hell. He is, in fact, an honest man. Less than five minutes later, another turn brings us to a sort of quay. There is a single light on a pole at the foot of a short concrete jetty, and a couple of dozen small rowboats pulled up on shore. Beneath the light sits a battered maroon van. Our driver courteously unloads our luggage, then points off over the water, "Spanish Well out there, mon, they turn channel light off ten o'clock, but Willy, he find you way."

"Willy? Are you Willy?" we ask. He laughs. "No, but I rouse him for you," and walks to the van. We watch. He bangs rhythmically on the side of the van, and eventually the back door pops open, a tousled head appears, and the two confer. Then the head disappears, and the driver lopes back to us. "Willy be with you short," he says, climbs into the station wagon and drives off, waving.

"Short" describes both Willy and what he's wearing, when he emerges. We help him pull one of the small boats down the sloping concrete and into the water. We load our two suitcases, and ourselves, and I surreptitiously feel over the gunwales to the water. We have about four inches of freeboard, and no life jackets that I can see. I am unexpectedly grateful for our empty bellies -- that much less weight in the boat!

Willy's boat does have a small, ancient 5 hp engine, which does start at the fifth pull. We putt out into the darkness. My husband is in the bows, watching, at Willy's instruction, for "de post" which mark the channel to Spanish Wells. Apparently we are floating, at low tide, in very shallow water over a huge mass of very sharp coral. If we should miss our way and run aground, we would have to stay in that boat until high tide, at sunrise. I sit still. Very still.

What seems like nearly sunrise later, but is actually about forty minutes, we see twinkling lights ahead. As we putt closer, the concrete jetty looks an awful lot like the one we just left. Then I realize that there is more than one light, no van . . . . We are finally here! Spanish Wells at last! I know how Columbus felt.

Willy is an expert. He gently bumps the concrete, swarms out and makes the boat fast, and reaches a steadying hand to help his by-now feeble passengers out. "Roberts Harbour Club?" we ask. He grins and points to a pink, two story building across the road. We thank Willy, heft our suitcases, and totter towards it, minds full of memories more precious than diamonds.