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1,000 Steps

The Flamingo Beach Club, May 1968. Hattie, the breakfast waitress, roughly set another beer on the table in front of me. I stared at it, then at the Queen's Birthday party clutter lying ankle-deep in the dining room. I pleaded, "God, Hattie, get me a lotta ice." I looked out the window at the blue Caribbean and wondered if the coin from the party had been worth it.

As I watched, two divers jumped off the end of the dock and swam the few feet to the reef. I could see the exact place where my wonderful ship Valerie Queen had sunk. Growing nostalgic, I thought about our days in San Francisco, the crazy weekend parties in Sausalito, wines until dawn at the No-Name Bar, and how some things never seem to change.

Baldi, the leader of a small group diving with me, pulled up a chair, sat down, looked at my beer and hollered, "Hattie - a lotta beer, and a lotta ice," Suddenly becoming aware of naked flesh in the vicinity, I turned to find Baldi's traveling companions at my elbow. Pointing to some empty chairs, I tried a smile, and said, "Sit."

The tall one said, "Happy birthday, Captain." I rolled my eyes and tried to explain, "It was our Queen's Birthday, but I'll pass it on." I wondered how I was going to make it through the day.

I watched Baldi knock back his beers across the table and knew I had found a guy crazier than me. Good with people, he taught diving well, told tales of building brick walls for a living in Baltimore, and traveled to Bonaire for some great diving and lots of fun.

Then the redhead asked, "Captain Don, were you really a pirate?" I tried another smile and said, "I've been called that when checking out a guest."

I still had to get through the dive, then lunch and be back in time to check out departures, greet new arrivals, get dinner started, and then, maybe, get some sack duty. Lunch would be a simple thing: steak sandwiches, fried potatoes, sauerkraut and Brussels sprouts, all washed down with beer. Cheese cake for dessert. A serious diver's meal.

The garbage truck arrived, and I coaxed it back to the dive shop to load up with benches, tanks and beer. I hustled Baldi's ladies up into the cab with Ephraim and yelled, "Okay, guys and gals, let's load up for some good diving."

Normally, I preferred a clean truck, but today the tongs on the truck bed were festooned with bits of garbage and a lingering odor. Unfortunately, they were the only wheels around and we had a dive scheduled. "Okay. Ephraim, let's get this show on the road."

Then came the screaming. "Don! Don!" Maria, head of housekeeping ran toward us panting frantically. Ephraim put the truck, into neutral and looked out the window.

"E yu di Doktor Binkhorst tin lolo den zip," Maria breathlessly reported. Ephraim leaned back and switched off the engine with a sigh. I gently lowered myself back down to the pavement

Baldi stuck his head over the side of the truck. "Whad she say? Whadda she say?" Silently looking up at him, I briefly considered my options, then decided on a literal translation.

"Baldi, she just told me that Dr. Binkhorst's kid has his ... his ... penis caught in his zipper. That's what she said. Grab your tool box and get your butt down here to give me a hand. Dive is delayed briefly, ladies and gents."

It didn't take long, and things ended well. The kid most likely grew up and had a big family. Just another day in the hotel business.

"Okay. Baldi, get your people back on the truck," I said. "We got a dive to do."

In '68, divers were still a novelty, so heads turned as we moved through the heart of town and on to the Queen's new tourist road, which ribboned north and made the entire shoreline available.

Near Barcadera was a small coral beach about 85 feet below the road; stone steps had just been built down to the water. The truck pulled off the road near Radio Netherland's transmitter site opposite the steps.

Horrified, I watched as tons of modern dive gear fell out of the truck. These certified divers sometimes surprised me.

One of my island divers, nick-named The Goat, was going with us that day. A real Captain Don diver: steel tank high and firm on her back, snorkel through her belt, mask strap hung over the snorkel, and the flippers where they belonged, on her feet. She was already moving down the steps, while Baldi's people were fumbling and dragging their gear down, one piece at a time.

This area, like most other beach entries, had been totally blocked by antler coral which grew tight to the shore. I had cut paths from the beach to deeper water where the antler coral gave way to star coral and gorgonians.

My normal procedure on every site was to mark the channels with inflated Clorox bottles secured about three feet from the bottom. I also used inflated condoms tied to the soft coral. They were more visible, but fragile and very expensive.

The chromies and yellowtails with their endless appetites never failed to entertain, and one of Baldi's princesses was bitten. Otherwise the dive was an uneventful 35 minutes and back to the beach for sun and warm beer. I moved on down the shore to give Baldi the shade of the tree and some private time with his divers.

Suddenly, loud words, some bad and a few in Italian, were hurled. Then the coral stones began to fly. I became a shield for the guy who was the target. The first two stones missed everything, the third killed a cloud, and the fourth clobbered me.

The guy behind me said, "Oh, Christ!" And Baldi yelled, "Hey! Why the hell did you get in the way." The Goat, always practical, said, "That's a big hole, Captain Don. I can see inside your head."

The last of my secrets gone! "Okay, fix it," I moaned. I really needed this, as if my head didn't hurt enough already. She quickly gathered some hairs from each side of the hole in my head, twisted them together to form string, then pulled the string until the cut closed. She then poured some beer over it, and said, "Come on, let's go swimming." All part of the cure.

"Only 67," I gently corrected.

He looked up at me and replied, "Yeah, down! And 933 back up!" I glanced at The Goat who was laughing, "He's right, Don. A thousand steps!" I signed ten logs that afternoon; dive location: '1000 Steps.'

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Content © Donal A. Stewart 1996 - Copyright © CaribSeek 2003 - All Rights Reserved - Web Published: September 26, 2003