Farewell to Cruz Bay, St. John

Sunday

We packed our bags to go home. Liz helped Beth re-pack her three bottles of rum in her checked bag (because they were not bought in the airport terminal).

Liz left first. We said good-bye in the room. She took the Westin ferry for $55, rather than the public ferry. (We estimated it was $20 more than taking a taxi to the public ferry, the ferry to St. Thomas, and another taxi to the airport -- and lugging our bags with us.)

Liz's bags were collected for her outside our room. The ferry took her from the Westin dock to Charlotte Amalie, where a taxi was waiting just a few steps from the boat. The taxi took her to the airport, where her bags were delivered. It turned out to be well worth it.

Her first flight scared her: an 8-seater to San Juan. One passenger had to sit in the co-pilot's seat. Her husband was sitting behind her. He told her, "Don't touch anything!" Liz kept her face buried in a book so she wouldn't see anything or think about anything.

Beth and I planned to take the 11:15 public ferry to Charlotte Amalie and spend a couple hours shopping and having lunch before we had to go to the airport. We called for a cart when we were ready to check out. We turned in our room cards at the desk and took a taxi to the public ferry dock.

I got in line for tickets while Beth sat with our bags. The ticket agent told us that Charlotte Amalie tickets would not be sold until after 11:00, when the Red Hook ferry left. So 11:00 rolled around, the Red Hook ferry left, and no one was in the ticket office. Eventually, a woman came and announced that we would not be buying our tickets from the ticket office; she would be coming around to us to collect our fares.

Beth and I had settled, with our bags, on the bench closest to the ticket office, at the near end of the waiting area. When the woman started collecting fares, she started at the back of the waiting area -- the other end, where, I now noticed, there was another gate (presently closed) to the dock. We were suddenly at the back of the line, or -- more like it -- the back of the mob. "Sit down," she said, "sit down and I will come around." But some people moved closer to the back of the waiting area.

She stopped collecting fares just before she got to us. She said she would have to wait until passengers boarded the ferry to get an accurate count of how many seats were left. She walked back to the dock and disappeared. We waited anxiously.

When she returned, she said there were two seats left. There was one guy in front of Beth and me. I spoke up and said our flight was leaving early and we had to get to the airport soon. The guy in front of us didn't say anything but just went -- onto the ferry.

The woman said she would see what she could do for us, but the ferry soon departed. The next ferry to Charlotte Amalie wasn't for two hours, too late. We would have to take a Red Hook ferry. That meant a long taxi ride to Charlotte Amalie, and then, if we wanted to spend time in Charlotte, another taxi ride from Charlotte to the airport. I was angry.

Cruz Bay drifted away in the sunlight behind the ship's wake. The ride to Red Hook was short. As we pulled into the harbor, a tug boat with potted palm trees passed us.

Duck makes hasty exit from Red Hook station

Just inside the station I waited while Beth filled my plastic water bottle from the faucet in the washroom. A duck waddled into the station from the dock. He stopped when he saw all the people, turned around, and ran back out.

Outside, I asked if a taxi could take us to Charlotte, hold our bags for a couple hours while we shopped, then return and take us to the airport. (Last year, a Charlotte-based taxi held our bags while we shopped, but this was a Red Hook taxi.) The driver told us that most of the shops were closed because it was Sunday. I said, then we'll just go directly to the airport.

So none of the jockeying for a ferry mattered after all.

Charlotte Amalie side streets

We drove through the countryside and gradually it became the city. Sunny, dilapidated side streets with weeds and parked cars stretched away toward the waterfront. Then the driver spoke to us, "See, I'm driving through downtown so you can see -- most of the stores are closed." He was right. We were passing by the alleyways of the Royal Dane Mall. The doors were shuttered except for a jewelry store here or there.

Then we passed a cemetery, for blocks and blocks, white vaults behind the fence. A few hotels, one shabby and seedy, another one neat and inviting, on the beach next to the airport.

We waited in line at the airline counter to check in. The ticket agent said Beth's checked bag was over 50 pounds, but she said she would let it go. Normally, it would have cost us another $50. I thanked her.

Then we passed through Customs and Security. I had forgotten about the plastic bottle of warm tap water in my carry-on bag, and Beth had overlooked a large bottle of sunscreen that she had -- they were confiscated.

The terminal was crowded, and we had a lot of time. We sat in front-row seats in the middle of the waiting room and ate leftover pizza. After a while I remembered seeing a sign with "Spirit Air" and an arrow. Beth waited while I reconnoitered. The sign pointed down a hallway, to Gates 1 and 2. It led to a small waiting room. Just a few people were there and no agents.

We still had lots of time, so Beth and I stayed where we were for a while. Then Beth reconnoitered and told me there were about 30 people at our gate, so we moved down the hall to the small room. When we settled in our seats, I went back for coffee. Luckily, I didn't have to wait in the food line for just coffee. It turned out to be sour, awful coffee that we could hardly drink. I poured it out in the washroom.

On the plane, I dozed. In Fort Lauderdale, I walked off the plane and right into line at a restaurant. I called to Beth that I'd meet her at the gate for our next flight. I got a hamburger, fries, and coffee for $8. Beth got a tomato sandwich for $8. Before I finished mine, we boarded. I finished eating before takeoff.

As the plane was on the tarmac, we heard it make a loud sawing sound, like the hydraulic system barking. People looked around at each other. We started to taxi and heard a cha-chink, like something coming loose.

We heard the sawing, barking sound again after we landed at O'Hare. It was after 11:00 p.m. when Beth and I were waiting at O'Hare for the hotel shuttle bus. We checked in and found our room. I brushed my teeth and went right to bed.

Monday

In the morning we had a continental breakfast in the hotel. We helped ourselves to eggs, granola with yogurt and strawberry sauce, orange juice, and coffee. There was also sausage, hash browns, toast, sweet rolls and muffins, oatmeal, and milk. Beth made us homemade waffles.

Most of the other people having breakfast were on their way to work, far away from home. Bill Clinton (or his look-alike) was there. He didn't look too good -- needed a shave and looked hung over.

The hotel shuttle took us back to the airport to catch the interstate bus. The bus stopped in Beloit for five minutes. Beth ran into the McDonald's to get us coffee. I watched two adult ducks glide back and forth on the pond while their ducklings huddled in the grass.

When the bus got off the beltline and we were a few blocks from the Union, I called a cab. The dispatcher said it would be five or ten minutes. But a minute or two later, I got a call saying the taxi was already waiting. It was another couple minutes before we got off the bus.

When the taxi pulled up to my apartment building, Beth whispered, "No tip." I agreed, but I didn't know Beth's more logical reason. Later she told me that when we first got into the cab, the meter was running and already had $5 on it.

We got tacos and a burrito from the drive-thru, ate at my apartment, then weighed our bags. Beth's checked bag was over 50 pounds, like the airline agent had said.

Then I drove Beth home. Then I drove home.

* * *

Photographs begin to replace the pictures in my mind, and words on a page will erase the sounds I remember. Now, days, weeks later, as I write this, it's sad to feel the beautiful memories drift away in time, like an island washed away in a ferry boat's wake.