Nearest Point
Or Adam’s Dilemma
1 9 6 5
by Captain don/
My old Flamingo Beach Club days were quiet compared to the excitement I came to know at Habitat some years later. But there were days, of course. At Flamingo in 1965 for example, the johns (toilets) in all the cottages were identical. A heavy cast iron water tank of fifty pounds or more was fastened to the wall some distance above the toilet bowl. When the chain was pulled, the tank would empty with a loud roar and the toilet flush.
As the cottages at Flamingo became older, the braces holding the overhead iron tank had been known to dislodge, letting the tank and all come tumbling down as did the one in cottage thirteen early one morning.
That day the morning silence was suddenly pierced by a scream. I ran, seeking the source. I discovered some tourists in front of cottage thirteen; then came the scream again. I motioned the guests back, tested the door and found it bolted. " Miss Gilmore." Louder, "Miss Gilmore, are you okay?" knowing that anybody who would scream like that couldn’t possibly be okay.
"Christ no, you schmuck," came a female’s voice, richly tainted with panic. "Get me out of here."
"Get you out of where?" I hollered back.
"Get me out of this f-ing john!"
That was some pretty rough language coming out of a nice New York lady like Miss Gilmore. Maybe she was mad. "Miss Gilmore, Miss Gilmore, the door is bolted. Would you please open it?"
"You crazy, dumb Captain. I can’t open the door. I’m held captive by this g--amned iron john of yours! I don’t give a sh-t how you get the door open. Just get me the hell out of here!"
"Watch your language, Miss Gilmore. I’ve got children here." Then I drew my hip knife and neatly sliced a rent in the cheesecloth large enough for my hand to slip into and pull back the bolt. I hated doing this because I would have to repair the damage myself.
For a fellow who had seen everything, I was frankly a bit shocked as I looked into the narrow toilet stall and saw a naked Miss Gilmore sitting on the porcelain stool, her body forcibly doubled forward. She was held firmly in place by the steel flush pipe that was still attached to the cast iron reservoir that had torn loose from the wall. The heavy tank had fallen forward, smashing into the wall just above her head. The thin copper water tube had snapped and was spewing a formidable spray of brackish water over the entire back of the cottage.
"Will you stop staring at my t-ts, you g-damned pervert, and get me the h-ll out of here!" The panic was now gone from her voice, which had turned to pure fury.
She’s worried about her display of tits. My God, if she still had any, they were buried deep in that crushed mass of flesh. " Don’t move," I told her and ran to the front of the cottage. I sought out Richard, my driver, and barked, "In." To Maximera, the housemother who stood staring with big eyes, I said, "Phone for the ambulance," and wondered to myself just what the police might send.
Richard stood terrified, looking at the tangle of the iron reservoir, its pipe across Gilmore’s shoulders and a ball of white flesh with a pinched face matted with wet hair staring at him.
"Turn the water off. Be careful, don’t hurt her." He stood transfixed. "The water, Richard, get that friggin’ water off before she drowns."
An American tourist named Spencer materialized alongside me, analyzed the whole thing in one glance and said, " I’ll reach over the shower wall and lift the tank. You pull her out. Take it easy; she could have a broken neck."
"Please for god’s sake! just get me out of here!"
I motioned for him to start lifting. Spencer got the tank raised a few feet, and I extracted Gilmore. As it turned out, Miss Gilmore did not have a broken neck; as I was covering her with a blanket I couldn’t help but look down at her chest and wonder at her concern; her chest was as flat as mine.
I joined Spencer at the bar and listened to a progress report on the health of his friend Adam, who, a once a year sailor, had rented one of our Sunfishes and set a course directly downwind.
From the Flamingo Beach Club, downwind was directly across the channel to the nearest point on the little island just west of us. With our swift trade winds, he literally flew across that quarter mile channel and into the shallow reefs of the island, which were not only rich with corals but also home to millions of big, black, long spine sea urchins.
The dagger board keel of the Sunfish rammed into the coral, the boat became unstable, and, of course, flipped over on its side. Newton's Law prevailed and the skipper slid off the deck of the Sunfish and into the reef.
It was Teddy the boatman who called the alarm. He had the small Boston whaler tied to the dock, engine running, waiting for Ebo and myself to jump in with rope and snorkel gear.
That rescue had taken the better part of the afternoon. Once at the island we hurriedly unfastened the mast and sail, dumping them onto the reef, then after righting the board struggled Adam back onto the narrow deck. We stretched him out on his back with his rump shoved down into the cockpit. God, he was a mess. Eyes rolled up into his head in pain.
It wasn't easy for Ebo or me either. I took a dozen spines in my ankle. Poor Adam had them everywhere. I had never seen worse. Teddy was holding station against the short bay chop just outside the drop off in deep water. He hollered and tossed me a half a flask of Jack Daniels. I grabbed it as it floated by, opened it, and took a deep swallow then poured a bit into Adam’s mouth as he grimaced in pain. I got a shallow smile from him and shoved the bottle into his hand but not before helping myself to another sample. Ebo had joined Teddy in the whaler, handling the towline and giving orders to Teddy about his speed, trying to convince him that it wasn't water skis that he was towing.
I clung onto the board, making sure Adam stayed put and didn't let the bottle slip away. My job was to keep him on the board and keep him from drowning. I secured my mask on his face and stuck my snorkel tube upside down in his mouth then hung onto rudder to enjoy the ride back.
As I was dragged slowly along behind the Sunfish, I thought about an area that I had just seen. Before donating my mask to Adam, I had a moment of viewing not only broken urchins but also an absolutely pristine reef. The shelf couldn’t have been more than two feet deep and only feet away was the drop off. I marveled at its splendor. It fell off the earth like a tablecloth hanging from a table. Not exactly down but easily a 60-degree fast slope. As I had said, I had never dived here before and l decided to do it someday soon. It was deep and looked spooky. I had always referred to this place as our nearest point, and it was just that. Thus, out of Adam’s mishap and rescue came a new window, Nearest Point.
-79-
|
By Captain Don (Experienced BonaireTalker - Post #283) on Sunday, June 15, 2008 - 7:41 am: 
