in the distance: shitball cay
Whenever I loafed in the wharf hammock and looked east, into the Caribbean Sea, that long, lonely mangrove island was all I saw. I knew that a kayak lay beside the rental house, and it seemed to me that the one was an invitation to the other.
Still, noticing how the wind kicked up every afternoon fit to whip a kayaker way the hell to Placencia, I shook my head. I’m too old, I thought, to be daring myself to do things I don’t want to do. But one morning I woke up and thought I’m doing it.
cays can be delicious
Hugh and I set out in the double kayak plying our paddles so hard it rocked us back and forth. It was like we had something to prove to each other, and we did.
It was a warm day and nice to be kayaking in the Caribbean. Sure the clouds were whorling into the sky like gray cotton candy onto a blue stick, but these were just omens—things to be ignored.
No beach. At least not on this side. Dead brown coral only inches submerged and so we had to painstakingly grind our way around the point. I pictured the kayak bottom peeling back like a sardine can lid, stranding me here on Shitball Cay and Hugh having to swim for shore and good luck.
Finally we spotted a three-foot stretch that with a vivid imagination might be dubbed “beach.” I climbed from the scummy shattered shells into the mangrove tangle to explore and recalled something Steinbeck wrote:
It is the combination of foul odor and the impenetrable quality of the mangrove roots which gives one a feeling of dislike for these salt-water-eating bushes. No one likes the mangroves.
I squatted in the pretzel limbs above the rot-muck and looked at all the trash dangling like ornaments. Beneath me plastic confetti, floated in from parties the likes of which this godforsaken geek cay wasn’t invited to and never would be.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hugh said. “This island is shit.”
Our arms were still burning from the half-hour paddle over but even drifting out to sea with torn rotator cuffs would be better than this. Turning the kayak about in the muck Hugh jumped out of the water. Said he felt a million needles in his feet. I considered him a crybaby until, grinding once again over the reef, I suddenly felt like I’d jogged a mile in fiberglass socks.
Chubby clouds now complete with wind whistling out of nowhere. Forty-five hard minutes paddling back. En route I turned around and pictured a bomb hitting the cay and jerking it into the sky in a flaming muddy mushroom. The explosion produces a peeling wave which Hugh and I surf expertly back to the rental house and crash through the windows into the kitchen, where beer awaits.
Finally Shitball Cay made me smile.
before (and after) the journey
