Conflict in Tortola with a Native Son

So how does this affable if slightly silly American tourist on the West End pier in Tortola turn into a raging adrenaline-shakes monster, ready-to-do physical violence upon the man, or the woman frankly, on the other side of the plexi-glass at the Native Son customer service (bwaaahaha) booth at Red Hook pier in St. Thomas? Whoo!

Answer: We weren't supposed to be in Red Hook, but in Charlotte Amelie.

First. Set the stage:

It was another brilliant hot day in Tortola as we returned our rental car. The rental car people were distant rather than hostile. Always a plus on this vaca. We spent most of our remaining cash filling up the tank. The gas station took only cash.

I was left with a $10 bill in my pocket.

No problem. There was an ATM machine at the pier in the West End. Wrinkle: The ATM machine at the shops in West End accepted neither our ATM cards, nor our credit cards.

We had no cash, and we had to get the ferry to St. Thomas, and a taxi to the airport.

No Problem!!

In West End, we checked first thing at the ferry terminal, and were assured that the Native Son ferry was running both to Red Hook and Charlotte Amelie, where we needed to go. We had just enough time to make connections and catch our flight leaving from there. Once the ferry arrived, we would have just enough time. In the meantime, we decided to walk to the Jolly Rodger for a lunch on the credit card. Oh and DRINKS! When in doubt drink. Hard.

Couldn't check the bags, so lug them down the dirt road with us to the bar. Food was good. Rum was better.

Next. Upon review, we remembered that we had luckily(?) purchased a return ticket on Native Son ferry three days before on our ferry over.

All good, right?

Taxi to the airport? We could use the ten-spot, or just have the driver bring us to an ATM machine first.


When it came time to board the ferry, a press of people had materialized on the small loading dock, many dressed in Sunday best attire for an excursion to St John or St Thomas. I happened to ask the ferry worker beside me: this ferry does go to Charlotte Amelie, right?

Yes yes, stupid you.

My wife independently asked him again and he assured her, yes.

On the ride to St John, we opened a bottle of rum that was to have been a gift and poured stiff shots into our cans of Diet Coke. We were seated on the upper deck, in the open air, but the ferry was packed and I could smell the rum.

This is illegal of course, I thought. OhmyGod. What the hell are we doing. Just when we had settled down a bit from anxiety over the ferry and our connections, all my personal and cultural paranoias seemed to culminate at that moment and press upon me. The well-dressed lady beside me was about to rat me out. She had been making eyes through the window of the pilot's cabin at the first mate, and now she got up and moved forward. Of course she could smell it. Everyone could smell it. And me. Forget the coke can. I had consumed so much rum in three days it was coming out of my pours. My breath was sour fire. The whole assembled patrons of Native Son to Red Hook and Charlotte Amelie were going to rise up in mutual cultural disgust at the offending Yankee and his wife--open beverages, drinking on a Sunday, cowboy hat--and haul our asses overboard or into the brig for later arrest.

No Charlotte Amelie.
No taxi.
No flight home.

I jest, but for a moment a felt real, terrible, irrational fear.

But the woman beside me returned from the cabin without comment, and another well-dressed woman in the seat in front of us chose that moment to open a tupperware box containing some delicious heavy, laden, rumcake she had saved as a ferry treat for her day out. The woman beside us teased her about the treat, then in a moment wrinkled her nose and said: "Girl, how much rum did you put in that?"

We were saved. But I did my exhaling toward my wife and over the rail into the wind for the rest of the ride.

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