Chapter 4:
Stumbling Into Paradise
For my money familiarization trips are the epitome of mushy journalism. There’s an unwritten understanding that the hosts get good press as payback for pampering a bunch of media goons. In the travel industry, big resorts or tourism agencies bring in a dozen or so writers and photographers from a variety of publications, give them the red carpet treatment - lots of parties, booze, music, the whole banana - and hope for scads of free publicity. The feel-good articles make everybody happy, except the unsuspecting tourists who actually fall for the flowery embellishments, do the trip and rediscover that they can’t believe the bullshit they read in the press.
Serious writers and photographers rarely lower themselves into a group press trip like I had. Most of the takers are hack freelancers or part-timers looking for a free ride. Or, like me, whackos trying make ends meet. Occasionally, if the trip is exceptional, they’ll get a big-name journalist or two. As it so happened, this one had potential to attract a couple of top guns. After all, the Cayman Islands are legendary for their luxury digs, offshore banking and primo watersports. I just looked forward to getting friendly with the chef.
The host resort was situated on one of Grand Cayman’s two sister islands, Cayman Brac, a long string bean of sand with a couple hundred permanent residents. From Grand Cayman, a hopper plane deposited us on the Brac, as the locals call it, and then a bus carted us twelve miles to the far eastern end of the island. There, at the edge of a 150-foot cliff, was The Windward Resort, so named because it faced the prevailing southeasterly trade winds. It didn’t take a Mensa committee to come up with the name but they’d done a nice job with the property. The brochure revealed that Brac means cliff in Gaelic, the native tongue of the early settlers.
The media crowd was an odd collection of journalists who I was about to get to know whether I liked it or not. Halston and Thompson, a public relations firm from New York organized the event. Carla Goldstein and Amy Lobe, two young Jewish princesses, represented the PR firm and both looked like their skin hadn’t seen ultraviolet light since the Pleistocene age. They were in their mid twenties, pretty enough to ask to dance and after several months of organizing this beast, seemed ready to cut loose.
My luggage consisted of one small carry on. I had a few swimsuits, five T-shirts, extra bottles of Xanex, Vicadin and Qualudes and my trusty laptop. Unencumbered, I bounced off the bus to meet the resort manager who stood next to his brand new electric golf cart.
“Hi, Peter Langford,” he said in a thick Scottish brogue. “It’s very fine to meet ya, indeed.”
“Hi, Jack Crevalle, LA Times,” I shook his hand. “Glad to be here.”
“Welcome to the resort. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”
“Thanks, I hope so.”
Peter was an elfish looking fellow, no more than five-foot-four, with a round belly and rosy cheeks set in a puffy face. His wiry gray hair and bushy mustache tousled about from speeding around in his cart. He was Santa Claus of the tropics with a jovial friendliness that made him instantly likable. In one hand he gently jiggled a gin and tonic with at least three slices of lime in the bottom of the glass. Either he had an affinity for lime or that was his third round. My guess was the latter. Yep, I was going to get along with Peter just fine.
After our brief introductions I hit the bar. Peter’s G&T had gotten my glands flowing faster than Pavlov’s dog. A four-piece steel band with ivory smiles thumped out some sweet reggae while a cute chocolate-skinned Caymanian waitress offered a tray of rum punches. I grabbed two before the rest of the hungry dogs picked up the scent of alcohol. The bartender had gone heavy on the rum. Things were looking up.
I had made it from bus to bar in all of thirty seconds but the rest of the crowd looked like they were planning on moving in. I watched slack jawed as they stumbled over obscene amounts of Samsonite. One guy brought golf clubs, scuba gear and tennis rackets as if he were competing in some bizarre Caymanian triathlon. A week with this crowd was going to require more patience than group therapy at Oak Meadows. At least most of us there knew we were crazy. This group hadn’t a clue.
At first blush, the resort felt like honey on a warm afternoon. They’d kept it quaint without any glass and marble glitz. The bar was a large chunk of polished mahogany and they’d carried that rich woody flavor throughout. Bright white lattice and matching metal roofs along with pastel accented trim looked like beach cottages in Nantucket. A two-story, U-shaped building faced the Caribbean so that each room opened to an interior balcony overlooking the large pool, hot tub and bar, creating a central axis of activity. So far, the place had a grand total of only forty rooms but they called this Phase I, so I expected a sequel or two, provided they sold out the first round.
As I enjoyed the cool drinks, I decided to entertain myself by nicknaming each of my comrades as they debarked the bus. The first guy was easy. He was undeniably Safari Joe. Dressed totally in khaki from boots to his absurd Australian hunting hat, he had cameras strapped all over his sweat-soaked shirt. At least thirty pounds overweight, he got redder and sweatier as he struggled off the bus. A grimace was glued across his blistered lips like a suckling pig on a luau spit. Put an apple in his mouth and the natives might have reverted to cannibalism. As his boots hit the ground, a lens popped out of his camera bag and disappeared into a hundred gazillion grains of sand. By the time he dug it out, sand had wedged into ever crevice. That lens had focused on its last subject. Breathing hard and struggling through the soft sand in his lace-up hiking boots, Safari Joe took one last look at the expensive lens, shrugged his shoulders and tossed it into a nearby trash can.
Apparently, he’d been over this turf before. I had no doubt that Joe was a fledgling freelancer with just enough photo credits to his name to make the press trip cut.
An older couple followed Joe and methodically passed six suitcases to a stunned porter. The man, I was assuming the husband, pushed past his wife and Peter, then grabbed two rum punches from the waitress. Before he slugged back the pink swill, he pulled the tiny umbrellas from the drinks, quickly folded them and dropped them into his shirt pocket. I noticed they had already donned the complimentary T-shirts and hats from the resort and had stuffed their pockets with snacks from the bus ride. I quickly realized that anything not bolted down was destined for their souvenir bag. I’d seen this kind of behavior before and it wasn’t pretty. I knighted them the dishonorable, Mr. And Mrs. Moocher.
They were obviously fam trip veterans who had managed to bill themselves as a writer/photographer team. Their hard camera case had stickers from every island in the Caribbean as well as one large one that read, “The Silver Sojourner - a Newsletter for Senior Travelers.” I later confirmed that the little news rag was their own, something they sent to a few retirees and used to get free vacations under the loose auspices of journalism.
Behind the Moochers came Mr. Gadget, tall, pale, wiry and dressed like he’d just stepped out of a cubicle at H & R Block. The thick glasses told of a childhood spent two feet from a TV screen watching too much Scooby Doo. As he climbed off the bus, he seemed to be talking to himself while punching on a Palm Pilot at the same time. Upon closer inspection, I saw a tiny wire from his belt-mounted cell phone leading to his ear, which proudly screamed, “I’m a hands-free, cell phone geek.” The rest of the paraphernalia on his belt would have made Batman envious. Accompanying his cell phone holster he had a pager, a hand-held satellite phone, a walkie talkie, what looked like a portable GPS, a digital camera, an MP3 player, a walkman TV and extra sets of batteries for every device. I could only imagine how many notebook computers and radar guns he had in his briefcase.
The parade would have been depressing if it wasn’t so comical. Then, to my dismay, I spotted Jane Savage, the legendary editor from New Yorker magazine. I wondered how’d they roped her into this deal. Was there a timeshare in her future or what? Savage was mid-40-ish with a full tank of high-octane sex appeal. Her wardrobe was smart but cut short and deep enough to make me realize that advertising still works. Besides making young men run for Viagra, she was highly respected and rewarded for years of sound journalism. Travel writing wasn’t her gig but apparently this week it was. Before I had time to process my shock, I saw her turn and talk to none other than my snake-in-the-grass nemesis, Patrick Farnsworth, who had just crawled out of an island limo, a white 1985 Lincoln Continental with purple shag carpeting on the ceiling and blinking lights around the license plate. I had the same question for him.
What was he doing here?
“Jack!” Farnsworth yelled. He’d spotted me. “Hey Jack! Over here!”
I tried to act like I hadn’t seen him but Farnsworth was on the verge of making a scene. I toasted him with my drink and waved him over. Getting up from the shade of my bar stool was out of the question.
“Hey Farnsworth,” I said with a rasp. “What the hell is up? Did we get our wires crossed? I thought this was my assignment.”
“Hey, cool off Sir Jack. It is absolutely your story. I’ve made landfall on this remote archipelago to report on the human side of this rich and diverse island country. Get a feel of the local people and all that. Don’t despair, I’m only sheltered in the calm of this pleasant alcove but for a couple of days. Then I move on to explore the far and wide, the pace of the villages, the road less traveled, you know, the rhythmic pulse of the island.”
“Right. Whatever,” I said rolling my eyes and being rudely reminded of why this guy always got under my skin. His articles came out like he talked, some kind of press release written by William Faulkner. But if I had to deal with him I might as well pump some gossip.
“So Farnsey, what’s up with Jane Savage?” I asked as nicely as I could. “Why is she down here?”
“Not sure, Jack,” he said hesitantly. “Can’t say.”
“Come on Patrick,” I gave him a pat on the back and a disarming smile. “I saw you two talking all chummy over there. You know the scoop. Cut old Jack in on the deal my man.”
He couldn’t resist my apparent friendship.
“Okay Jack, between you, me and the fence post, I’ve heard that the New Yorker has some grandiose contrivance going on here. Offshore banks, beach front property investments, a costly yacht and maybe some condo developments. I’m not privy to the details but it’s a high-rolling venture and Jane, I mean, Ms. Savage is connected to it all somehow.”
“Interesting,” I said rubbing my chin. “And a flashy spread in the New Yorker might help bring in some investors, something like that?”
“I guess so Jack. But she’ll be around the whole week, if the opportunity arises why don’t you ask the fair maiden yourself?”
“Yeah, maybe I will. Now Farnsey, let me ask you something else.”
“Be my guest,” he said with a Shakespearean wave of his hand.
“Be honest with me now Patrick, you’re really down here to back me up, right? You know, in case I don’t deliver the goods. I mean, I could easily just chuck my LA life and move into a cozy hammock down the beach somewhere. You guys might never hear from me again.”
“Absolutely not, Sir Jack. As I said, I’m here to blend into the culture and weave my own essay from the fabric of the people. Of course, if you do falter, it will be fortuitous to have old reliable Farnsworth on hand to, how shall I say, mold a poetic vase from the shards of narrative you’ve smashed on the proverbial marble floor.”
I let the dig pass. Sure he could do the resort piece in his sleep but for Farnsworth to think he could “blend into the culture” was as offbeat as an elephant tap-dancing with Fred Astaire. The only place he fit in was at his Chess Club potluck dinners. Once he got past the white bread of Caucasianism he was a lost puppy. What can I say? The dude was goofy. I tried to picture him interviewing a Rastaman grilling jerk chicken and smoking a fat spliff. My suspicions grew. I figured he’d been sent here exclusively to keep one eye trained my way just in case I went off the deep end. I trusted him like a sore tooth.
“So Farnsworth,” I asked. “who else is joining us on this adventure? It looks pretty thin at this point.”
“Yes Jack, but two more stellar journalists are arriving this evening. George Ford from Sport’s Afield and Peck Hunter from B&B magazine.”
“George Ford. Isn’t he the macho guy with that big-game fishing show on TV? Brings in world-record marlin and such.”
“Exactamundo, Sir Jack.”
“And what kind of name is Peck Hunter? Never heard of him or B&B magazine.”
“Je ne sais pas, Monsieur Jack. I just saw his name on the attendee list.”
“Sounds like a cozy group. Makes me want another drink. How about it Farnsworth?”
“No can do,” he said as he walked away. “I’ve got to prepare for the festivities of the welcoming dinner tonight.”
“What time?”
“Six o’clock sharp, Sir Jack. And I hear they put on a luxuriant spread to delight the palate.”
It was barely three o’clock and Farnsworth was already primping for dinner. He obviously needed plenty of time to style the tuft of hair that sat on his bald head like a squirt of whipped cream. I nodded to the bartender for one more rum punch to wash the taste of the conversation out of my mouth. As I reached in my pocket for a tip, I ran into my pill bottles. The rum had mellowed me nicely but a Vicadin or two would get me through the afternoon and in the perfect mood for tonight’s taste fest.
Just then, Amy and Carla from the PR firm came giggling out of the lobby and headed my way. With their wavy dark hair and handsome noses, they could have passed for sisters and, I was pleased to see that they’d shed their traveling clothes for skimpy swim suits.
“Mr. Crevalle,” Amy called out. “How is everything? Do you like your room?”
“I haven’t made it past the bar yet,” I said, “And please dispense with the formalities. You can call me Jack.. In fact, let me buy you both a drink. You’ve put on a first class show here and you deserve it.”
“Thanks,” they said in unison. “I’ll have a rum and coke,” Amy said.
“Same here,” Carla pitched in.
“Don’t forget the party tonight,” Amy said. “We’ve got a reggae band, lots of fun games and a limbo contest. Do you limbo Jack?”
The last thing I wanted to do was watch a bunch of drunk reporters wiggle under a bamboo stick. I might show up for a skinny dipping competition between Amy, Carla and Jane Savage but I didn’t think that was in the cards. But I was their guest so I had to at least fake it.
“Me? Limbo? Girls, let me tell you something. I was the Caribbean limbo champion from 1985 to 1987 - the only white man to ever hold the title. But I tragically pulled a left gluteus in the world finals in Trinidad in 1988 and my doctor told me I could never tango with the low bar again. It’s sad really but my competitive limbo days are behind me. I’m officially retired.”
“That is sad,” Amy said with genuine concern.
“But maybe you could give us some pointers,” Carla said.
“Girls, girls, I’d be more than happy to,” I offered generously. “I’ll tell you what, come by my room after dinner and I show you some moves, you know, a few yoga techniques I picked up over the years that might really help you.”
“That’ll be great,” Amy said. “Well, we’re going to get some sun. See ya.”
“Go easy on your first day,” I warned. “Think of white bread in a toaster oven. I’d hate for sunburn to knock you out of the limbo contest.”
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