Up De Hill

Like most of my days here, arriving back to Red Hook one day early from sailing school proved to be interesting. After the three-minute uphill hike to my little studio, I washed up and headed down to my landlord, Sandra’s office to let her know I would be moving in earlier than expected since she was allowing me to keep my stuff in the apartment while I was sailing. She seemed a little annoyed even though she had mentioned before I left I could move in any time and all my stuff was already there. She told me to call her daughter, Adrian, when I got home. I just smiled, apologized and headed to the laundromat.

Any time I head up the hill to my studio, I stop for a second, look up, take a deep breath and start counting. 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, I’m going to have a nice butt after living here for a month, 1-2-3-4, hope a car drives by soon, maybe they’ll give me a lift, 1-2-3-4, yeah, that’s the view I moved here for, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, am I going backwards, 1-2-3-4, almost there. After finally making it to the top I let out a sigh and unlocked the house and gave Adrian a call. Adrian lives on the same property in the house next door with her man-friend Chris.

She asked if she could come over to give me a walk through. A little confused as to why I needed a walk-through since my apartment is so small, I agreed, and she was over before I had time to sit down.

My apartment, in addition to being small is also very rustic, perfect training ground for living on a boat. In fact, Adrian referred to it as boat living several times. It is located on the bottom floor of Sandra and Ed’s cabin that, I am told by Sandra, was designed by famous architect Douglas White. Upon further investigation, I found a Douglas White Architect, but his website is no more than a homepage (but, who am I to judge, that’s all lizlacoco.com consists of right now too).

Weathered wood slats line the outside. Glass windows do not exist. The windows consist of wooden flaps hinged from the top. When the boards are propped open, they let in enough light and breeze to be comfortable. The screens throughout the apartment, although jankety, keep most of the bugs out and I haven’t found any gecko’s inside, yet. Adrian said I needed to keep all my food in the fridge so I don’t get a rat infestation. So even my pasta, canned goods and chips are kept in the fridge. When I asked about trash, she replied, “You’re on your own.” Alrightie then.

The quality of the apartment most resembling boat living would be the bathroom, which I have more appropriately labeled the head (the boat term for the bathroom). When I first saw the toilet, the electric blue water confused me. Adrian explained I was not to flush any toilet paper and to live by the mantra “if it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down.” Ooops, this is what the walk-through was for. I did not confess to my previous bathroom breaks. Apparently, all of our sewage goes to a septic tank right outside Adrian and Chris’s cabin. If toilet paper goes down, it clogs and they get to smell it. I crossed my heart and hoped to die that I would follow this rule. So that is what the blue water is about. I can deal. The showerhead comes right out of the wall and drains into the floor. This means everything must be waterproof in the head. It only took ruining one roll of TP to figure that one out. Since everyone on the property shares a 600-gallon cistern, showers are a little different Up De Hill (the name Sandra has given to her house). First, I quickly turn on the water and get completely wet. With the water turned off, I shampoo my hair, suds up, shave my legs, etc., etc. Then I rinse. Finally, I condition, and brush my teeth before one final rinse. Luckily, it’s always so hot; this system actually works for me. In the middle of telling me the run down Adrian mentioned that she had noticed I was taking a glucosamine supplement. She asked me if I noticed a difference. Then right after, she asked if I had been here for a while because she recognized me from the pictures in one of my photo albums. I said no, very surprised at the openness of her snooping.

One thing I have noticed about many folks living down here, they are not shy as to tell you their whole life story right of the bat. In the 20 minutes that Adrian was giving me the walk-through, she disclosed a lot of personal information to me, no questions asked. She moved here 4 years ago from New York after her husband died and has been living off of disability since then. I did not really know how to respond to this information, so I just stood there. Then she asked if I had met Chris and I followed her up the stairs and down to her cabin. “He can kind of be an intimidating guy. Don’t ever come over here without yelling or calling over first.” She yelled down that the new tenant was coming. Lounging, shirtless on a daybed, Chris, a 250 lb man, lifted his head and started to explain the importance of the toilet routine. I promised again, and headed home, unsure of what I had gotten myself into.

Later that day, I was headed down the hill when Chris drove by, he asked if I wanted a ride, I happily accepted. Because the only working door was on the back passenger side, I found myself being chauffeured to the bottom of the hill. He used this alone time to give me some quick tips. “Sandra and Ed don’t really like me getting involved but, I understand that you don’t have a car, so trash is no problem, I can help you out. And Ed, Ed just drives so fast. I’ve told him to slow down. He should really warn his tenants. But, if you hear a car on the driveway, jump to the bushes.” I thanked him for the advice and trash offer and hopped out of the car.

The Place to Escape

Three weeks in. Although not fully submerged, I’m in deep. Already involved, not by choice, on the periphery of island drama. And I thought Arcata was small. This 13-mile by 3-mile island puts things into perspective. My sailing instructor, Capt. Jessica, put it well, “everyone here is escaping something, whether is the busy-ness of a 9-5, or something else, you have to be a certain person to move here.” When I try to trace back my motivation for moving here, I believe it can be attributed to a series of events that date back to my sophomore year of college.

One blustery Sunday night in Baltimore City, I decided it was a good idea to explore the bus route with Zoe. Not a good idea. Sorry Mom and Dad. It was the first time my parents allowed Zoe to visit. I was 20 and she was 16, just old enough to drive up to Towson. I didn’t take into account that it was a holiday weekend. Oooops. The bus dropped us off in Mt. Vernon near the Walters and Peabody. It was 8pm and nothing was open. The bus never came back. The only safe place that I thought might have something open in close distance was Fells Point. We walked to the inner harbor and caught a cab. The only place that was open was Meli’s, a greek-owned trendy cocktail restaurant. It was 21 and over only, and for some reason, they allowed us in no problem.

The only table left in the classy dark basement was located right in front of the Ryan Diehl jazz band. We sat down, and started chit chatting with Ian Hoffman (I’m unsure if his last name is Hoffman, but that is how I remember this fact from a one-time encounter 3 years ago). Ian was a local restaurant/bar/hotel critic. I remember trying to figure out how I could someday acquire his job. Anyway, he was asking me where college kids liked to go etc etc etc. Ian happened to be friends with the drummer Ryan, and in between sets he would come over and we would talk about sailing since Zoe and I were from St. Michaels. He casually mentioned the Virgin Islands, and spending winters chartering his sailboat down there. Over the next few years, I stayed in loose contact with Ryan, and we joked about me working for his charter boat Liberty.

I guess this is where my escape part of the story comes in. Damn it. I had excluded myself from Jessica’s comment until just now. I’ll make a long story short, leaving out the dirty details. I fell in love in California. Our relationship was on and off for the entirety of my residence in Arcata. I realized that since he couldn’t commit to any of my adventures I would just have to do them alone. I wasn’t going to wait around for a stupid boy. Even though I still imagine how it would be different if he had come along. But I’ll still justify my move as a desire for adventure. Honestly, it was a combination of my whole life that led me to where I am right now.

So here I am. Quickly falling in love with the water, wind, sunsets, and sights. And slowly falling in love with the rest of it.

homejobblog

Well folks, I did it. I found a job and a home in exactly one week. Neither is what I expected…at all. But that makes life interesting. Ironically, I stumbled upon my new home when I was in Sandra’s Office Supply making copies of ‘Room Wanted’ flyers. I had printed all of my resumes at the business earlier in the week. The office is shared with Ed’s (Sandra’s husband) Blade and Key business. With exactly enough room for three customers to stand, I handed Sandra my USB drive and asked for twenty-five copies. She pulled up my Resume and began correcting things. “No, don’t put this in here.” “Word it this way.” She did have a point. Thirty minutes later I headed out with twenty-five revised resumes. Thank you, Sandra. After such great business I decided to return a few days later to make flyers for jobs and rooms. While proofreading my flyers, Sandra casually asked what I was looking for. I asked her if she had any hot leads and she asked if I had time to look at the studio apartment below her place. We drove two minutes up Red Hook Mt Rd to her gorgeous home. She charges me $150 less per month than any other places in the "safe" neighborhoods. Thank you, Sandra. And since the Office Supply, Blade and Key business is all encompassing, Sandra also offers a Mail Service. So I have a mailing address on the island too.

As for the job-I’m crewing for Capt. Robert Manley. He's been on the island since 1975, when he was 19 years old.

Dockwalk Magazine (“Essential Reading for Superyacht Captains and Crews”) breaks down the most effective method of finding a job:

41% Friends aka you know someone

32% Crew agencies

9% Former Employers

9% Walking the Docks

6% Online

2% Networking

1% Chatting local bars

0% Other (they listed that, so I thought I would too…)

I landed my job Other. After a long, hard day of boating around the St. John, Tortola, and Pirate’s Bay (and job-hunting, of course), I found myself on the dock at Compass Pt Marina. As I watched Bob and Andy wash off “Livin’ the Dream,” the vessel of our adventures for the day, Elijah bummed a cigarette off of Robert. We all got to talking and like everyone else that seems to know anything about boating, I gave him my number to call if he heard of any work. He called me the next day and said that he had a charter on Tuesday, if I wanted to give it a try. I accepted, even though the job was crew on a Sting Ray, which is a powerboat or “stink-pot” as Miss J, would say. It turned out to be a fun day of cruising around wherever the guests would like. Checking into customs, boozin, swimmin, shoppin. He said that I could work for him throughout the season. There is more money in powerboating charters but my heart is still set on sailing.

Two in One

7 November 2011

“It’s been one of those days,” the hostess whispers as she spills ice and a plastic cup into my lap, “just throw it on the floor, that’s how we clean it.” As I sit on the plane to St. Thomas, I can’t help but feel very excited and even more nervous. I have no idea what to expect. Weighed down with a 48.7 lb backpack (just made the 50lb and under requirement), large day pack, violin and hula-hoop, this is first time I have lived solely off of what I can carry. I’m thinking that I may not have needed to pack my face paint, hula hoop or fuzzy bear hat, but I just have that gut feeling that I would regret it if I left them behind. Other than Elijah, an acquaintance/friend/ex co-worker, I know no one on the island. Although I am nervous about finding a job, house, and community, I know that everything always works out one way or another. I don’t really have any reason to leave Arcata other than the desire for adventure. I am leaving amazing friends, the most beautiful forests, oceans, rivers, and mountains, and the comfort of security behind.

The plane is full of vacationers, of the conversations I have overheard, many people are excited to lie on the beach and partake in the island’s abundance of rum. Every couple I scope out seems to be in honeymoon mode, rocking their new sparkling diamond rings and still madly in love. There has been no one on my adventure from SF to this point (1 hr away from Charlotte Amalie) that has intrigued me enough to interact. Even with my lack of interest, I have received a lot of attention—although I think my cornrow hairstyle and hula-hoops are the root of the looks and comments. My plan for the rest of the afternoon is to settle in at Miss J’s house, hope it’s not a scam.

9 November 2011

So here I am, the end of my third day in the islands. I am lying in bed at 8:40pm, completely wiped out. A recurring thought that frequents my mind these days is “What am I doing? Seriously, what am I doing?” For being job-less, friend-less, and soon to be homeless, I am surprisingly not too stressed. The past two nights I have been staying with Miss J, a 76-year-old New Zealander I found on craigslist a couple months ago. I’m really glad she wasn’t a scam, although my current living situation is the most unique to-date, in my experience.

With an active lifestyle, model body, and high cheekbones, I was shocked when Miss J admitted her true age to me. She preceded this information with a demonstration of 3 jitsu moves, of which I could only do 2. She has also entertained me with stories of glamour photography, her pet Cheetah of 5-years, sailing from Canada to Australia, and various romances. She has been very supportive and helpful.

I think that moving to the Virgin Islands is going to prove to be healthy for my mind, body, and spirit—even though cigarettes and booze are the ONLY things that are cheaper here than the States (cigarettes-$3, handle of Bombay Sapphire Gin-$15, health like Miss J-Priceless). I have no desire to drink, do drugs, party, or eat unhealthily. Since arriving here on Monday, I have quit smoking cigarettes cold turkey. And it has not been difficult at all (sorry Mom, although you probably already knew, since mom’s always do, you have Miss J to thank for that one). With the heat, I have no appetite, I must remind myself to eat, which has never been an issue. This is faring well for my pocket since groceries are so expensive.