A loud plop wakes me from a dream with a start. When I open my eyes, I’m greeted with a vision of underwater-themed curtains (seashells, crabs, sand dollars), and I realize that I’m in Jamaica. I take one cat-like stretch, luxuriating in the A/C, then, leap to my feet, scramble through my luggage, tossing anything that’s not swimwear over my shoulder, and, still sleepy, clumsily hop into a bikini. I make my way to the dock, but alas, my bravura leaves me: the water’s still a little chilly.
Instead, I make my way upstairs and hang over the balcony with S (does he ever sleep?), who points out what he calls a “Long Jaw,” a narrow, pale, gray-blue fish about the length of an arm, and feeds near the surface of the water. I can’t seem to find the common name for the thang--it’s not a barracuda (face ends in a point, no underbite), nor is it a trumpetfish (thinner snout). The internet tells me that it may be a cornetfish. Also featured prominently in S’s morning discourse is the feeding patterns of a large gray manta ray that came into our cove earlier. We’ll come back to the ray later.
We spend the a.m. talking about figuring out our itinerary (the task falls to me), discussing food plans with the cooks, and, of course, breakfasting.
I requested ackee and saltfish last night, a Jamaican breakfast staple made from dried cod and a fruit that is “poisonous when improperly prepared” (it's gotta be fully ripe--splits open on its own--and washed/boiled properly). Thanks, Wiki. Most folks describe the dish as reminiscent of scrambled eggs—the ackee has the consistency somewhere between eggs and avocado, almost custardy, but lighter, and it’s eaten with johnny cakes, what the cook and housekeeper tell us is a misnomer for journey cakes that slaves would take on longer journeys, either escaping or…I guess, journeying.
I try to simultaneously see what the cooks are doing and keep out of their way, until S makes the introductions, and the ladies, Angela and Lorna, give me a brief tutorial.
Boil saltfish to reconstitute and rid it of some of its saltiness. Chop the black seed off the end of ackee, boil. Fry onion, hot green pepper, tomato, black pepper. Add saltfish. Add ackee near the end.
We also have breadfruit, which V says tastes like yuca, and if yuca tastes like dry potato with vaguely bready finish, then, yes, it tastes like yucca.
T, t, and S are off to deal with family matters, to distribute shirts, and gum, and socks, and cash, and the three of us remaining are left to our own devices, which in short order turn into long naps for Y and V.
I sort of putter around aimlessly before I gird my loins and head into the water by myself, despite the gray day and my own neurotic apprehensions (you know, the ones that prominently figure great whites roaring out of the deep, mouths agape, eyes black stony voids, having traveled far out of their natural, cold-water territory to hunt me while I’m on vacation in what to them is unpleasantly warm waters--yeah, I know). I splash vaguely around, watching the various fish: big fish, little fish--you know the drill. I’m making another rotation around the limited area where I feel safe when I come face to face with a giant manta ray. It’s fuckin’ massive; its tail the length of me (about 5 feet), and it’s wingspan wider than mine. Its size and the rhythmic ripple and flutter of its wings, the ease and grace with which it flows through the water entrances me, and I'm sort of trailing it a little, until I come to my neurotic senses, think “Steve Irwin” and then sputter into my snorkel, “HOLY SHIT--BIG!” I turn tail and stroke my way back towards the dock. Suddenly, everything seems a little unsettling, the murk under the dock, the slimy stairs, and I’m throwing my finned feet awkwardly onto each rung in a panic.
(Later, when we kayak past neighbors on the same strip--white folks in a tiny house--that the rays come into the lagoon all the time, especially when it rains.)
I rush back into the house and tell Angela, the cook, Lorna, the housekeeper, and Chow, the butler, and the next door groundskeeper about the ray. I dunno if they give a damn, but I gotta tell someone, and V and Y are still asleep, the fuckers. They're suitably impressed, and I'm feeling better now that I've received their affirmation.
I deposit myself on the dock, where Chow has also set up shop, and begin chatting the kid up. The "butler" is a recently graduated 18 or 19 year old. Of course, I ask him about college, and his favorite subject--which is bio--and we discuss his fear of bullfrogs, the opposite island--dubbed Monkey Island and frequently used for filming jungle scenes by Hollywood (Portland most recently visited by the cast and crew of Knight and Day--the internet confirms it, so it must be true), Dudus and people’s love for him (apparently, one of the houses next door--owned by a politician--was a safehouse used by Dudus while he was on the run), the silly beef between Gaza and Gully, rival turfs headed by battling dancehall artists (Tupac v. Biggie?), smoking weed, the presence of barracuda and sharks in the surrounding waters (um, thanks, dude), and the superior quality of American tattoo ink based on the clarity and longevity of his tats versus mine (his assertion).
And that’s how Stella got her groove back.
Not.
I try to tough out my newly acquired fear of the water and swim back out a couple more times, encountering a few damsel fish who live/hang out by the wooden stairs off the dock, a couple of bright blues, and one particularly intrepid, velvety aubergine one that swims up to my mask every time I snorkel back to the steps.
Eventually, I decide to take a cat nap on the dock, thinking I'll need some rest, since everybody else is apparently conserving their energy by hibernating in their rooms. I'm called in by Angela, though, because they’ve brought back a mess of produce, and I've apparently already acquired a reputation as someone interested in food. I can't imagine why.
After mid-day, Angela calls V and me in--she’s disemboweled the jackfruit, and I start snacking on it, along with some toast I've made. Lorna says, “She just like a likkle kid, eatin’ jackfruit and a piece o’ bread!”
I dunno if this (jackfruit + bread) is specifically a foible common to Jamaican kids, or just that kids eat weird food combinations, but it's good, the jackfruit tasting like a cross between banana (the flavor) and a texture that's simultaneously fibrous and waxy and juicy (does not sound delicious, but is).
I'm starving by this time, what with it being well past noon and the snorkeling and the Fear, so I go off the deep-end and snack on Jamaican cheese doodles and a dense banana "holey bulla," a pastry with scone-y consistency and a doughnut shape.
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