On our 35th, Taking Selfies at Trunk Bay Beach Overlook
In frigid winds of an early polar vortex, sinking in seasonal affective disorder, a photo strikes me from my Instagram feed.
After reading the caption - Trunk Bay Beach, consistently rated one of the world’s best - I convert the jpg to my desktop wallpaper.
One dismal morning, icy rain pinging against window glass, I stare at the image like it was porn.
In a trance, the thought takes root in my brain --
This is the very spot we need to celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary.
White sand, opal and turquoise water against the bluest sky, daiquiris in hand, I imagine Melanie and I basking under tropical sun with an impossible rainbow celebrating our lifetime love together.
Lost in my fantasy, humming Two Tickets to Paradise, I Google – trip cost virgin islands – and quickly discover just how much money Eddie is talking about.
Snowball’s chance in hell that’s going to happen, I say to myself while the monkeys in my mind chant a dirge in pitch black caves buried deep beneath frontal lobes. Without ceasing through a moonless night they howl --
De-Spair, De-Spair, De-Spair, De-Spair …
•
The following morning, my daughter calls to let me know Jose posted bail again.
Again? I ask, I’m losing count.
Annalyse sighs and says -
Another stretch of living out of my car, sleeping in the basement of friends.
I’m so sorry, I say again to my daughter.
Also, the criminal court case got continued.
Again? I ask, I’m losing count.
Another day lost in a protected room outside the courtroom — popping antacids, building towers of fidget toys with other women in danger.
I’m so sorry, I say again to my daughter.
It is what it is, she says as her mantra.
It is what it is, I repeat.
Shifting subjects, my daughter asks -
So, what are you and mom doing for your 35th?
Rising to my mouth with the force a Tourette’s tic, I blurt -
A trip to a Caribbean Island.
I quickly send her my wallpaper of Trunk Bay Beach.
Hell yes, Dad, my daughter screams. You guys need to go for it. Your marriage deserves a tropical celebration.
It will never happen, I tell Annalyse with conviction.
Why not? she asks.
Your mom would never go for something that extravagant.
I think you might be surprised, my daughter responds.
•
Encouraged by Annalyse’s enthusiasm, I tell my wife sheepishly a few hours later --
I think I might have a great idea for our 35th.
Oh yeah? she asks, and I see her flashback to a previous anniversary — a discount cabin down a holler, mirrors on the ceiling, neon Schlitz sign humming, leaking lukewarm indoor hot tub, and the sound of confederate flags wildly whipping through open windows to cover the pungent smell of what we hope is pet piss.
Trust me, I promise, this is nothing like our 32nd.
That’s good news, my wife says flatly, it took a couple of penicillin prescriptions to heal that rash.
Pulling out my iPhone, I say —
Instead of telling you, let me show you.
Staring at the wallpaper image of Trunk Bay Beach, my wife’s bright green eyes light up.
I absolutely love it, oh, what a great idea, Rob, Melanie says bouncing like Tigger, hugging and kissing me like we are newlyweds.
Coming up for breath, Melanie asks -
Can we snorkel with turtles?
On Trunk Bay Beach, you bet, I proclaim.
Hesitating a moment, I say -
But what about the cost?
My wife smiles at me and asks --
How many people get to be in love 35 years with their best friend? Our love deserves a lavish celebration, or at the very least a looking into it.
•
Two weeks out from our December 27th, celebrating our 35th anniversary on Trunk Bay Beach, Melanie and I manage to tag-team an itinerary stitched together through some necessary sacrifices --
· Two round-trip tickets on Spirit Airlines
· 8-hour layovers, coming and going, in Orlando
· The last condon on St. Thomas,with an ocean view, one island over from St. John, the home of Trunk Bay Beach
After pressing Send Payment, my wife and I high-five, and when she asks me –
Are you ready for another adventure together?
I smile and hear my monkeys begin to chatter like they’ve stumbled into a grove of banana trees.
Monkeys Is the name I give to my struggles with mental illness.
When my daughter, a therapist, once challenged me —
Choose an animal metaphor to describe the physical sensation of mental illness,
Monkeys is what I say to her.
Mine is bees, Annalyse laugs , swarms of them.
The technical name for what we both experience is ‘catastrophizing,’ Annalyse explains. It’s a fancy name for an uncanny ability to arrive instantly at the worst possible outcome.
On the first leg of our trip to paradise for our 35th anniversary, I begin to catastrophize when Melanie and I board seats 32B and 32C of a Spirit Airlines red-eye to Orlando.
Across the aisle, in 35E, we hear a man coughing like he is suffering from covid, influenza, and COPD all at the same time.
In my mind, I hear multiple wings unfurl, batting foul air.
With some alarm, I attempt to whisper to my wife -
Eez caufin outta lunz —
is what my wife hears, shaking her head, pointing to my facemask.
Overcompensating an increase of volume, I say way too loudly -
He’s coughing out his lungs.
Seeing a panic rise in the eyes of the woman in 37C, I hiss to Melanie more than speak —
Literally, the man is spewing out bloody pieces of lung tissue.
Checking the size of my pupils, she responds calmly — Rob you are catastrophizing again.
Then why is the poor man’s napkin have red spots? I plead.
My wife looks at tray table of 32E and reports -
It’s ketchup, you crazy man.
On freaky cue, the elderly man reaches again for the napkin and, offering proof for my theory, spews out more pieces of lung into his napkin, a blood-splattered gothic canvas.
I don’t recall the term ‘chunky-style ketchup’, I reply to Melanie like a lawyer near conclusion.
Looking deeply into my eyes, hands softly on my shoulders, employing Occam’s razor, my wife asks me to consider another possibility at the same time my throat begins to feel scratchy.
She begins her argument like she’s posing a question to the jury --
What if the elderly man in 32E is simply eating a sandwich with lots of ketchup on it and coughs violently?
I pause, coughing a little myself as I consider her argument.
Timidly, I admit to my wife her theory provides an alternative story.
Take a Xanax, dude! Melanie says, you’re gonna need your sleep.
After pressing the call light, an attendant delivers a $7 Jack chaser to help me fall into dreams of invisible, often fatal, viruses circulating through the ventilation system of Spirit Airlines Flight#3800 headed for Orlando, the city of dreams, for a rainy night layover on our way to paradise.
In a black-and-white nightmare, flashes of a Trunk Beach Rainbow interrupt.
•
Walking to our hotel’s legendary night shuttle service, I follow my wife with a more serious cough.
I fear I may be losing my covid virginity in the arms of paradise, I deadpan joke to my wife, who doesn’t find it funny.
Don’t! she says.
After waiting an hour and a half, looking down at her iPhone, Melanie informs me -
Apparently, our hotel’s 24-h0ur shuttle service ends at midnight.
A third-shift representative says our best bet is to call a taxi.
At 1:07 am, our cabby, the spitting image of Osama Bin Laden, sans turban, drives us one mile to our hotel.
74 dollars, he tells us, reaching out his hand, cash only.
Before the monkeys in my mind have the chance to stir, Melanie counts the money in her purse and makes Osama an offer he can’t refuse.
We have $24, that’s it, she says exhausted. Take it or leave it.
No doubt dropping multiple f-bombs in his native tongue, our cabby takes our money and I push 2 in the hotel elevator praying for three-and-a-half hours sleep.
•
Arriving in St. Thomas on the morning of our 35th wedding anniversary, Melanie takes the driver’s seat of our budget rental, and says to me -
You are in no condition to drive, what with your monkeys and all, especially down the left side of the road. You navigate for us.
I eagerly agree, launching Siri, more than happy to find our way to paradise.
Repeating stay left, stay left, stay left, Melanie pulls out into traffic, throwing stones.
Hey Siri, I say — Directions to 173 Point Pleasant Resort, St. Thomas Island.
Working on it, says Siri, sparking some concern between my wife and I.
I’ll try Hunky Guy, I tell Melanie , the nickname I give the very Barry White-bass-sexy voice she chooses for AI.
On it, Hunky Guy says somewhere between a rad tan Californian surfer and Darth Vader minus the death rasp.
Suggesting there’s no real need to worry, Melanie says to me --
I’ve read that the internet can be sketchy in St. Thomas.
Explain sketchy, I ask her as I hear monkey spears sharpen on whetstone.
Hours offline, sometimes a day.
Unable to connect, Hunky Guy confirms, shaking his coiffed blonde digital hair in the air, please try again later.
In the chaos of apeshit monkeys, I follow our catastrophizing script –reject the lie, deep breathe, think of a destination beyond a terrible dead end.
They gave out this map at the airport, I tell Melanie, now I know why.
Reading glasses on, we find Point Pleasant Resort, the location of our condo with an ocean view. Mapping the quickest possible route, we pull onto Route 30, stones flying, driving on the wrong side of the road, tourists traveling the wrong side of the island.
Ready for another adventure? my wife asks.
Hell yes! I yell above screeching hysterical monkeys, who somehow find it all unbelievably hilarious.
For mile after mile, on our 35th wedding anniversary in paradise, we stare out at wild brown scraggly beaches, dilapidated homes with pastel paint peeling, listening to complaints of rusting boats abandoned to high winds.
Doing a spot-on impression of Eeyore, I tell my wife -
Great, we spent all this money for this kind of tropical beauty?
Don’t, she says.
Still working on it, Siri reports.
•
Through the messy process of trial and error, we spend the next two hours wandering like drunken Ishmael until Siri interrupts with good news —
Directions to 173 Point Pleasant Resort.
We arrive two hours after check-in, the sun beginning to set on our anniversary plans.
Exhausted, yet hopeful, Melanie punches in the digits I dictate our passcode into Paradise. My monkeys howl when the light turns red 7 times in a row, taking flight with Wicked Witch wings, chanting like ancient Druids.
dude got duped dude got duped dude got duped dude got duped dude got duped dude got duped dude got duped …
After three failed calls to the owner of the property, Melanie leaves a phone message.
What was I thinking? I wail to my wife. The only place I could find with an ocean view? You’ve got to be kidding. We’ve been scammed.
Stop! she says to me as her phone rings.
30 seconds later, Melanie types in a new code, and the door to paradise opens like the gate to Gondor –
Welcome Friends.
Uncurling from fetal position, in mid-tropical meltdown, I rise with dignity and complain —
They changed the code and forgot to tell us?
They said they were really sorry, Melanie says.
And that’s always enough for you, isn’t it?
You silly, silly man, my wife laughs and takes my hand. Walking through our condo to a balcony with an ocean view. This is what we see.
This will do, I say.
This will do, my wife repeats with a smile.
•
Sipping cocktails named Star Drops and Sex on the Beach looking out as slivers of orange moon ray dance on dark water, my wife takes a deep breath and says --
What perfect timing, us being here together.
It’s been a year, I say, sighing as well.
We speak together of a season of suffering - losing our beloved son-in-law to drugs and untreated trauma, watching our daughter’s terrifying journey to feel safe, enduring the suicides of two of our friends (bringing the count to 7 during the last five years), living in a community, nation, and world spinning in widening gyre between us and them with a center that cannot hold.
Toasting with a Painkiller, sharing a meal of grilled Red Snapper with citrus and chive sauce, we absorb beauty in silence.
Quoting my favorite verse, and my father’s before me, I take my wife’s hand –
Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is altogether lovely, think about such things.
In our 35 years of marriage the verse defines a shared quest for beauty that draws and bonds us in our wide range of diversity.
Through a lifetime together, we --
Watch pink sky sunsets of the white sands of Pensacola Beach, the sound of waves washing over children laughing and seagulls crying.
Side by side, summer after summer, lying together on a lawn blanket, under a starry sky, we listen to James Taylor sing about fire and rain again and again and again.
Retreat each fall into bright October morning fog ablaze with reds, oranges, and yellows.
See a plastic bag spinning in the wind on a big screen leading us to believe in an endlessly creative God, the author and source of whatever is true and altogether lovely.
Pursue together beauty and art –
the dearest freshness deep down things in a poet’s words.
Moon over restaurant Ocean180, on our 35th wedding anniversary, we soak in the beauty all around us.
Breaking our trance, Melanie asks me --
Do you remember the song Sue sang at our wedding?
There is a Joy in the Journey, I say, and Melanie continues,
There is a wonder and wildness to life and freedom for those who obey.
Walking the path to our condo with an ocean view, we watch white clouds and sails skitter along dark water and blue sky. We thank each other for all the wonder and wildness of life living together.
Pulling back the curtains of our bedroom, opening a view of the ocean, we make love and fall into a deep sleep, spooning together again, the sound of waves and light of moon washes over us in the waning hours of our 35th anniversary in paradise.
•
Over the next few days, the monkeys in my mind share ganja joints on white sand beaches, taking some long overdue time for serious chillin.’. Minus the chaos they sow, my wife and I fully explore the beauty of a celebration of our love together, one that endures and grows.
Together, along roads ruled more by suggestion than law, we bask on beaches named Sapphire, Magens Bay, Lindquist, Coki Point, and, ultimately, if all goes according to plan, Trunk Bay.
We share meals of Cabrales Oporto Filet Mignon or Big Jerk Chicken while drinking Snoozy Boozys and Chacha Chatas at restaurants named Bleu Water, Secret Harbor, and Sea la Vie.
With little time to spare, we race off to the capital city of Charlotte Amalie to see a sunset bathed in brilliant yellow and orange fade in a falling darkness -- yielding to a series of white-light pinpricks of homes and stars piercing dark night.
We see iguanas bask, pelicans dive, and brown boobys glide, slow drafting wakes of Behemothic cruise ships.
We practice snorkeling for our day with sea turtles on Trunk Bay Beach, me looking like Vader sucking air listening to Steely Dan again.
Having both tested off the recordable limits on Myers-Briggs for spontaneity, there were only two rules for our trip to paradise --
Spend extravagantly on just one thing.
End under a rainbow, snorkeling with sea turtles on St. John’s Trunk Bay Beach.
On the second to last day in paradise, basking at Sapphire Beach, making plans for an afternoon ferry to St. John Island, Melanie looks up, pointing at a parasail brightly color the bluest sky.
I think I might like to do that, she tells me, for our one big thing.
Talk dirty to me, I say, having begged her to parasail through summers in Pensacola.
Don’t! my wife says.
Why don’t you call to see if they have an opening? I ask Melanie. We don’t have to take it.
A minute later, hand cupped over her phone, Melanie says with shaking voice –
They wonder if we can be there in 45 minutes; it’s their last opening.
After confirming the 2 pm appointment, Melanie utters a stream of staccato disbelief, -
Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m doing this, oh my gosh, oh my gosh.
Are you ready for another big adventure together? I ask her.
Now is as good of time as any, she says, repeating a G-rated protest over doing any such damned thing.
Boarding a boat named Just Chute Me with 8 other patrons, Chip and Dale, two young tan dudes with ripped muscles and curly blond hair, hook us into our seats and launch us into a tropical blue sky. Through a waterproof case, my iPhone records our sky adventure together. Here is one minute of how it begins.
The adventure ends with my normally loquacious wife taking a seat in silence with the same look I remember after accidentally slamming a bat in her lap with a tennis racquet after watching a Jim Carey movie.
Checking the size of her pupils, I ask Melanie –
Did you love it?
She stares vacantly in front of her like a homeless person in subzero temperature.
Did you like it? I try again, getting the same lack of response.
I hated it, she turns and whispers to me, matter-of-factly.
Is it a fear of heights? I ask.
No, it’s my proprioception, she explains, referencing an accident of 1000 pounds of drywall boards falling on her foot several years ago.
Your what? I ask.
Proprioception, she says, It’s this feeling of being lost in space.
Welcome to my world, I joke with her. That’s how I feel every second of my life.
She attempts a chuckle, breathes deeply, and says –
I’m glad I did it, but never again.
As we step off Just Chute Me, I comfort her, next time we’ll do the snorkel tour with sea turtles.
That’ll do, my wife laughs.
•
The morning of our last day on paradise, a mile out from Trunk Bay Beach, I see vehicles parked along the road at precarious angles and sense the monkeys in my mind stir for the first time in a awhile.
After waiting in line, Melanie pulls into the parking lot of Trunk Bay Beach, and I see only 50 or so parking spots, all full with many vehicles waiting.
On one of the world’s best beaches and you only have 50 spots, I complain to a non-plussed attendant, and he responds without mercy –
Should have taken a cab.
Calculating the potential wait time for an open spot, I arrive at the 13th of Never.
On our way to another beach with a larger parking lot, Melanie pats my hand like she does with a crying baby.
It’s all right, she says, the next beach over will be great, too.
Pulling my hat down over my eyes, I mumble –
Thousand to 1 it doesn’t have a rainbow.
Basking and sulking away the last hours in paradise at far-inferior-to-Trunk Bay beach, I turn up the volume to Only a Fool Would Say That to cover a chorus of my monkeys screeching --
Be-trayed, Be-trayed, Be-trayed …
On our way back to the ferry, I tell my wife to pull off the road at Trunk Bay overlook.
If we can’t have the experience, rainbow high in the sky of Trunk Bay Beach, at least we should take some lousy selfies to add to our collection.
In our rental car, my wife swipes through the photos we take.
Wow, my wife, says, you do not look like a happy camper.
She hands me the phone to see for myself.
It looks like I have burning hemorrhoids I can’t itch, I say.
Don’t!, she says, breaking into a howl of laughter loud enough to drown my monkeys out.
At the end of our trip to paradise, on an overlook high above Trunk Bay Beach, we nearly pee ourselves in laughter.
Arriving at the airport for a trip back to gray skies, subzero temperatures, and continued criminal court cases, my wife kisses me warmly and shares —
We had a spectacular adventure together in paradise in celebration of our love together.
In direct defile of monkeys screaming, I say —
Yes, we did.
I know what my beloved wife of 35 years says is true, and altogether lovely.