Mister Grumpy, Ep. 226

I don’t want to be that guy, that old guy, that constantly complains about how life was better before. I remember as a kid the stark divide between my parent’s friends. A few were free-spirited social creatures, with an addictively happy mindset. But others were less so. Caught in the conundrum of an aging body, seeking the comfort of the familiar, yet finding everything new, awkward and difficult. I get it now. When parts of you don’t work the way they were originally designed, the comfortable, the predictable is where you want to be. I remember my maternal grandfather would eat oatmeal (‘porridge’) every morning, never wavering from the tried and true. And I find myself succumbing to this same gravitational pull. Yet, the world is changing, whether we like it or not. We have to pick between fighting it – tooth and nail – or putting up with it.

As we headed north from Martinique, sailing our newly refreshed stead of the sea, the craggy, mountainous island of Dominica came into view. When asked the common question back in 2007 when we sailed these parts with our young kids, what was our favorite part of the Caribbean, Karen and I would often speak in unison about the splendors of Dominica. Our non-sailing friends would look puzzled, thinking that we were speaking of the Dominican Republic. Not many had heard of Dominica, and maybe that is why a visit to the island had been so special. We had explored the rain forest interior, swam under raging, ice-cold waterfalls, smelled fresh lemongrass along the roadside, and opened up a cocoa pod to suck on the slimy sweet bean inside that would eventually dry out to form cocoa powder. It was eco-tourism before there was eco-tourism. The streets were rundown, many homes lacked electricity, but the people were exceeding kind and friendly. They were proud of their high numbers of centenarians, and it was no wonder, given the healthy food, clean air, and neighborly compassion.

We were not the only ones touched by the divinity of Dominica. Many years ago, a foreigner, working with the local boating community, funded the PAYS (Portsmouth Area Yacht Security) organization. Previously, when you approached the bay of Portsmouth, the main area to anchor in Dominica, you were solicited by a random collection of ‘boat boys’ offering mooring buoys and tours. The mooring buoys were of questionable quality, and the services provided could be very inconsistent. PAYS brought structure to the harbor, purchasing nice new mooring buoys with the new funding and constructing a stout building ashore from which the boat boys could operate. To continue the funding of their organization, PAYS offers a twice weekly chicken barbecue at the shore building. We sampled the wares with our friends Pat and Brian, and I can only say that the unlimited rum punches were a definite factor in the dancing on table tops that came after dinner! The boat boys still operate as an independent business, but the formation of a community around yacht services has helped them deliver a better experience. We spoke to several of the older men at PAYS who spend a portion of their time training the younger guys on how to conduct island tours, where they can go to share access to tour vans, and how to operate overall as a professional business. If I were to compare it to our experience back in 2007, it was a natural progression and maturing of a small business, akin to a couple of eager lemonade-stand entrepreneurs finding stability in buying a lemon grove and juicing machines.

Martin was our guy for touring the island. He filled his minivan with a shocking 13 people and at times I wondered if we would get up the steep hills and cross over the pothole strewn back roads that take one to the natural wonders of Dominica. We made it into the wilderness and back out to tell the tale, while Martin lamented that a brand new van, with A/C, working seatbelts, interior door panels and suspension would cost over $100,000 to import onto the island. I wondered if the timing near the end of the tour was meant to induce a healthy tip!

Directly ashore from where we had anchored Sea Rose was a large three story resort right on the beach. It looked grand in its white facade and healthy sprinkling of tall palm trees. I did not recognize it from our visit back in 2007. Later, walking down a dusty road full of heavy construction equipment, the truth came out. The grand arch of an entrance was decayed and crumbling. The walls of the building were in need of patching. The foundation in places looked like it had settled into soft sand and had become unstable. Known as the Moroccan Hotel, it was built in 2011 from donated funds from the Moroccan government. It is always suspicious when a foreign government gives a tiny, poor nation a ‘gift’ of money. These often are less a gift and more of a business exchange, sometimes made obvious, other times brokered and implemented behind the scenes. This hotel was originally designed for a site next to the airport on the other side of the island, with the ambition of attracting more flights to an airport that gets very little in passenger flow. Suddenly the plan was changed and it was plopped down here on the shores of Portsmouth on a site that was effectively a partially dried up swamp. The reason for the sinking foundation should now be apparent. The site is now home to a bustling flock of goats which provided some levity while we considered how it was possible for an island government to squander funds while mis-managing basic construction and engineering protocols for site selection.

This needs to be compared to the lavish Intercontinental Cabrits Hotel just on the other side of the swamp, with well-heeled patrons strolling the waterfront and lounging by the pool, another establishment that was not here back in 2007. It was starting to remind me a bit of Jamaica. Wealthy tourists sequestered in their plush all-inclusive resort confines while outside the guarded gate were one room concrete homes next to stagnant roadside drainage ditches with fragrant smells, and dark grocery store aisles selling hand-packaged sugar and flour purchased by barefoot locals – locals that were eager to initiate or return an enthuiastic ‘Good Morning’, by the way. I wanted the later, in all it’s authenticity. But had the train already left the station? Behind the Intercontinental, I discovered the reason for all of the heavy construction equipment. A large marina was being built, literally out of the swamp. Excavators were busy digging trenches that would soon welcome superyachts on new floating docks, once the barrier separating the marina from the sea had been opened.

Would this siphon yacht business away from our dear, sweet boat boys and their beautifully mature PAYS organization? Would anyone still dance on the table tops in innocent rum-infused revelry? Indeed, what was the future for Dominica? After being kissed by its charm in 2007, and being drawn back to its beauty in 2026, I worried about its staying power. Worried, I remind you, but not yet a grumpy old man!