The Man at the Watersports Desk

By Bård Edlund

My wife and I recently vacationed on a Caribbean island. The thing about islands is, they tend to be surrounded by water. So, you can’t really get to them on foot, unless you’re Jesus or something. Even then, it’s kind of a walk.

You can take a boat if you have the time. Like, all the time, in the entire world. We opted for a flight, which I was able to book online for a very reasonable price until the last screen reminded me that the entire airline industry is a joke. Not a funny ha-ha joke, but the kind where you’re forced to pay $150 for half an inch more leg-room than you would get in the theoretical world in which any other seat is available.

Let me not dwell. Without further complications, we arrived on St. Martin in time for lunch at our resort’s restaurant. True to the subtle hint in its name, Beach Café is located right on the beach, so you can watch people do beach stuff while you eat. One day I was enjoying a BLT sandwich and a mother and daughter. They were preparing to go kayaking, with help from the man at the watersports desk.

As an aside, if you search for watersports on the Internet, you will come to realize the world of sports has broadened immensely. Some contests are now centered around peeing on people in silk blouses. While nobody’s really keeping score, Germans dominate.

Anyway, the man from the watersports desk is probably more of a traditionalist, despite his “frosted tips” hairstyle and neon pink shirt. He had gotten the mother and daughter into their kayak and pointed it towards the ocean, which was ferocious and undulating at this particular time. And not like Beyoncé either. Shit was about to get real.

Somehow both fast and slow, the man from the watersports desk gave the kayak a push, and in an instant turned around and sleepwalked back to his post in a manner exemplifying French service — or “disinterest,” as it’s called elsewhere.

Within seconds, the mother and daughter team unfortunately expired, or so I assumed based on the sudden unconventional orientation of the kayak, and the lack of air bubbles, or notice, on part of the Frenchman. The ladies eventually emerged from the water, and the mother heroically managed to get the expedition going.

The next day I convinced my wife we should go kayaking, seeing as how other guests had survived it.

We went to the watersports desk and spoke to the man with the loud pink shirt. He had even less use for my wife’s questions than I do, and threw us life jackets before dragging a kayak through the sand towards the water.

Using female intuition and probably witchcraft, my life partner got her life jacket on and ran after the hurried helper, while I remained somewhat confused and tangled. In a semi-panic, I also remembered that I was supposed to be responsible for tipping. I handed some dollars to a second man at the desk, before running after Mr. Pink, his kayak, and my wife.

I asked our guy about my life jacket, but he was busy putting the kayak into the waves and the cart before the horse. He seemed relatively annoyed that I didn't know how to put on my life jacket. Annoyed the way Hitler was annoyed about the Jews.

He angrily mumbled while pulling on various straps and bending my arms as he saw fit, and he saw them fit in unique ways that didn't necessarily agree with a traditional view of human anatomy. Nevertheless, I felt bad for holding him up, and attempted to smile and apologize. While my friendly demeanor didn't seem to impress him, he got us packed into the kayak and sent us off with less disastrous results than expected. I spent our kayaking excursion assuring myself that my tip would be shared with our impatient pink service member, and that the money would hopefully smooth things over.

St. Martin is split in two halves: The French side, and the Dutch side. We were on the French side, which is sleepy and quiet and perfect for travelers like us. The Dutch side is more fun, with casinos and night clubs and luxury stores. Back in our top-floor room, I joked that my side of the bed was the Dutch side, while my wife’s was the French side. I get up late and stay up late, while she gets up early and gets sleepy by 10pm. It’s actually 9pm, but I didn't say that, for fear of being made to sleep on the Anguilla. These metaphorical wanderings are about as controversial as we get, and we like it that way.

Unfortunately, controversy was about to ensnare us. During breakfast at the restaurant, the man from the watersports desk came marching through on official business. We knew it was him before he even entered the premises, because his loud shirt called ahead, metaphorically speaking. Rumor has it his shirt can be seen from the Dutch side of the island. Probably even from Anguilla, which is a neighboring island I wittily compared to a couch mere moments ago.

Anyway, he slalomed between tables, and as he approached ours, he stomped his foot in a deliberate manner, especially according to my wife, who is a leading expert at detecting affronts. Clearly Mr. Pink was still upset about having helped us without compensation, and this was a warning shot. That evening, we checked for severed horse heads when we went to bed.

Relieved at the lack of pillow equines, we spent the night imitating our nemesis, making light of my tipping mishap and his ludicrous impatience. We laughed like survivors.

But the relief would be short-lived. After a couple of hours of deep sleep, my better half woke me up, terrified of noises coming from the roof. It sounded like an insane hurricane. Medically and legally insane. It was so loud that I thought it couldn't be just weather. It had to be some even more awesome force, something absurd and preposterous. A certain pink shirt came to mind, until I became convinced that what we were hearing was a helicopter literally inches from our heads. A lot of inches, but still.

After careful but swift consideration, I heroically double-protected my wife with both her and my side of the blanket, and went downstairs to look out the window. It’s difficult to describe what I saw in that dark night. It was a kind of rain, except it was like Donald Trump’s hair, in that one could not determine where it begun or ended. It swirled. It did not adhere to laws of physics. I stared at it for several minutes, trying to reconcile its patterns with my withering understanding of reality. It was a fruitless exercise that didn't really explain the cacophony, which admittedly was less intense by now. I spotted a helicopter on the beach across the bay, but never figured out if it had been responsible for at least part of the inferno. Either way, the weather was calming down a bit and we were survivors once more. I unwrapped my grateful wife and went back to sleep.

The rest of our stay was less dramatic. We observed the man from the watersports desk a few more times, from a safe distance. Maybe it’s unfair, but I hold him at least partially responsible for the frightening storm, and suspect he may have a hand in unsavory airline pricing schemes. Upon reflection I also think he may well be more into peeing on people than I had previously divined. I give people the benefit of the doubt, but it only goes so far.

Bård Edlund is a designer and animator and more, in NYC.

Follow me on Twitter, check out my website, and my Tumblr. And give me some animation or design or data visualization work so I can afford a new island trip.