Morning, morning. That’s how they say it in The Bahamas. You head to the yacht club for coffee at 7 AM after a long night of partying and you’re hung over and when you get there a few people are sitting at the bar nursing Bloodies and you wonder benignly if they’ve been there all night… A tourist walks in holding his head and says, “Somebody kill me – please.” Rasta’s and bad asses sit on the locals’ side of the bar and they nod and call you Miss Marlin (like the fish). There’s a string of Christmas bulbs blinking over their heads and they look gorgeous – like dark angels in the dim light.
You order a coffee, but it won’t be long before you start drinking wine again. There’s some in the cooler in the back of the golf cart, and plastic cups in the glove box. The golf cart is a little the worse for wear: there’s a big rock outside the club and you are known to drive up on it regularly, teetering until some good Samaritans lift it off. The salt air has rusted the metal and you hit a rut in the road and the whole top fell off. and rolled into the brush at the side of a pockmarked road. It’s a convertible now.
The sun is coming up, there’s people on the dock. Some Bahamian dudes are cutting up conch at the cleaning station (eating the conch cock to give them staying power) and they’re talking and laughing, their voices layered like a song. You can feel your forehead and the coffee hits your sour stomach and there’s a familiar wave of nausea. You can’t remember what happened last night, but you’re sore and the locals grin knowingly…
On the way back to Blue Heaven, you pass the Government dock and the island commerce has begun. There’s fresh vegetables stacked in tattered boxes and beyond, the pristine turquoise of the Exuma Sound and the big blue. The air smells of brine and scalded dust and smoke from the dump.
You head for the tiki hut (your favorite place on earth) above the quiet beach with a book and a blanket and a cold glass of Chardonnay. There’s always a breeze…
I’ve started remembering my dreams again. It’s been almost two years since I quit drinking and in all that time I have not had a dream. I’ve heard that some recovering alcoholics dream of drinking – waking feeling guilty, but not me. Since I moved to the mountains, I’ve started to remember little snippets of dreams, but last night’s visitation was so vivid it felt like a Dickensian haunting.
“Spirit!” said Scrooge (Mare) in a broken voice, “remove me from this place.”
“I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost. “That they are what they are, do not blame me!”
I promise I don’t miss the drinking. But I miss the feeling of tattered camaraderie, the morning after at the yacht club. Spirit help me, I do…
