Carambola

Another 4WD track takes us past some seriously rich people’s houses, and down to the road that our resort is on. I am still driving – I prefer to drive while the Professor navigates, and I think he likes it that way, too. The rich people’s homes have names like Hibiscus Hideaway, and have hidden driveways which seems a bit of overkill considering you practically need to fly a helicopter to get here. I see one stunningly dressed woman walking down the track with her tiny dog.

We pull into Caneel Bay and park the car in the offsite lot – no cars are allowed on the resort, only golf carts. We hurry to our room to catch our final St. John sunset. Then, freshly showered and dressed to the nines, we treat ourselves to a fancy dinner at the Equator restaurant. We are seated by the low exterior wall, so we have open air views once again of the resort and twinkling St. Thomas in the distance. We had the fabulous roti again (it’s a spicy potato thing wrapped almost like a spring roll, served with banana mango chutney, and I have dreams about it), and sip glasses of sparkling water. My meal is a grilled kobia (some kind of fish), served with my fave – mashed potatoes – while the Professor has a coconut grilled grouper with Thai noodles. The waiter takes our picture in the dark, and then we have a quick nightcap at the beach bar. We head for bed – I don’t think there is a single night on this honeymoon that we stay up past midnight. It’s so beautiful during the day, it seems silly to waste daylight with sleeping, so we always get to bed at a reasonable hour. And yes, that makes us old, but too bad.

The next day we get up early. Check out is at 11am, and we have to pack, and we also want to spend a few hours on the beach before it’s time to leave for St. Croix. Packing doesn’t take long, and then we gather up a few things and go back to our favorite beach, Hawksnest, which is the only one with sun this early in the morning. It is deserted, given the early hour, and so peaceful. The hours pass too quickly, and though our honeymoon isn’t quite over I can’t help feeling like it’s the end.

Mid-morning we check out and say a tearful good-bye to stunning room 24. Then we drag our things to the taxi stand and catch one of the open-air taxis down to the ferry in Cruz Bay that will take us to Charlotte Amelie. There is no way to go straight from St. John to St. Croix, so we have to go by way of St. Thomas. At the ferry, and man calls out, over and over again “Charlotte. Porter porter. Porter Charlotte. Charlotte Amal-ee-uh porter. Porter Charlotte.” The Professor takes the bags to the chanting man, and he says “Now you pay tip.”

We squeeze in some shopping for gifts, and a few minutes before departure we are seated inside the ferry, watching a wretched movie. I sleep on the Professor’s shoulder during the hour plus ride. Once in St. Thomas, we drag our bags about a half mile up the harbor to the seaplane terminal. After paying a fine for being overweight by 30 pounds (our bags, not ourselves, thank you), we while away the two hours til departure eating a meal in the Petite Pump Room just next door. I don’t have a rum drink with this lunch – I need my stomach at its firmest for the journey we are about to take.

The seaplane is tiny, and we are seated at the front, so I could touch the pilots if I want to. They are both young – it disturbs me a little how young they are – but seem competent. And competent they are, because we don’t even feel the transition from water to air when we take off, it’s so smooth and quick. The ride itself is a short 18 minutes, but at the very beginning we drop at least ten feet and everyone screams and giggles nervously – we are riding along with a school group heading to a science fair on St. Croix. I see headlines scroll across my brain – “SEAPLANE CRASHES, KILLING ALL 22 PASSENGERS. Students and Honeymooning Couple On Board.” I look out the window over the water and hold tightly onto the arms of my chair, willing the plane to stay up.

It does, and the landing on the water is just as smooth as the takeoff was, though for a second we look like we’re going to land on LAND and the kid behind me keeps saying “Um. Um. Where’s the water?” which is exactly what I’m thinking. But everything goes according to plan, and really they do this little hop about 15 times a day, so they must be well-practiced. Our taxi driver to the resort is a talkative and friendly man who’s lived in St. Croix since 1965. He tells us about the hurricanes that have destroyed the island over the years, and about the Ironman Triathlon that takes place. The Professor asks if he competes in it, and he snorts and launches into a story about a bum knee that we only half understand.

Carambola beach resort is our destination. It’s not quite as pulled together as Caneel, but it does have a stunning location. It has changed management several times in the last few years, and you can tell – there are half-finished construction projects everywhere, and random piles of crap taped off with yellow Construction Area tape. We don’t get an orientation or even an info packet, which at this place you really sort of need, and we never do get given any beach towels, though everyone else seems to have them. The whole time we’re there none of the trash bins around the grounds are ever emptied, and they overflow and get covered in flies. But the beach is stunning, the restaurant is beautifully made (though poorly staffed), and the terraces are tiled in cheery orange with exotic flowers in shiny blue pots dotted everywhere. It is charming, and full of unrealized potential, and I think anything will look shoddy after Caneel, so I give Carambola the benefit of the doubt. Our room is HUGE and dark, with mahogany wood ceilings and furnishings, and dark mahogany louvered windows. Our ceramic tiled shower has no light, and some of our windows have no screens, but we don’t plan on spending a great deal of time in the room, so no matter. We settle in and stroll the grounds a bit, then go to the managers reception where we have rum punch and appetizers, and are accosted by an eager young chef who insists he just arrived and has big plans for changing the menu at the only resort restaurant, Saman Tree. We talk to a couple of sour-faced people, and a couple of preternaturally cheerful staff, and then head to the restaurant for dinner.