Sir Captain Don
Guest
The First Hotel
August 13th 1963
It was late January 1963, the hurricane season was over, and we had come thorough another year with no serious storms. Bonaire was well below the hurricane belt so the weather was rarely of any great concern. Now, though, it was hot, it was muggy, and it was clammy like a steam bath. It had been raining for the last several days, which in itself was very unusual for this region. We were more accustomed to torrential blasts of rain followed by a blazing shaft of meridian sun that would set puddles along the roadway to boil. But here was a new game, and the rain continued to pour without let-up.
The thought of Somerset Maughams novel Rain kept coming to mind as I looked over at our bar which was just on the other side of a planter box divider. I honestly was expecting to see Sadie Thompson astride the green linoleum bar top, but all I saw was Larry intently gazing into his drink while the bartender Ebo methodically polished his glasses.
This ongoing rain, perhaps, had something to do with the global warming everyone was talking about. Maybe it was an Arctic iceberg that was in the process of recycling.
I had accepted the job of managing a once German internment camp that had gone commercial. Originally, it had been named Zee Bad (Sea Bath) by its founder, Mr. L.D. Gerharts, a Dutchman who had great expectations for the islands first hotel.
The current owner, John Bogart, an expatriate American living in Venezuela, had actually drafted me off the street for the job. He had touched a nerve when he promised food. I explained to him that I had never been in a hotel in my entire life nor had I slept in a real bed in the last eight years. What would I ever know about running a hotel? But I think he sensed that I ran a tight ship, and he settled for that. I had been a Depression kid, a salvage mechanic, and some seventh sense must have convinced him that I was perfect for the job
L. D. Gerharts in 1952 had an exciting idea of building a desperately needed hotel. At that time only a few pension houses were available for visiting guests to the island. Extraordinarily dexterous, this man used every plank of wood that the termites had spared to erect his dream. Any friend who owned a hammer had ripped apart the old internment camp and put together this place they proudly called Zee Bad, a cluster of thirteen cottages and a main building which had been the camps hospital.
It was after 1957 that Bogart had bought the place for a song, or so I was told. He, being a Yankee and not speaking Dutch, did not view the name of Zee Bad as commercial enough for his intended North American clientele and renamed the place Flamingo Beach, then made it a Club.
It had been a one hundred percent Dutch establishment staffed by locals. All the clientele were Dutch, and the hotel had been previously managed by several Dutchmen, a Dutch lady, and finally a young American with his extremely beautiful wife. The Americans term of employment ended when he was beaten up by a bunch of drunken Venezuelans one New Years Eve, something about a firecracker, I understand. Had I known the story earlier, you can be sure that I would never have attempted to fill his slot. I think Bogart was desperate, simply admired my ship, or perhaps thought me somehow able to attract tourists just because I had run a charter boat in the past.
The rain was still pounding, and I was extremely grateful there was no wind to make a real storm. Every opening in the entire hotel was closed only with cheesecloth. The only glass in the place was on the bar. A real wind-driven rain could be disastrous. Some of the windows had shutters, but that still left all the doors and toilet vents open to the weather.
Everything, and every place leaked, and I resorted to tricks I had used to keep my old schooner afloat. I caulked the roof as I might have a leaking seam. I used tar, thick paint, and watered down cement in every crack or crevice found on a roof and or a wall, as well as around the windows on the weather side of the cottages. I pounded five gallon lard cans flat and held them in place with large stones on the roof. The floors were raw planks with ample cracks which easily discharged any water that found its way into the cottage, or main building for that matter. The kitchen was the only place with concrete walls. I often thought the kitchen the best place for security in case of a bad hurricane. All in all, however, being a sailor accustomed to the elements, I accepted the rain in my stride.
From the onset, Bogart had emphasized that finding a way to attract the tourists was my responsibility. He had no qualms about the types that I might attract, just as long as they bought rooms and food and drink at the bar. While chatting about tourism with the Governor one day, I had told him that his island was a rock. I asked him to Please tell me just what it is you are thinking of selling. Surely not jungles, white water river trips, or touring Maya Indian ruins. Huh? He looked sad, saying that it was the Queens wish that Bonaire might be able to stand on her own, so to speak, and make a little money for a change.
My mind raced, looking for a natural attraction. Fishing? Bird watching?
I was making lazy attempts at fishing, but Bonaire was a mountaintop sticking out of a bottomless sea and offered no continental shelf to attract the number of big fish necessary to the sport of game fishing. It was a well known fact that all the best fishing was just off the coast of Venezuela about sixty some miles to our south and of no value to Bonaire since Venezuela took a dim view of outsiders trolling their waters. So that left bird watching.
Research showed that we had one hundred and twenty-seven species of feathered friends, give or take a few during the season. Even the flamingos of which we were supposed to have millions were not reliable. I was thinking myself into deep water. When sailing aboard the Queen, deep water made sense, but when seeking a theme to attract thousands of tourists a year to an island that didnt have diddly squat to sell, I was going to drown in bad ideas. However, for some insane reason, for whatever ends, I zeroed in on the bird watching. I not only joined the Audubon Society but also became president of the Bonaire Chapter, and the only member. I spent money for advertising. I found books. Birds of the Caribbean, Birds of South America, Petersons Field Guide to the Birds, and finally a winner, de Vogels van de Netherland Antillen by Dr. K.H. Voous of Amsterdam, Holland. With this one-of-a-kind library, I set out to become the Bird Watchers Capital of the Southern Caribbean. Oh boy. Little did I understand.
We had only one hundred twenty seven species, whereas on Tobago island, the average backyard had that many. One hundred twenty seven was nothing. Just nothing. My job was to make that nothing into something so people were willing to travel thousands of miles to this far-away island to vacation on this arid rock and to live in a camp that still had electricity only sometimes and brackish water for washing and toilets, where our cactus grows in such abundance it makes one wonder why distilling Tequila isnt a major industry.
My Valerie Queen was on a special mooring that I had contrived just out front of the Club. Her majestic appearance lighted up the waterfront. I had fabricated her mooring in a field of rich corals, the likes of which I had never seen. When diving beneath the surface, I left this arid rock behind and swam in a productive world that could only be thought of as Eden. Here, I was at the threshold of Genesis. After a dive while putting my gear away, amid thoughts of quitting this ungainly island, I would gaze out to sea at my Queen and recall the realm of wonders in which she floated.
I wondered about why this island was called a desert when we received twenty-two inches of rain a year. Now, though, it felt like far more, and I thought of planting a jungle just to see what might happen. A story that often passed through my head was of the Texan who said to his friend, Ill pour a beer on your grave, but Ill drink it first. A thought? Why couldnt I use the water from the cesspool for my little jungle? A seed was planted. I could see it all so clearly: a pump, hoses that leaked, and goat **** for fertilizer. My god, there was no shortage of goats and the rain still continued to plummet down.
Breakfast finished, a good dive to start the day, and now office worked called. I busied myself with the papers on my desk, all of which were sticking together because of the moisture. I was prying some apart when Mrs. Lowbowski, a visiting birder, stomped up the several wooden steps into the main building and took station in front of my bamboo reception counter.
She was wearing an old, frayed, blue, one-piece bathing suit that fit her like a sack. She stood dripping profusely on my bamboo reception counter, which happened to be the residence of some of our largest roaches. As Mrs. Lowbowskis rivulets of water found their nest, the roaches sought higher ground, which, of course, was the top of the counter. Having been around awhile, I took no notice.
I looked up from my papers. Good morning, Mrs. Lowbowski. I trust you slept well last night. I could feel her brows coming down and sensed her storm flag was flying. From my year in the hobo camp I had learned caution, so nothing ever startled or surprised me. But right now, Mrs. Lobowskis appearance caused me concern. I quickly stood up, not wishing to be caught in a defenseless position.
I noted her yellowish hair, usually neatly coiled atop of her head, now hanging in haystack fashion. Not a pretty lady, but a good-looking woman. I had found her friendly and extremely knowledgeable about birds.
Its raining, she said matter-of-factly.
Yes, it is, Mrs. Lowbowski. It is raining, I confirmed. Her hair hung below her shoulders, yellow until it reached the roots, then black, like the trails of mascara that leaked from her eyes. The shoulder straps on the bathing suit strained like old Mexican hammocks, retaining Mrs. Lobowskis ample gourds.
August 13th 1963
It was late January 1963, the hurricane season was over, and we had come thorough another year with no serious storms. Bonaire was well below the hurricane belt so the weather was rarely of any great concern. Now, though, it was hot, it was muggy, and it was clammy like a steam bath. It had been raining for the last several days, which in itself was very unusual for this region. We were more accustomed to torrential blasts of rain followed by a blazing shaft of meridian sun that would set puddles along the roadway to boil. But here was a new game, and the rain continued to pour without let-up.
The thought of Somerset Maughams novel Rain kept coming to mind as I looked over at our bar which was just on the other side of a planter box divider. I honestly was expecting to see Sadie Thompson astride the green linoleum bar top, but all I saw was Larry intently gazing into his drink while the bartender Ebo methodically polished his glasses.
This ongoing rain, perhaps, had something to do with the global warming everyone was talking about. Maybe it was an Arctic iceberg that was in the process of recycling.
I had accepted the job of managing a once German internment camp that had gone commercial. Originally, it had been named Zee Bad (Sea Bath) by its founder, Mr. L.D. Gerharts, a Dutchman who had great expectations for the islands first hotel.
The current owner, John Bogart, an expatriate American living in Venezuela, had actually drafted me off the street for the job. He had touched a nerve when he promised food. I explained to him that I had never been in a hotel in my entire life nor had I slept in a real bed in the last eight years. What would I ever know about running a hotel? But I think he sensed that I ran a tight ship, and he settled for that. I had been a Depression kid, a salvage mechanic, and some seventh sense must have convinced him that I was perfect for the job
L. D. Gerharts in 1952 had an exciting idea of building a desperately needed hotel. At that time only a few pension houses were available for visiting guests to the island. Extraordinarily dexterous, this man used every plank of wood that the termites had spared to erect his dream. Any friend who owned a hammer had ripped apart the old internment camp and put together this place they proudly called Zee Bad, a cluster of thirteen cottages and a main building which had been the camps hospital.
It was after 1957 that Bogart had bought the place for a song, or so I was told. He, being a Yankee and not speaking Dutch, did not view the name of Zee Bad as commercial enough for his intended North American clientele and renamed the place Flamingo Beach, then made it a Club.
It had been a one hundred percent Dutch establishment staffed by locals. All the clientele were Dutch, and the hotel had been previously managed by several Dutchmen, a Dutch lady, and finally a young American with his extremely beautiful wife. The Americans term of employment ended when he was beaten up by a bunch of drunken Venezuelans one New Years Eve, something about a firecracker, I understand. Had I known the story earlier, you can be sure that I would never have attempted to fill his slot. I think Bogart was desperate, simply admired my ship, or perhaps thought me somehow able to attract tourists just because I had run a charter boat in the past.
The rain was still pounding, and I was extremely grateful there was no wind to make a real storm. Every opening in the entire hotel was closed only with cheesecloth. The only glass in the place was on the bar. A real wind-driven rain could be disastrous. Some of the windows had shutters, but that still left all the doors and toilet vents open to the weather.
Everything, and every place leaked, and I resorted to tricks I had used to keep my old schooner afloat. I caulked the roof as I might have a leaking seam. I used tar, thick paint, and watered down cement in every crack or crevice found on a roof and or a wall, as well as around the windows on the weather side of the cottages. I pounded five gallon lard cans flat and held them in place with large stones on the roof. The floors were raw planks with ample cracks which easily discharged any water that found its way into the cottage, or main building for that matter. The kitchen was the only place with concrete walls. I often thought the kitchen the best place for security in case of a bad hurricane. All in all, however, being a sailor accustomed to the elements, I accepted the rain in my stride.
From the onset, Bogart had emphasized that finding a way to attract the tourists was my responsibility. He had no qualms about the types that I might attract, just as long as they bought rooms and food and drink at the bar. While chatting about tourism with the Governor one day, I had told him that his island was a rock. I asked him to Please tell me just what it is you are thinking of selling. Surely not jungles, white water river trips, or touring Maya Indian ruins. Huh? He looked sad, saying that it was the Queens wish that Bonaire might be able to stand on her own, so to speak, and make a little money for a change.
My mind raced, looking for a natural attraction. Fishing? Bird watching?
I was making lazy attempts at fishing, but Bonaire was a mountaintop sticking out of a bottomless sea and offered no continental shelf to attract the number of big fish necessary to the sport of game fishing. It was a well known fact that all the best fishing was just off the coast of Venezuela about sixty some miles to our south and of no value to Bonaire since Venezuela took a dim view of outsiders trolling their waters. So that left bird watching.
Research showed that we had one hundred and twenty-seven species of feathered friends, give or take a few during the season. Even the flamingos of which we were supposed to have millions were not reliable. I was thinking myself into deep water. When sailing aboard the Queen, deep water made sense, but when seeking a theme to attract thousands of tourists a year to an island that didnt have diddly squat to sell, I was going to drown in bad ideas. However, for some insane reason, for whatever ends, I zeroed in on the bird watching. I not only joined the Audubon Society but also became president of the Bonaire Chapter, and the only member. I spent money for advertising. I found books. Birds of the Caribbean, Birds of South America, Petersons Field Guide to the Birds, and finally a winner, de Vogels van de Netherland Antillen by Dr. K.H. Voous of Amsterdam, Holland. With this one-of-a-kind library, I set out to become the Bird Watchers Capital of the Southern Caribbean. Oh boy. Little did I understand.
We had only one hundred twenty seven species, whereas on Tobago island, the average backyard had that many. One hundred twenty seven was nothing. Just nothing. My job was to make that nothing into something so people were willing to travel thousands of miles to this far-away island to vacation on this arid rock and to live in a camp that still had electricity only sometimes and brackish water for washing and toilets, where our cactus grows in such abundance it makes one wonder why distilling Tequila isnt a major industry.
My Valerie Queen was on a special mooring that I had contrived just out front of the Club. Her majestic appearance lighted up the waterfront. I had fabricated her mooring in a field of rich corals, the likes of which I had never seen. When diving beneath the surface, I left this arid rock behind and swam in a productive world that could only be thought of as Eden. Here, I was at the threshold of Genesis. After a dive while putting my gear away, amid thoughts of quitting this ungainly island, I would gaze out to sea at my Queen and recall the realm of wonders in which she floated.
I wondered about why this island was called a desert when we received twenty-two inches of rain a year. Now, though, it felt like far more, and I thought of planting a jungle just to see what might happen. A story that often passed through my head was of the Texan who said to his friend, Ill pour a beer on your grave, but Ill drink it first. A thought? Why couldnt I use the water from the cesspool for my little jungle? A seed was planted. I could see it all so clearly: a pump, hoses that leaked, and goat **** for fertilizer. My god, there was no shortage of goats and the rain still continued to plummet down.
Breakfast finished, a good dive to start the day, and now office worked called. I busied myself with the papers on my desk, all of which were sticking together because of the moisture. I was prying some apart when Mrs. Lowbowski, a visiting birder, stomped up the several wooden steps into the main building and took station in front of my bamboo reception counter.
She was wearing an old, frayed, blue, one-piece bathing suit that fit her like a sack. She stood dripping profusely on my bamboo reception counter, which happened to be the residence of some of our largest roaches. As Mrs. Lowbowskis rivulets of water found their nest, the roaches sought higher ground, which, of course, was the top of the counter. Having been around awhile, I took no notice.
I looked up from my papers. Good morning, Mrs. Lowbowski. I trust you slept well last night. I could feel her brows coming down and sensed her storm flag was flying. From my year in the hobo camp I had learned caution, so nothing ever startled or surprised me. But right now, Mrs. Lobowskis appearance caused me concern. I quickly stood up, not wishing to be caught in a defenseless position.
I noted her yellowish hair, usually neatly coiled atop of her head, now hanging in haystack fashion. Not a pretty lady, but a good-looking woman. I had found her friendly and extremely knowledgeable about birds.
Its raining, she said matter-of-factly.
Yes, it is, Mrs. Lowbowski. It is raining, I confirmed. Her hair hung below her shoulders, yellow until it reached the roots, then black, like the trails of mascara that leaked from her eyes. The shoulder straps on the bathing suit strained like old Mexican hammocks, retaining Mrs. Lobowskis ample gourds.
