Three Days in Montego Bay

By Todd Engels

Three Days in Montego Bay is a story about the frailty of love, its ability to enhance a life, and its inevitable ability to change the destiny of its character’s lives. This story is a nautical romance that begins in the azure waters of Jamaica. Tom, a post-marital philanderer, idles into calm waters of Montego Bay after a self-imposed hiatus from love as he explores many of the world’s historic ports while studiously avoiding the exploration of his own psyche. Anne, who is in Montego Bay with her fiancé, ventures into the same bar in which Tom is whiling away the better part another lost weekend. While she waits for her husband-to-be, Anne recognizes Tom from a few mutual hospital parties with his ex-wife and they strike up a conversation while they wait for Anne’s fiancé to arrive.
Tom, whose only current friend is his yellow lab Dumpster, admits his culpability for his marriage’s demise and while he normally heads to shore to re-stock on booze, food and, uh, companionship, he recognizes, through his conversation with Anne, that his life has merely be a sprint from responsibilities. Money is not an issue for Tom, due to an inheritance from his father, so responsibility is not something forced upon him by the routines of most humans. Anne’s brash fiancé William, Bill to his friends, arrives and announces his need another couple of days to explore the Jamaican coffee business. Anne confides that Tom and she knew each other through Tom’s wife, Donna leading William/Bill to magnanimously volunteer Tom to show Anne around.
Tom and Anne spend three days meandering around the waterfront exploring the Caribbean sites and each other’s background and somewhere along the line, Tom realizes that he has somehow, despite all effort to the contrary, fallen in love with Anne. Tom’s resolve to live a more altruistic love life is put to the test. They part ways before either does something they cross any physical boundaries but that really only adds to longing he feels for Anne. And, we discover later, she has deep feelings for Tom.
Their paths cross again in Chicago where Tom is now a land-locked author and although Anne pretends that it is a chance meeting, she has patterned her new fiancé-free life around her memories of her time in Montego Bay. Anne lives on a boat in a marina near the hustle and bustle of The Windy City where she now works in the financial district as a financial Vice President. Tom has managed to scrape out some normalcy in his life and is forced into a conundrum when Anne invites him out on her boat, even though Tom is getting married within four months.
Any thoughts of a renewed romance are sidelined as Tom and she are attacked by a group of armed assailants while moored near an Illinois park. They escape but not without a severe injury to Tom and the emotional cloud caused by the death of two of the would-be assailants. Tom’s fiancé, Jennifer, arrives at the hospital and tells Tom that she needs some time away from him, indicating that is likely a permanent situation.
Tom escapes to Hawaii to re-evaluate life, love and the hazard of combining the two. Although he appears to be immersing himself, again, in self-loathing, he is actually beginning to identify what makes Tom tick. He has a very good friend Doug who, unlike Dumpster, can voice a constructive criticism when needed. Jennifer arrives to let Tom know that she, too, has done some soul-searching and would be willing to re-explore the idea of a relationship.
Tom’s decision, of course, is the age-old dilemma...how to be both pragmatic, yet romantically true to one’s heart. He broods over how to apply that to a relationship on a trip with Doug and he broaches the idea of love and the life of Tom. Is it possible? Does he choose t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Todd Engels
• Release date: Jun 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310049439

Todd Engels

Todd is a Information Technology Team Lead that puts dreams down on paper and subsequently on a medium where the silliness can be viewed by those about him. He lives on a lake in North Carolina with his wife, his lake dog, Bunker and his slightly-warped sense of humor.

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Three Days in Montego Bay

By Todd Engels

Todd A Engels

Copyright Feb 1, 2013

Smashwords Edition

Introduction - Dumpster’s Tale

The loud crack of the line giving way ushered in the onset of my panic. When 10-milimeter, 16-strand polyester lines give way, it sounds like a gunshot. When my mainsail line let go and confirmed this sound, I realized I was in real trouble. The true sailor knows these are called sheets but I had not yet become jaded enough to stick to that rule. I was, however, seasoned enough to recognize the significance of its loss and managed to wrangle a turn into the wind to avoid capsizing. It was a Davey Jones reality check in what had become a long list of reminders. The rain lashed out and tugged at my waterproof clothing, which had outlived its waterproofing hours ago. Hurricane Erica had arrived, and she was pissed. It seemed such a short while since my indoctrination into the maritime family.

Had it only been three months ago since I proudly sailed out of the harbor on my expensive floating home? I vaguely remember patting myself on the back and firing up the combination GPS and depth finder to navigate past hidden shoals. I’d plotted a course for the nearest sandy cay that I could locate on the charts--which I’d inherited with the boat. I relished the peaceful life and solitude that living on a boat could provide. The poor suckers who were chained to their cellphones, emails, and Facebook accounts remained back on terra firma. I had my books, fishing gear, and an ample supply of liquor in the hold to take the rougher edges off my journey. After all, wasn’t it too much companionship that had gotten me in trouble in the first place? I had actually looked forward to being alone with my thoughts; maybe I would even start to write that novel. This writer’s dream had always taken a back seat to the pragmatism of the work-a-day world.

When I reflected on the life I was leaving thousands of nautical miles behind, it was hard to pinpoint how I had spent most of my pre-ocean time. Lost forever were several thousand hours squandered watching reality shows, and mastering epic gaming tournaments. At the time, I felt like I deserved to relax after working all day. Too late, I realized that I should have spent more time with Donna, on interests we could both share. With new resolve, I had pointed the bow of the boat and my personal failings towards the future; there is always another port where you can reinvent yourself upon docking.

Fall ushers in hurricane season to the Caribbean, and with enough forewarning most small craft owners have learned to head for the nearest landfall to ride out the fury of wind and water. I had listened to the impending weather changes yesterday, but since I was a neophyte on the ocean I did not give the proper respect to the dire warnings given by the marine radio next to my helm. Hadn’t I been handling the Birthday Seaprise just fine all this time? I had not blown an engine, run aground, or flooded the bilge; things would be just fine.

The wind and height of waves seemed to being increasing with every moment. I raced around the heaving dock, attempting to gather supplies which had been haphazardly left during yesterday’s sunny lazy day. A cooler with a few beers, a fishing pole and a hammock that I used to sleep on deck during hot nights now became missiles shooting around my deck, the latter of which had sliced my mainsail. It was amazing how quickly the warm front had arrived and grown in intensity. The boat lurched suddenly to port as I grabbed for my fishing pole as it flew by in the opposite direction. I missed and it cascaded end-over-end into the water. There was barely time to slide towards the canvas sail and grab a handful, or I would have followed the fishing gear into the drink.

For the first time during my voyage, I was terrified of the ocean and its destructive power. All my previous pride was doused with cold seawater and the realization that I was not equipped to handle a boat alone in this weather. I struggled to bring the sails in, but the wind was pulling them with too much force and they thrashed about crazily. I slammed into the mast, heard a cracking noise followed by a searing pain which shot up my arm. I realized the attempt to contain the sails could cost me my life. I rushed onto the bridge, holding my arm close to my body to avoid other objects smashing into it, and frantically located the closest piece of land indicated by my GPS. If only the boat would stay afloat until I arrived into port! I closed the hatches, jerry-rigged a splint for my throbbing arm, tied myself to the wheel, and puked myself into exhaustion as the boat was flung up the peaks and down the deep troughs that the huge waves were creating. After several hours of listening to the wind howl, wood cracking and mysterious ripping noises occur on deck, I drifted into an exhausted, restless sleep.

The next morning I awoke groggily, confused momentarily as to why my arm felt like it was on fire and why had I had chosen to sleep sitting up? As I glanced out of the bridge window, the memories of the storm became cold, hard reality. My sails were badly torn and would not be functional to reach shore. I checked my gas gauge and swore. I had not filled up at the last small cay because the gas prices were exorbitant and I was confident that I could reach a better bargain when I pulled into the next port. Besides, I had my sails to keep me moving toward the next adventure. The same warped reasoning went for my food supply, and I hadn’t restocked the galley. I would have to limp into the closest port at a very low speed to optimize my fuel supply. I checked the sea charts and located the nearest landfall which was a tiny island named Petit St Vincent, in the chain of the Grenadines.

A hundred miles…it doesn’t seem that far; a sports car can easily cover that distance in an hour. Fast ultra-marathoners can cover that distance in 15 hours, although why anyone would ever want to torture themselves like that is beyond me. In a boat with low fuel, becalmed seas, and sails full of holes, I was looking at a torturous three days. As is usually the case, the hurricane had left in its wake calm seas and air that seemed to snap with a freshness that only a 100 mile per hour wind can create. The stifling humidity would be back but for now, it seemed a peaceful elixir for my battered body.

I sighed and went to fix a meal, the same thing I had eaten for that last two days, which I had stocked as emergency supplies. I had never intended to actually eat that junk with all the delicious seafood sliding past my hull. Even now, a curious yellow-fin tuna, blown to surface from the storm, swam along with the boat. I sensed its beady eyes mocking me, knowing I had lost my fishing pole and was helpless to lure him onto the boat. With the tedious chore of puttering along at the speed of a sculling team, I began to have long conversations with myself.

Hey Tom, what a great idea to abandon the comforts of land.

No really, I would love to have another bowl of Chinese noodles for the third time today; they are my favorite!

I now know why Jimmy Buffet sang about dreaming of the sumptuous treat of a cheeseburger in paradise which he had penned after a similar hurricane experience. I was hungry for some red meat and human company. I was severely hampered by the limited use of one arm, and I needed to get to a doctor.

My spirits lifted with the appearance of a strip of land on the horizon. As I sailed progressively closer to Petit St. Vincent, my spirits continued to lift. The shoreline was less two miles long, consisted of blinding white in the sun and was surrounded by multi-hued blue coral reefs. Lush green tropical growth surrounded the interior of the island. Once I was close enough to use my binoculars, I scanned the beach to identify the inhabitants who lived here. Several cleverly concealed stone huts were nestled within the trees, and a larger building made from similar stones sat next to the dock area. As I pulled into the marina, a man with skin as black as pitch grabbed the line that I tossed to him. He was wearing a white suit and black tie and announced, Welcome to Fantasy Island! Just kidding; I made that part up. But it felt like that could happen on this little piece of paradise I had stumbled on.

Name’s Haze. I am the manager of this resort. Looks like you’ve taken a beating in the storm. Frankly, I’m shocked you could survive it alone in your boat.

So am I, I replied. I’m Tom. I gestured with my good arm at my surroundings. This place is amazing. I would love to hear all about its history after I take care of some essential housekeeping chores. The top of my list is finding a doctor and ordering some new sails and sheets. I decided that I needed to dazzle him with my nautical jargon in case he thought me less of a sailor. As if I needed to emphasize the broken items, I raised my splinted arm weakly in the direction of the tattered sails, but the gesture ended up looking like a disoriented seagull flapping against the wind.

Haze pretended not to notice my spastic efforts and responded, You are a very lucky man, yet again; I will be taking a launch over to the big island at 5:00 o’clock to pick up some guests from the airport. Our island has all the essentials required for an upscale resort, but medical care and the larger marinas are located across the bay on Union Island. Why don’t I help you secure your boat since you can’t do much with that arm, and then you can get cleaned up and join me for a drink to celebrate your arrival and survival? He said this casually while observing my unkempt appearance and strong, offensive odor since I had not bothered to improve any area of personal hygiene during the storm or afterwards. It was embarrassing that this genteel resort owner had to point out the subtleties of subtleties of rubbing elbows with freshly laundered and scented guests at this exclusive lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous playground.

Thank you, Haze. That would be wonderful. After we maneuvered my boat to a spot suitable for the tide shifts and tied the lines to the cleats, I ducked below to work some magic in the head. I avoided my reflection in the mirror until I had washed my greasy hair, brushed my teeth, and pulled a vintage-style Hawaiian shirt out of my closet. I had found it at an outdoor market at one of the ports where I had docked several months ago, choosing to stock up on additional cheap clothes instead of tending to my growing pile of laundry. I had thought it was hilarious when I saw the multicolored print shirt with various breeds of dogs wearing straw hats sitting under palm trees. At the time, it seemed to be the perfect thumb-to-the-nose to my former corporate lifestyle. Now, I was mildly embarrassed at what the resort guests might think of my outlandish attire.

I started walking towards the largest stone building, which had a wide front porch and several comfortable Adirondack style chairs shaped like fish. A cooking vent in the back pumped out the delicious smells of garlic, onions, and wine reductions. With my recent diet of freeze-dried noodles, I longed to sample a bite of whatever was going on inside. I was concentrating on my daydream of fine dining so hard, I didn’t notice the blur of activity to my right. I was suddenly surrounded by a pack of panting, snorting, barking, Labrador retrievers. Having always heard that you should stand still and not run, which is frequently interpreted as a sign of aggression, I froze in place as they sniffed the fish-gut encrusted shoes I wore and thwacked my legs with thick tails. Now, I have always been an animal lover, but never wanted to bother with the hassle of potty training or cleaning up fur around the house so I never had a dog of my own.

Haze noticed my struggles and called out from the verandah, Don’t worry, they have never knocked anyone down and dragged them into the ocean yet. He called the surging pack of dogs to him and they sauntered in his direction, tails still thrashing madly.

Are they all yours? I questioned as I climbed the stairs and settled into the lounge chair he indicated with a wave of his hand. He grinned and replied, Who truly owns one of these grand creatures? He rubbed the head of the nearest dog and was rewarded with a slobbery lick of his hand. We brought two of them to the island for company. But when they had puppies, they were so cute, it was hard to send them away. Besides, we had plenty space for them to roam. Recently, a good friend of ours became ill and couldn’t care for his, so we added another to the bunch.

How many Labradors are on the island? I enquired, concerned that dozens of the overly-friendly beasts might be wandering on the beaches, waiting to shake their sandy wet fur all over me or put a cold nose in my crotch.

We have seven, and they are all yellow or white colored, like the sand on our beaches. They have become a trademark for our island and many of our regular visitors who return each year know them by name. A cloud passed over his normally genteel face. Which reminds me, I have not seen Dune since the big storm. I hope one of the guests has given her refuge in their guest house. I don’t think anyone could resist the urge to overindulge her with a recent litter of puppies, especially once the rain started.

Wouldn’t they call the front desk to let you know they are safe? Haze chuckled and replied, We don’t believe in phones here. It is one of the characteristics of our resort that holds great appeal for our guests. The policy must be working, because most of our guests return year after year. Most of these folks have stressful, high-powered jobs and our task is to help them get away from the, uh, connectivity of the world, if you will, and reconnect themselves with nature and each other if they arrive as a couple. We don’t have television, internet, or phone service. We have a landline phone in the main cabin but its use is limited to five minutes per guest.

Do they actually adhere to the five-minute rule? I asked skeptically.

He smiled and nodded. A software designer tried to push the limit and I pulled the line from the side of the house. I told everyone that the phone would be repaired when the phone company could get out at the end of the week. He got the message.

We continued to stroll the grounds, the snuffling wagging chaperones darting here and there as their noses detected some new excitement. Haze was an experienced host, and made me feel immediately at ease. There was no pretense to his casual elegance. Haze inquired whether I would like a beer or mixed drink, before we settled into a comfortable conversation.

The launch will be leaving for Union Island in half an hour, so that gives us a chance to chat and eat something. He rang a bell on the table and a smartly dressed waiter appeared instantly.

Yes sir, what can I get for you?

Haze replied for both of us, Bring whatever the chef has ready for tonight’s special, James. The waiter disappeared into the general direction of the delicious smells, and I hoped the noises from the swinging door would mask the loud growling