Ga-Ga Over Islands - Caribbean cruise

Cruise Travel, Oct, 2001 by Eleanor Harris

Caribbean Cruising Leads To Atoll Addiction

HELP! I've got island fever. I've become an island junkie. No use telling me, "Quick! Visit two landlocked countries and call my travel agent in the morning." It won't work. I've got island-mania.

Hopefully, it's nothing that another island cruise won't cure.

It all began innocently enough when my husband, Ben, and I embarked on our first Caribbean cruise a dozen years ago, aboard Princess Cruises' Island Princess. We sailed into Charlotte Amalie, that upbeat bargain-basement capital of St. Thomas, with its gleaming harbor and little red-roofed houses perched on those kelly-green hills, and I fell madly in love. Sultry tradewinds ruffled our hair. I got a heady whiff of fragrant, radiant air surrounded by an incandescent blue sky above limpid turquoise water, and ! became hooked on islands. Hooked on cruising, too.

Especially, the romance of approaching these miniature worlds from the sea--the historical way. Like Ulysses. Like Columbus. Like, uh, Blackbeard. Captain Kidd. Only thing, I hate to leave. So, when we docked in Willemsted at Curacao--that freshly scrubbed little Dutch outpost with its pastel, Holland-inspired architecture and waterways--I was a goner for sure.

For a while, I tried to forget island-hopping. I sublimated. No obsessions for yours truly. There were exciting trips to Europe and the Orient. But something was missing. The magnet of the islands haunted me like an old love song. The escapist stuff dreams are made of. I yearned for another taste of the laidback island lifestyle, for tranquil coves and powdery beaches caressed with luminous, silky waters. Oh, I had it bad.

Finally, I could resist the siren's call no longer. So some four years later, we set out on another island cruise, this time aboard Royal Caribbean. After two lazy days at sea, when the Nordic Prince glided into Frederiksted, St. Croix, that Saturday morning, I felt that old island magic stirring. I began to tingle all over and my pulse hit Much I. But, we would be here just for a few hours. Could I bear to leave? Would I be tough enough to handle it when the time came to march back up the gangway and watch our ship sail out of this palm-fringed harbor?

I'll have to chance it, I murmured, as I slung my camera around my neck, grabbed my sunglasses--and my husband. "Try to get a grip," he said. "It's only another island." Husbands have been shot for lesser remarks. Just another island? But mahogany and mango trees are towering monarchs of its tropical rain forest. They say Maureen O'Hara lives here, as does Victor Borge. We taxi across the island's pastoral meadows to larger Christiansted, driving through hushed, back country roads where graceful old churches and sugar plantations whisper of 300 years of history.

Cool harbor breezes frizz my $50 hairdo, but no matter. The intense color of the sparkling bay matches the cerulean sky. A benevolent sun glints on green rolling hills, and music filters into the streets from small attractive cafes and shops. We could easily settle here in St. Croix, I fantasize. I'll learn to sail a boat; we'll eat our fill of fresh lobster and conch, and drink good Cruzan rum. Can a middle-age gal from Beverly Hills find happiness on a Caribbean isle? Could I learn how to drive on the left? (Hard enough on the right.)

Engaging little Christiansted makes a photographer's day with its boat-filled harbor and lofty trees shading narrow, curving streets that weave around the waterfront. A stately old windmill suns itself on a rocky ledge; alongside, a young island boy carves shells into shapely designs to sell for tourist souvenirs.

Oh yes, we could become Crucians very easily, I'm whispering while Ben is practically dragging me up the gangway. We watch our Prince pull out of St. Croix while ensconced in that snug, glass-enclosed aerie, the Viking Crown Lounge. Later, we do justice to a fine Caribbean dinner that climaxes with a knockout parade of waiters swaying to hot calypso music while balancing dessert platters of flaming babalu atop their heads.

Next morning, we dock at Fort de France, capital of Martinique. Never mind that it's Sunday and most of the shops are closed. All except Roger Albert, perfume shop on Rue Victor Hugo, jammed with wall-to-wall lines of customers from the several cruise ships in port today. Never mind that we arrive in the midst of a five-day-old garbage strike, and unsightly bags of refuse are piled up and spilling over the sidewalks.

Wait! Of course I mind. I was looking forward to seeing all the fabled attractions of this historic French hors d'oeuvre of an island. It isn't fair. Cruise ships shouldn't dock on Sundays. It's too frustrating. The famed flower market is closed. Chic boutiques are all shuttered. Restaurants are dark. Besides, there aren't too many Martiniquois around.

But, hey! You're looking at a Francophile. Besides (Oh joy of joys), the locals understand my miserable French. The very same that brings uncomprehending, supercilious stares in Paris. But here in Martinique--ooh la la, I am virtually bilingual.