The kindness of strangers
July 2016
I had been sailing the Caribbean islands with my father for nearly 70 days when I convinced my mum to fly down from Canada to Martinique. But by Wednesday, we were still in les Isles des Saints at the south of Guadeloupe - two islands and 75 nautical miles north of her destination.
The weather wasn’t looking good, we would never make it in time. I needed a new plan. So, I rowed and then walked into the quaint little town of Terre D’Haut and up to the tourist office. I used my rusty French to inquire about a ferry. My only viable option meant leaving the following day.
So, the next morning, I hopped aboard the massive blue Catamaran and waved to my dad below on the ferry dock. I began to wonder what was in store for me. I would be on an island where I knew no one and had two days to kill. I couldn’t have been more excited.
After only three hours we had reached Martinique - a journey that would take my dad many days to complete. When I arrived in the town of Saint Pierre, I was surrounded by crowds of people in the scorching afternoon sun. After asking several locals, I realized I had overlooked something very important. It was the 14th of July. Bastille Day.
None of the busses or taxis were operating. Everything was closed. A man claiming to be a private taxi offered to take me to a “chambre” for 35 Euros a night, but my instincts advised me otherwise.
After walking for an amount of time I can’t recollect with accuracy, I spotted a van with the words “Fort De France” on the front, the capital of Martinique and the location of the airport. I managed to stop the van to ask the driver for a ride. He confirmed my destination and opened the passenger seat door. Would this be safe? Graciously, I hopped in.
The landscape slowly changed. The beaches and surf shops were replaced by industrial stores, casinos, and tall buildings. We tried three hotels, learning one after another that they were closed, closed, closed.
My companions, who were comprised of one big family, had made attempts to converse with me but I only understood some of their words. Despite the language barrier, they seemed aware of my growing concern.
Suddenly, they began gesturing excitedly. I was convinced that my French was failing me. It seemed they were inviting me to come stay in their home! Sure enough, we left the "big city" for the country side, which I later learned was called a small town called Vauclin.
I was doing my best to commit their names to memory and to learn how they were all related, but as we pulled up to their house, my jaw dropped. Not only had I the good fortune of encountering an incredibly kind family, but evidently, they were rich as well.
Their stunning, two-story home had six bedrooms, three bathrooms, and an incredible kitchen and lounge, connected by a balcony. Vines with bright coloured flowers weaved throughout their patio and the exterior of the home.
I felt like I had stepped into a Wes Anderson movie set. They prepared an incredible fish dinner, complete with homemade ice cream, and rum.
Later, I lay alert in their guest bed, taking in my new surroundings. After months on the boat, I was extremely conscious of the stillness. I realized how familiar I had become with every sound on the boat. The dull rattling of the anchor chain, the creaks of the wooden floor boards, the ocean. These sounds were replaced with new ones that night.
Finally, I fell asleep, practicing French verb conjugations in my mind.
The next morning, Denis and Nicole - the owners of the home - gave me coffee and chocolate croissants. They offered to drive me to the airport the next day to meet my mum. With the help of the Internet, I used an online translator to help me articulate just how thankful I was for their unfathomable kindness.
I will never stop looking for ways to pay it forward.