My One Day in Bermuda

“No, no, no,” I screamed helplessly holding onto the wire basket behind me where my carefully packed bag was placed. The street was coming up fast. Too fast. 

The crowd formed quickly. “Are you okay?” “You’re bleeding.” “Can you walk?”

Someone pulled the motor scooter off of me. Why was it that you always see one shoe in the middle of the road after an accident? This time it was my husband’s shoe.

“You need to get to a hospital,” a voice from somewhere floated to me.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Aww, don’t cry.” But I wasn’t crying. I had no tears to shed. My day on the island. My one day in Bermuda. I had to be okay.

My husband was bleeding. “Are you okay?” “You need to get checked out.” “We have to get back to the ship.” The voices swirled about.

“What about the bike?”

“Leave it.”

“Leave it on the side of the road?”

“We have no choice.”

Hobbling together we started our trek back to the pier seeing our massive ship looming on the other side of the impossibly long walk. The winds picked up. The rain fell in sheets.

My one day in Bermuda.

“It’s okay. Let’s get back to the ship and get you cleaned up.” 

Bent over holding our sun hats down against the torrential winds and rains of Hurricane Tammy we limped back onboard.

***

A stop at the infirmary provided us with bandages and ointment which we brought back to the room for cleaning and dressing of the wounds. While examining myself I found angry bruises had appeared on both arms in perfect symmetry but no cuts or sprains. My husband tended to his wounds while I looked out of our balcony across the pier. Tortured by the image of that bike on the side of the road I felt sick to my stomach. 

We had to go back.

***

Retracing our pre-accident steps through the maze of corridors in the luxury liner we held onto the guardrails for support as the ship rocked haphazardly about. Damn Hurricane Tammy for interrupting our first cruise, cutting short our island time to just one day. 

Pulling my windbreaker’s hood down around my face I noticed out of the corner of my eye a table set up with ponchos for sale at $3 each. Whoever thought of that was going to make a small fortune.

My husband’s voice “Sir, can we get a ride?” followed by “Get in” was music to my ears. I sat in the back seat drenched from just a moment in the elements while my husband explained our situation. The taxi driver agreed to help, driving off, windshield wipers working furiously.

Upon returning to the scene of the crime we found the bike still on the side of the road abandoned and ignored but thankfully safe. The men got out to check for damage and unlocked the handlebars. My husband walked the bike while we drove slowly behind him back to the garage.

Finally, a moment of silence to reflect on the anger I was suppressing. I hadn’t wanted to rent the bike. I didn’t want to get on the back. Why did I go against my gut instincts?

“Sounds like you need to find your voice, madam.” The words of wisdom caught me by surprise. I hadn’t realized I had been speaking my thoughts out loud.

The face of the driver was unseen by me sitting directly behind him. I kept glancing toward the left side of the cab, startled to see it empty, not used to the Bermuda way of driving on the opposite side of the road. The reminder rang in my ears, “right side is suicide” as we were handed the keys. Looking back, there had been an ominous vibe to those words.

I found myself opening up to this faceless taxi driver about the accident.

“Madam, it happens all the time, believe me. Those scooters are not safe, the whole operation needs to be shut down.”

“Really?” I didn’t want to be happy about others’ misfortunes but to know we weren’t alone and that the blame wasn’t entirely on us made it slightly more bearable. 

“Yes, madam. It is very common.”

Watching my husband pushing that bike, his mouth hanging open I knew he was gasping for air, his asthma kicking in. I felt compassion creeping in, slowly replacing the anger I was fighting. He didn’t want to spend our one day in Bermuda like this either.

When we finally left the garage with the bike returned and the keys thrown through the slot in the door I exhaled with relief. That was done.

***

With the accident in our rear view mirror, the driver suggested a tour of the island to salvage the rest of our day. Despite the quickly rising meter and angry skies we agreed.

Driving through the narrow roads with the pastel homes on either side, my husband chatted amicably with the driver about the history of the tiny British territory, the hundreds of islands joined together by bridges. They discussed the government, the economy, the geology. Being a history buff, this was right down his alley.

Meanwhile, I sat quietly absorbed in the scenery that passed by the window. My imagination ran wild with an alternate version of my life, living in Bermuda in a cozy pink home raising my children. Opening the shutters, I listen to the playful laughter in the yard while I prepare an afternoon snack in our modest kitchen. “Five more minutes,” I call out, a gentle reminder that it’s almost homework time. Evenings bring slow walks to the local pub for fish sandwiches and Rum Swizzles, the popular drink of the island. Saturdays are saved for fishing at the back of the property, and Sundays we spend in the colorful church with our neighbors.

***

Suddenly we swerved precariously close to the edge, and my heart rate quickened. We were going over the side of the road, going to plummet into an abyss. I survived one accident just to have another more tragic one. The cab stopped, the driver’s voice asking, “Would you like to get out for the view?”

“No thanks. I’m in too much pain,” my husband groaned, adjusting his bandaged leg.

“Perhaps madam would like to step out?”

“Yes.” I spoke up. “I would like that very much.”

The rain had stopped. Tammy was perhaps catching her breath before taking her next big burst of angry aggression out on us. I stepped out onto the soggy ground and looked around. The moongate was glowing in the after storm light. I was drawn to it not caring if I was trespassing on private property or not. I stepped inside of the circle. Extending my arms out feeling the limestone on my fingertips and solidly under my feet I felt a bit like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. I inhaled deeply, surprised at the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon coming from the garden.

Closing my eyes, I grounded myself, letting the energy run through my body. The tears not allowed out while on the side of the road began their trickle down my cheeks. “Find your voice,” the driver had said to me earlier. “Find my voice,” I repeated to myself. When did I lose my voice? I thought back over the years giving all that I had first to my career and then to marriage and children. Now, in this most heartbreaking chapter of my life, I was witnessing the deterioration of my elderly parents, pushing aside my own despair to take care of their most basic needs.

Life was fleeting, goes by in a flash. If I wasn’t careful I would be my parents in the blink of an eye with my own regrets of a half lived life, unsaid thoughts, incomplete dreams and desires. Following the tradition of those who pass through the moongate, I made a wish. With resolve I turned that wish of finding my voice into a plan. It wasn’t too late to regain control.

I opened my eyes to see the bluest sky that Mother Nature had in her color palette over an exquisite turquoise water. I gasped. Stepping out through the moongate, I walked into the stunning painting to find the much anticipated pink beach. Bending down I dug my fingers into the wet sand, feeling it clump in my fingers rather than fall through like the sands of time. Tiny white shells like pieces of porcelain were mixed into the sand, which wasn’t actually pink, but rather little bits and pieces of coral sprinkled into the recipe created the illusion.

Tammy’s breeze picked up which I allowed to blow through me filling me with the island peace while forcing out the weight of the world that I had been carrying around. It was a desperately needed exchange.

Who knows how long I stood there before turning back for the short walk to the taxi. I once again sat in the back seat directly behind the taxi driver on the right side of the vehicle.  

“See anything?” My husband peered at me over his reading glasses, glancing up from his phone.

“Yes. Everything.” I replied. “Let’s get back to the ship. We can be there in time for dinner and drinks.”

Moments after we left the taxi and hobbled back onto the ship, Tammy let loose the powerful rage that she had been holding in while I had my moment in the sun. We watched the water churning beneath us and the palm trees bending in the strong hurricane winds from the safety of the ship’s luxurious restaurant. Sipping my Rum Swizzle, I thought about my one day in Bermuda.