Rudy's

For a few years, every February, I would rent a sailboat in a different part of the Caribbean and island hop with “the guys.” The deal was we shared responsibilities for planning and running the trip. Their idea of sharing was that they drank, ate and napped in the sun, and I did the rest. We avoided the tourist towns, but sometimes put ashore at a village to soak up local color. Or rum, which was cheaper than water.

One year, we did the Virgin Islands. I had an itinerary in mind, with a backup plan. While I checked out the boat, the guys walked around the dock and chatted with locals. They returned and excitedly said that the following evening, we must go to Rudy’s on Jost Van Dyke. I replied it wasn’t on our course, but they said that EVERYONE goes to Rudy’s and one simply must get a Rudy’s t-shirt. I told them I’d keep it in mind for the next trip.

We set sail, found a remote beach, anchored, snorkeled and then spent the evening toasting to various stars and whatever other excuse there was for drinking duty-free alcohol.

The next morning, they were at it again with the Rudy’s thing. I put my foot down and told them I was the captain of the ship and that was that.

So, we’re sailing for Jost Van Dyke. It was a very small island that appeared to be populated principally by goats. A “mountain” rose above a “jungle.” I saw no other boats in the cove. So much for everyone going to Rudy’s.

A small motor launch brought Albert to our boat for customs. Albert was a rotund, jolly black man of about 40. I had done this kind of thing enough that I “knew” Albert. I could spend two hours of him putting me through the hoops, or I could offer him a case of Elephant Lager and some sandwiches. He was soon buzzsawing into the sandwiches. “You name Henry. My middle name Henry. We be like brothers,” he grinned around a large mouthful of salami.” Great.

The guys joined Albert in a beer and salami orgy. I heard Albert say, “You name Pat? My middle name Pat. We be like brothers!”

Still no boats around. I asked if anyone would like to go ashore and climb the mountain. They looked at me like I had sprouted antlers. I rowed to the beach and spotted a worn path into the foliage. It led me to a clearing with a large shack, festooned with Japanese lanterns. Outside, a man turn a pig on a spit over hot coals.

“Are you Rudy,” I asked.

He eyed me suspiciously. “What you want with Rudy, mon?”

“Nothing. Just a t-shirt.”

“You don’t want no t-shirt. You a cop, mon. What you want with Rudy?”

“I just want to buy a shirt.”

“No, you a cop. You got cops eyes.”

We looked at each other for a bit and I asked if there was a trail to the top of the mountain. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder without taking his eyes off me. I shrugged and took off.

Hills are always deceiving. I had this one pegged for maybe a half hour climb. Wrong! A little over three times that, I was standing at the peak, panting and sweating profusely. I looked down in our cove and we were still the only boat. Everyone goes to Rudy’s.

The other side of the hill looked entirely primitive and inviting, so I headed down. About halfway, it dawned on me that the return trip would be all uphill, and I was already exuding enough rum fumes in my sweat to stun half the insect population. I turned around and made for the peak.

Gasping for air at the crest, I again noted that our vessel bobbed alone in the cove. Albert’s launch was gone, so I guessed we had run out of food. I stumbled down the rest of the way and rowed out to the boat. The guys were strewn about on deck pads in the hot afternoon sun, snoring loudly. I unrolled a pad and stretched out on the foredeck.

The next thing I remember was reverberating to the sounds of the Stones belting out “Satisfaction.” I slowly surfaced into the realm of consciousness, sat up and looked in the direction of the music. A huge ketch was anchored next to us, flying South African colors. On top of the cabin was a large air mattress. I might not have noticed it, except it bore two naked women soaking up the waning rays of the sun. Unlike most naked people I’ve seen in the Caribbean, these two unquestionably should’ve been au natural. Hello.

After a few minutes of unselfishly ascertaining that they were not getting too much sun, I managed to avert my eyes and note that the cove was filled with merrily bobbing sailboats of all descriptions. Maybe everyone does go to Rudy’s.

Pat, Ed and Hersch were already waking themselves up with some rum punch. We boarded the dingy and pointed to the beach. In front of the shack stood Albert and the man I had encountered before. Albert introduced us to his brother, Rudy.

“Albert says you A-one. I sell you the t-shirt, now.”

“I thought you wouldn’t sell to a cop.”

“I got special discount for cops.” Whatever.

The joint was already jumping with people of every ilk. It looked like the bar scene from Star Wars. Everything from very wealthy looking Europeans and South Americans to American hippy dropouts left over from the sixties. Rudy had fired up a generator and a band was fumbling its way through rock n’ roll songs, as they imagined they might sound if they had ever heard them.

Didn’t matter. The booze was flowing like Victoria Falls and people hopped from table to table, introducing themselves over the din. The roasting pig now reclined in a pan of barbeque sauce on the end of the bar and you need only rip off a dripping hunk to enjoy his sacrifice in our behalf.

After a couple hours of unfettered reveling, there was an abrupt decline in the noise level and some people were casting cautious looks toward the doorway, which was substantially filled by a man a little smaller than Rhode Island.

He was several inches north of six foot and probably passed four hundred pounds several years ago without looking back. He appeared toothless and a jagged red scar ran from the top of his bare pate to the corner of his mouth. His shaved head featured foil stars glued at regular intervals, but it didn’t seem likely that anyone would question him about that.

He surveyed the room with nasty piggy eyes, spotted an empty table in a remote corner and made way for it. Patrons in his path parted like the Red Sea. I was transfixed.

Pat put a restraining hand on my arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“That guy just has to have the greatest story ever told.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

I was a little touched by Pat’s rare show of concern. “None of the rest of us knows how to sail the tub, so just keep your seat.” Oh.

The behemoth sat with his back to the wall and just downed rum punch and casually took in the festivities, which had resumed full throttle. I would shoot furtive glances in his direction occasionally, but Pat was watching me and would tap my shoulder and shake his head.

I stood up and Pat grabbed my wrist authoritatively. Pat wasn’t exactly tiny, either. “Just sit down.”

“I have to go to the head.”

“Don’t play me.”

“Don’t you think I have any common sense?”

“I don’t think you even know what it is.”

“Would you rather I peed down your leg?”

Pat loosened his grip. “I’m watching you.”

I walked directly to the john, feeling Pat’s stare boring into my back. I entered, counted to twenty and zipped back out to the bar. I got a beer and a rum punch, walked quickly over to the corner table, slammed the punch down in front of the monster and declared, “You have to have one of the greatest stories ever told and I’m not leaving until I hear it.” He looked at me for a few seconds and then pointed to the extra chair.

It didn’t take much to prime his pump. His name was Alphonse (Pinky, to his friends) and he was an art director with an ad agency in New York and once a year, he sticks his toupee and dentures in the drawer and heads down to the Caribbean just to get silly. And my, didn’t I have a nice, broad set of shoulders.

Holy crap. He began firing off questions about me, which I responded to somewhat monosyllabically. I was planning a tactful escape when he asked me if I fast danced.

“I have to go to the bathroom!,” I blurted out. I darted away before he could register belief or disbelief.

I took a circuitous route back to our table and managed to sit down without Pat even looking my way. I had pulled it off.

He took a long swallow of beer. “You just couldn’t help yourself could you?” he finally said, studying his glass.

“Hey, the guy just had to have a great story.”

“Pretty bad dude, huh?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Dope dealer?”

“Nah.”

“Gun runner?”

“No. Look, let’s just leave this for later and party now.”

“Sure.” Pat took a sip of beer and turned to me. “Gay as a tangerine, isn’t he?”

I was caught off guard. “How did you know?”

“Rudy came over and asked what Henry was doing with the fancy boy. I damn near choked on my brew, laughing.”

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but it seemed like every island we stopped at for the rest of the trip, I’d hear “Oh Henry!” over my shoulder, and there would be Pinky waving. It provided endless entertainment to the guys for the duration of our voyage, and many years after, for that matter.

A few months later, I wrote a column about the trip in my newspaper. I deemed the “Pinky incident” irrelevant, and excluded it.

There is an epilogue. Al, a local restaurateur, called me and asked for details. He was going down to St, Thomas in a couple weeks and wanted to try to get out to Jost Van Dyke.

I was in his restaurant a couple months later and asked him how his trip was. “Damnest thing,” he said. “I clipped your article and took it with me. I found someone who would sail me to Jost Van Dyke. It looked like nothing and I wondered if you had been joking. I hiked through the jungle and found this shack. I walked inside and found Rudy. I told him I was from far away and had something for him of interest. I unfolded the article on the bar. He glanced at it and pointed to the wall. There was a framed copy. I felt like Dr. Livingston carrying a portable radio into darkest Africa to present to the natives, only to find they already had cable.”

Al stayed on for the evening’s festivities and said it was quite a good time. He didn’t mention anyone named Pinky and I didn’t ask.