Preacher told the story Sunday

of a couple who fought and scrapped so much, all their long married life,

that when their Golden Wedding anniversary neared, their children presented

them with a gift certificate for psychiatric counseling.

Ha, ha. That wasn't us, but

close enough to make us squirm. Let this be public record that if anyone

is planning a celebration for our 50 th , five short years from

now, we'd prefer something more traditional, like a cruise. In Hawaii,

maybe.

Really, since we read about

onboard family reunions, the idea has been rolling around in my mind like

a marble on a pitching deck. There is something for everybody on a cruise,

from young kids, to teens, to the 40-somethings our kids will be then,

to us geriatric guests of honor.

As long as they don't fall

overboard, no one is going to get permanently lost, and parental supervision

will be minimal. Someone else will be fixing meals and catering to our

family's diverse diets. It would be a time of renewal, bonding sisters

who live on separate continents (might as well be separate planets) and

sons-in-law (actual or wishful-thinking). Not to mention the possibility

that cousins ­ none of whom are related by blood ­ might strike

up romances of their own.

It's easy to fantasize, but

life teaches us that things seldom go that smoothly. With the help of

notes made 20 years ago, I'm remembering how one of the most heavenly

days of my life became one of the most painful. What should have been

paradise turned into that other place, and ironically, it was during the

only previous cruise I've ever been on, in celebration of our 25 th

anniversary.

There are bits and pieces of

heaven scattered here and there upon this earth. Places where the world

is all sea and sky, crystal clear and wind-swept clean, with only patches

of rocky land caught between the blue and the blue. Above crashing waves,

old green-clad peaks reach for the sun, and narrow roads run pell-mell

past stone walls and tile-roofed villas.

Bougainvillea and hibiscus

bloom in profusion, all out of control, softening harsh lava rocks cluttering

every yard and roadway. The villages are a cacophony to the senses: the

happy clatter of steel bands, the melodious accent of the island people;

the pungent smell of frying meats; shops with gaudy wares beckoning from

ever-open doorways.

In Heaven-on-earth, the sun-warmed

breeze chases the sails in and out of snug harbors and gains access to

houses that need neither windows nor screens. And on a clear moonless

night, Orion can be seen striding across the spangled sky, the diamonds

on his sword gleaming fire through the atmosphere.

Such a place is St. Martin,

or Sint Maarten, depending on which side of the border you speak from.

French on the north, Dutch on the south, the tiny island rides the Caribbean

waves in peace and international harmony, charming the clueless visitor

who thought "tropical" meant Florida.

When a small inheritance made

it possible, we sailed away for a winter week there in absolutely sinful

self-indulgence. Oblivious to the rest of the world, we slept and ate

and read and shopped, and lay in worshipful prostration before the divine

sun god.

"How romantic," a

friend sighed. It was, until sunburn made romance unthinkable, but then

we busied ourselves with other pursuits.

Like snorkeling. The beauty

of land and sky was rivaled by the magic beneath the water's surface,

a kingdom so rich in color and mystery it was easy to wish we belonged

there. Floating face down in silent water so clear depth perception is

distorted, buoyed by the gentle rocking of the waves, we returned the

curious gaze of blue and gold damselfish.

I thought I was well clear

of the danger of the jet-black sea urchins which stud the shimmering sea

bottom, when ­ somehow ­ the sole of my right foot brushed the

poisonous spines of one lurking in the crevice of a rock. The pain was

instantaneous and intense, and by the time I floundered ingloriously up

on the beach, my poor foot was curled in spasm and I could hardly bear

to touch it to pull out the spikes not yet broken under the skin.

Dave half-carried me ­

no easy feat! ­ to our room, where I took Benadryl and aspirin, and

then called the Italian maitre d' who seemed to know how to deal with

a variety of emergencies. His advice made me wish I left him tasting béarnaise

sauce or arranging hors d'oeuvres.

"You must soak ze foot

in ammonia or urine," he intoned.

"But Carmello, I don't

have any ammonia!" I wailed. He merely looked at me meaningfully

and handed Dave a small plastic dishpan.

What the heck, I was ready

to try anything, and who knows how much worse it might have been if I

hadn't.

I was walking again in a day

or two and could hobble unassisted through the long airport corridors

on the way home. But for at least a month, every step reminded me that

in Paradise, even the humblest organism may achieve a certain immortality.

A simple sea urchin, all innocent

and unaware, nestles somewhere on a sloping Caribbean beach. Memories

of his lovely isle may live in my heart, but that urchin will always be

a part of my very sole.

Back

to the Top of the Page