It was September of 1979. I had embarked on a new
adventure. I was doing something I had
always dreamed of; I was going to live on an island. It was a long, long flight to an unknown life.
The three of us arrived in the dark of night.
When the plane doors opened we were hit by a wall of heat and humidity
that would make Chicago in August feel comfortable. The bus took us to our home which was a few
miles down a very dark road. I was at
once excited and afraid, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Mary, a few years older than me, seemed to
take this all in stride. Tom, who was to
be our leader but turned out to be a close friend and anchor, was very
businesslike as he left our company being dropped off at his residence
first. We were tired as we arrived at
our destination and were led to our room. It was dreary inside; the poor lighting did
not help to brighten our accommodations.
I had a feeling of panic in my heart as we each picked a bed room. I, as
usual, kept my doubts to myself but it was so quiet that my fears were almost
audible. Telling myself that I had to
sleep, that sleep would make it better, I made the decision that when I awake
in the morning, if this was not what I had wanted, I could always go home.
Dawn came and I remember the feeling of total bliss as I
walked out into the living room. Mary
and I looked out our window to a sheet of white sand followed by the gentle
surf of the deep turquoise of the Caribbean. And so began my Caribbean
adventure. This was a lesson I learned. Never judge a hotel by what you see at night,
and this also holds true for the dreariness of cloud cover. That room, on that beach became the measuring
stick by which I measure all hotel views.
Isle of Palms came close, but, alas, the Atlantic lacks the color. 
