THE GETAWAY

    For the past few months, Jenn and I had been dealing with a seemingly endless stream of unkind realities. So, as the new year began, we decided we needed a little bit of an escape. Find someplace where we could be alone together. Away from the noise, the pressures, and the constant reminder that we were being driven apart. So, when Jenn found a trail race, through a National Park, on an island, in the Caribbean, I immediately agreed that this would be our next great adventure!

    As luck would have it, she also had a friend in Bar Harbor who just happened to have a condo, which he rented for the whole month of January, that was close to the race site. And he graciously agreed to host us, for our 4-night stay. Free lodging, in paradise, on the island of St. John? How could we possibly refuse this golden opportunity? So, we excitedly booked our plane tickets.

    Unfortunately, no sooner had we paid for our flights than we found out he had a family emergency and had to cancel his condo. This left us scrambling with less than two weeks before we were scheduled to depart. Do we scrap the whole thing and eat the cost of our race entries and plane tickets? Or do we try to find something workable? After a frantic few days, I finally found a small Air BnB outside of town. I quickly reserved it, and nervously hoped it would be OK.

    So, on the coldest weekend of the year in Maine, and on the same day that J and the kids flew out to begin their new lives in Spokane, Jenn and I headed to the tropics.

    After a long day of travel, we landed on the island of St. Thomas, USVI. It was 80 degrees and humid. We managed to safely navigate the taxi stand and were quickly on our way to the east side of the island for our ferry ride to St. John. From our sardine-packed shuttle we got a glimpse of life on St. T. Cruise boats and crowded streets. Run down neighborhoods and lavish resorts. Commercial developments and humanity as far as the eye could see. And hardly a tree or natural piece of landscape to be found.

    Fortunately, much of the opposite was to be true on St. John. More than half of the 20 square mile island was protected by the Virgin Islands National Park. White sandy beaches, lush tropical rainforest, and hills. Oh, my god, the hills! We had originally planned on renting bikes to get around, but once we got to the island, we realized that this was a laughably foolish idea. So, we got a Jeep instead.

    The 4-mile drive from the dock to the cottage was unlike anything I had ever experienced. We navigated narrow, winding roads while dodging stray chickens and donkeys. Yes, donkeys! Rocks and cliffs crowded opposite sides of the pavement. And we summited hills so steep that you couldn’t see over the top until you were past it. But once we went past, the view opened up to bay after glorious bay. With water of the clearest blue that it hardly seemed real.

    And when I wasn’t clutching the steering wheel for dear life, I was holding tightly to Jenn’s hand. Laughing out loud at the very thought that this place existed. And that we were here. Together.

    As sensational as the landscape was, the accommodations turned out to be equally so. A quaint, but well-appointed, stone and timber guest house awaited us. With a quirky outdoor kitchen and a fully screened, but equally open, master bath. It backed up to the western edge of the National Park and was just a quarter mile away from a nearly private, coral-strewn, soft sandy beach. In short, it was perfect!

    The next day, Jenn and I did an exploratory run in the park. Which, for me, turned into a near-stroke inducing sweat-fest that included a nifty bout of nausea to go along with the light-headedness. I seriously considered dropping from the half marathon to the 10k for the following day’s race, but a refreshing plunge in the crystal-clear Caribbean waters quickly brought me to my senses.

    During our run we explored sugar mill ruins, found hordes of friendly land crabs, spied centuries-old petroglyphs & gasped at the abundance of crazy tropical foliage. This was definitely not Maine. A fact that was only reinforced later that evening by the nightly, and nearly-deafening, calls of the Cuban tree frogs coming from the forest that surrounded us.

    The race began the next morning in the dark of downtown Coral Bay. The course wound its way across the island, zigging and zagging through the National Park, and finishing in the fishing village of Reef Bay, on the eastern edge of St. John. It had rained the night before, so the trails were slippery at the start, but quickly dried out in the warm equatorial sun. I chugged along at a steady but maintainable pace trying to keep my heartrate low.

    At the halfway point, there was a long, painful climb up to a road that crossed the center of the island like a spine. I gratefully crested the top and paused at the aid station there. I took a quick look at the race timers log and found out that Jenn was leading. “That’s my girl!”, I shouted to the volunteer and dashed off back down the tree-covered trail on the other side.

    The descent had loads of wet roots and rocks underfoot, so I had to take it slow. At the bottom, the trail popped out onto the most exposed section of the course and it was getting hot fast. At some point I just switched over to survival mode. Pausing frequently to take in the gorgeous views. Walking the hills. Doing whatever I could to stave off the leg cramps and get to the end of the race.

    Thankfully, the end finally did come for me and I gingerly crawled across the line. Jenn was there, of course, to greet me with the biggest smile. She had finished an hour earlier, while the race director was still setting up the finish line. She won by seven startling minutes and was less than that off the course record. We toasted her achievement with burgers and beers at the local dive bar. And followed that up with a hair-raising, but colorful, taxi ride back to the start.

    The following day, we jumped in the Jeep and continued exploring the stunning beauty of the island. We stopped for rum punches and pina coladas at beach-side resorts. We basked in the brilliant sun and cooled ourselves in the cleansing waters of the sea. We walked along the shore collecting shells, and coral, and rocks we thought our kids would enjoy.

    In the evening we grabbed a six-pack and commandeered a cliff-side construction site, hopping up onto a half-finished veranda with a dazzling view of the sunset. A perfect ending to the romantic getaway that we both so desperately needed.

    The funny thing is, I have realized since then that I don’t need a spectacular backdrop to have a great time with Jenn. We have fun together everywhere we go. Whether it be the grocery store, bouncing along a dusty dirt road, or just hanging out at the house. Doing mundane tasks like laundry, house cleaning, or making dinner for the family. Everything is better with her. And, fortunately for me, she feels the same.

    Unfortunately, once we got back from our trip, we had less than a month before I had to leave her, and everything I’ve ever known, behind.