TALES FROM THE CARIBBEAN

Dave (everybody called him Shark Boy), and the monk scaled the rocky cliff on the seaward side of Lovango in search of the pirate treasure, but before they turned over the first rock they heard a familiar sound far below. It was Big Jessie’s powerboat, with his stereo system turned all the way up and playing “Dixie,” while he secured his bowline to an aft cleat on the Dream Weaver‘s stern.

“Ahoy up there, what are you looking for?” asked Big Jessie.

“I’m working on a geology project for school,” Shark boy lied.

Jessie is beyond dispute a dedicated geologist and an archeologist who leaves no stone unturned. There are people like that in the islands, and as Dave’s dad once commented, “Sometimes there’s just a fine line between an archeologist and a grave robber.”

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Big Jessie also has a curious way of suddenly turning up when least expected. “Where’s your rock hammer and your other tools?” he asked.

“I forgot to bring them so I’m just collecting a few samples for now,” said Dave, evasively. The last thing he wanted was for Big Jessie to realize that one of the most famous pirate treasures of the Caribbean might well be buried right at the top of that cliff.

Through it all, the monk said nothing as he recalled the sacred oath of silence that Dave had sworn him to earlier in the day.

Dave and the monk climbed down the rocky cliff to where Dream Weaver’s dinghy was secured to an overhanging bush. By then the ever suspicious Jessie had waded ashore where he continued to interrogate Dave and the Monk. It was obvious to him that Dave was hiding something and that he was being less than forthright with his answers.

“Don’t lie to me boy, you and the monk are hiding something.”

“Well, all right then,” answered Dave, quickly dreaming up another cover story. “Dad once said Santana had money hidden somewhere on the island because he sold a lot of goat cheese, rum, psilocybin mushrooms, ganja, dried goat meat, and milk, not to mention his famous nut butter. Santana was a cash operator, you know. He rarely spent any of his money, saved every dime, and he had to have a weasel stash of cash hidden somewhere on this island.”

“Your daddy had it right, boy,” Jessie said, “but after Santana died we covered every inch of this place and never found the first penny.”

“It was a sad thing, losing him,” Jessie added, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Ever since Santana died every sailor in the Caribbean has suffered from the black scourge.” This was a fungal infection that would affect people’s crotch area — a negative effect of living and working in the moist, humid, tropical climate.

“We’re spending twelve dollars a tube at the island pharmacy now,” Jessie complained, “for some ointment they claim will fix the problem. But it won’t do hardly a thing to stop the itching. When Santana was alive we paid him a dollar a jar for his nut butter and it only took one application a week. We could make a fortune off that nut butter if we could find his formula, but he took it with him to the grave.”

“Well, Pop still has part of a jar of Santana’s nut butter,” Dave said, “and Ryan wants to take it to his alma matter at Vanderbilt University and have it analyzed, but Pop is afraid he won’t get it back. The stuff may have a coconut butter base — coconut oil has lots of something called caprylic acid that kills fungus and yeast infections — but we don’t really know, and there are lots of other natural antifungal agents, all the way from easy-to-find things like black walnut hulls to fancy imported items like Australian tea tree oil. Whatever he put in it, though, the combination that Santana mixed together worked a thousand times better than anything else anybody had ever tried. While we were deer hunting in northern Indiana last year somebody ransacked the Flying Circus, and Pop suspected they were looking for his hidden jar of Santana’s nut butter. That stuff is worth more than gold.”

“But that’s not why we’re here today,” Dave went on. “We’re trying to find Santana’s secret money stash so we can get Brother Lamb started making goat cheese. He used to make it when he lived in a monastery, and Santana’s old operation is the perfect setup, but Lovango’s landlord wants money up front, and Brother Lamb doesn’t have any.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so boy,” Big Jessie said. “I specializes in loaning start-up money to new businesses.”

“We thought about it,” said Dave, “but it would be better to find our own money, so if Brother Lamb is late on a payment he won’t get beat up.”

“Boy,” he said, looking offended. “That was the old Jessie; today I’m a kinder, softer Jessie.”

“How much interest would Brother Lamb have to pay then?” asked Dave.

“Well, of course it varies,” Jessie said cautiously, “but maybe thirty percent. And you know, of course, that’s a bargain.”

Having finished their conversation the men parted company, Big Jessie heading towards Cruse Bay, while Dave and the Monk went the opposite direction, towards the dock on the other side of Lovango.

“Do you think big Jessie bought your story about looking for Santana’s money?” asked the monk.

“I hope so,” said Dave. “About everybody around here is a treasure hunter, so if anybody sees him here with his metal detector, they and all their friends and relatives will descend on Lovango like flies on a dead mongoose. And we have to be careful ourselves. It will take us longer, but if we start from the other side of the island and hike over to where we just were on the cliff, nobody will see us.”

“I’m hungry,” said the monk, shifting the subject to one of his favorite topics of conversation.

“Well then, bait the down rigger and we can fish on our way to the dock by the chicken ranch,” Dave answered. “If we catch anything we can cook it at Santana’s old shack.”

“Do you suppose we could visit the chicken ranch, and check on rooster Barrack?” asked the monk.

“We could,” said Dave, “but Mom made me promise I would stay away from the Amsterdam girls.”

“Well, that’s you,” said the monk, “but I never made any such a promise, and I’d really like to see rooster Barrack.”

“You just want to see the Amsterdam girls,” said Dave.

“Well, so what if I do?” said the monk. “It doesn’t hurt anything to look. The female form is a thing of natural beauty.”

Just then, the Weaver’s downrigger started singing. “Fish on!” said Dave. “Take the helm while I reel it in.” To be continued.