Undone at the Seven Sisters

         t was early morning in Grenada. The
        sun was just gilding the hilltops that
        fringed the harbor, leaving the lagoon
still in shadow. Heat rapidly replaced the
tropical mist drifting over the dark still
waters as the red orb rose. Fishermen began
to drift in from their nightly excursions, and
I studied them from the bow of Scud, our 44-
foot catamaran, while trying to summon a
lightening bolt of energy from my mug of caffeine.
Today, we were trekking to the Seven
Sisters Waterfalls. All of us were going: my
husband Peter and I; our teen sons, Adam
and Warren; our friends on Ocelot, Jon and
Sue, and their teen kids Chris and Amanda;
and other teens in the harbor.
Last night during our regular evening discussions
with Jon and Sue, it was “decided” that we’d all jump from the top of the falls
— a tall order for this 50-year-old cruising broad. Could I do it? Of course. Should I do
it? Of course NOT. But — would I do it? That was the puzzling question nagging me
now, for adventure stuck to me like two sides of Velcro. Before plugging myself into the
morning routine to get us all off the boat in time to make the falls before the heat of
the day melted us to puddles of oily butter from the liters of sun lotion we’d apply, I
decided. If Sue did it, then I would. She’s the more sagacious of us two.
“Catch the first morning jitney that heads into the Grand Etang forest reserve,”
said the woman at the local farmer’s market, whose advice I’d sought. We heard it
before we saw it: Thunderous reggae music blasted from around the bend, riding the
morning breeze. A beat-up van rounded the corner, painted in the Rasta colors of
red, yellow and green. School children rushed the roadsides to escape its path of
impending fury. I stepped back to merge with the stately palm behind me.
“Rastaman” announced itself in scarlet letters down the sides, and it continued barreling
forward, vibrating to the reggae beat, wheels pulsing. My husband Peter
motioned for a pick-up, and it skidded to a stop, practically doing a wheelie.
“Crikey!” I thought. “Are we boarding this thing?” I hissed to Peter.
With less confidence than we felt, we boarded the already-packed bus, passing
coins to the “conductor” — a young boy wearing a bulgy bobble hat of multi-colored
wool in the colors of the Ethiopian flag. Mothers of ample girth squeezed closer to
make room, half-seats were yanked down, and young children collected onto laps.
Numerous limbs hung suspended from open windows. In the hot air, I fought to
catch my breath, gazing around at this death-trap, and death seemed probable;
imminent, in fact. Peter looked apprehensive — a bad sign, as he’s definitely the
more composed of us two. But the teens were in high euphoria over the thrill of the
ride and, more likely, the joy of the raucous tune still detonating from the oversized
speakers in front and back.

Our driver drove like a mad man bent on speed. Bodies slid to the right, then left, and faces mashed against windows when rounding corner. I knew what my seat-neighbor had for dinner the previous night by the aroma wafting from his breath. Body odor wafted from the mass of humanity, gathering into a thick cloud overhead. More bodies boarded. I counted twenty-two in a van that should safely seat eleven. I shut my eyes, and pulled down my sunglasses, willing myself to ease into the rhythm of the adventure. Part of the experience is getting there, I said to myself over and over.

An hour later, we entered the dark rain forest of the Grand Etang forest reserve, and were the last to get off, the van now empty. I thanked the blessed ‘who-evers and what-evers’ for our safe arrival, as we spilled out onto the pavement, rubbing sore limbs and crunched elbows. In a flash, we lifted into uproarious laughter: We had survived!

The teens charged up the road and disappeared into the dark void of the tropical rain forest, while we bantered about our ride from hell. Though nearly late morning, it was cool under the canopy of vines along the dirt trail that led to the 7 Sisters Waterfalls. Cocoa, nutmeg and banana trees bordered the skinny trail. Scarlet birds of paradise peeked from behind a curtain of elephant ears that grew alongside the riverbed. Hills formed a backdrop to the forest that now ran in a narrow belt along the river bank. Trunks were daubed with multi-colored lichens: sulphurous yellows, burnt oranges, blues and greens. We slipped and slopped along the muddy trail, following the rich sound of the teens’ giggles in front.

Forty-five minutes later, a gallery of trees opened to reveal a tumbling cascade that dropped into an emerald-green pool, beckoning us. Tangled ropes of lianas, called ‘monkey ropes’, dangled from dense greens of undergrowth, reaching out to kiss cascade waters. The kids disappeared into it, racing one another to the top of the falls, first navigating across vast chasms of raging waters of smaller cascades. At the top, there is no return - you either jump or camp-out, immersed in your own jittery nerves, until finally someone pushes you over the edge.

The falls stretch beyond tree height – 200’ - releasing a roar loud enough to blanket words. At the summit, the kids appeared tiny against the backdrop of the hills. I looked at Peter – he shook his head a big no! Sue? “You’re crazy, girl!” she said. Whether I do it or don’t was shoved back into the genie bottle, and we quickly peeled off our sweaty clothes to dive in. The coolness of the clear green waters swept us away. Peter challenged me in a race to the bottom fury of the falls, where mist was heavy with water droplets, so thick I couldn’t inhale without gagging water. Current tugged at my suit, and I thought my skin might peel off. Behind the falls, we kissed.

Energy spent, we collapsed onto sunbaked rocks to munch on our picnic, idling the afternoon away, while waiting for the kids’ big jump. Emergency supplies were hidden in the bottom of my bag, just in case, but I’d left behind the butterfly strips – you just never know. (On our last waterfall trek, Warren had cut his foot on a tree stump, leaving a trail of blood.)

The kids had made the summit. Screams drew our eyes to the undergrowth next to the falls at the bottom, and a young girl emerged in tears. She’d frozen with fear at the top, and her father had guided her back down. My nerves grew taught, and my legs felt weak, considering our sons’ risk.

Suddenly, I heard Sue gasp and looked up into the clouds. My words hung limp in my throat, and I grasped her arm: A body was falling, suspended in air, a scream running before the female shape. Her body fell into the dark waters, where a confetti of boulders bordered the pool below. When her head surfaced, I breathed a sigh of relief. The kids applauded from the top, yelling ‘whoop, whoop’, and Tom from “Toucana” walked up to stand sentinel at the narrow edge. His arms stretched overhead, and he slowly bent forward at the waist. Surely no! Please no! I willed him not to: Just jump – please!

Arms pulled him forward and he leaned forward over the falls, tumbling into the curve of his body with feet extended behind, stretched out in beautiful form – a perfect swan dive. A 10! Tears welled in my eyes, considering his risk. “I am not going to be the one to tell his mother,” I said to our friends. Neither of us had brought a mobile phone – we didn’t even own one!

No public phones nearby, either. Nothing but a crazy jitney to flag down for any 911’s.

My eyes followed Tom’s prolonged frame, as he launched into the air, and then down and down. A splash and his head popped up from the surface. He was triumphant; the kid crowd atop the falls went wild. I pressed my hands to my face and bowed my head: Kids! One after the other they tumbled forward, dropping into the pool below. Our sons jumped last, helping others go first, encouraging them with whoop, whoop.

As we stood on the pavement waving down another outrageous, gleeful Rasta driver, I realized I had become undone - euphoria had untwined my taught violin strings: We had survived another riotous day in the paradise of Spice Island. Once onboard Rastaman, I donned my sunglasses, kept my eyes open, and sang along with our friends, “No woman -no cry”, to the beat of Bob Marley. As we rounded the bend, a red orb plunged into the sea, to be resurrected again with the next dawn - along with a happier me.