Time Pauses, Distance Vanishes<br><br> <br><br>For centuries, man measured time by the sun and distance by his body. Work lasted from dawn until dusk. A "foot" was, literally, the foot of the king. The 14th century invention of a primitive clock (it had only an hour hand) gave communities a local time: every town happily kept its own time with no regard for the time of its neighbors. The nineteenth centuryÆs industrial age demanded precision and synchronization. One ten-millionth of the earthÆs circumference was defined as the standard "meter". By the end of the twentieth century, ordinary people wore timepieces slaved to radio signals from atomic clocks.<br><br> <br><br>In the twenty-first century distance and time are not merely defined, they confine. We rush through an "instant" breakfast, catch a two hour flight, gather to discuss a just-in-time inventory, meet a deadline, make a reservation to dine at 7:30, catch the news at exactly ten oÆclock. Achievement and efficiency - how far, how fast - are measured, ranked and rewarded. We prioritize schedules with little thought to scheduling priorities and even less to the question of why a priority should ever need to be scheduled. <br><br> <br><br>Look across to your life-partner - that person whom you cherish most - and reflect on the distance between you and your time apart. There are still a few places - very few, I think--where time is measured by the sun, and the only distance that matters is the span of two hearts. One such place is on the island of St. Martin, at the southern end of a windward beach called Orient by visitors and Tanback by the locals. The place is Club Oriδnt. <br><br> <br><br>Our flights end at Princess Juliana Airport (SXM) in Sint Maarten, which is the Dutch half of the island. The airstrip was built by the Allies during WWII and is long enough to accommodate a 747 that brings tourists from Europe each day. The formalities are informal; immigration serves both the French and Dutch halves of the island and there is no customs check. Send a message that you wish to be met, claim your bags, walk a few meters and spot a sign bearing your name. Ours was held by Louis, the driver of taxi #32. His voice echoes what his broad smile has already said: welcome, welcome to my island.<br><br> <br><br>The ride across the island, from the Dutch side, to the French side, to Orient Bay, takes most of an hour. From bright lights and fast food, up a hill and down, to a town and a roundabout, up another hill and down, across the porous border to a country lane and finally a turn onto a rutted dirt road. We tell Louis that it is our first visit to the self-proclaimed Friendly Island and he responds with calm assurance that it will not be our last. How can he know? He tells us that of all the friendly places, we have chosen the friendliest of them all. At the end of the dirt road, there is a guardhouse. Louis waves to the guard, the guard hands him the keys, and the gatearm lifts. <br><br> <br><br>Louis wheels the minivan along a dirt path and stops in front of our minisuite, #103. The light plays off cream tile, blond wood, a kitchenette, simple furnishings. There is neither telephone, nor radio, nor television, nor clock. The fare is paid, kindness exchanged and Louis drives off. We explore the accommodations briefly. There is a book on the coffee table with handwritten notes from the prior guests who have stayed in this suite - their third visit says one couple, their eighth says another, their tenth says a third. Each speaks of lasting memories, all pledge to return. Time, they write, is measured by the sun.<br><br> <br><br>What makes this place different from the rest of the Caribbean destination, on this island or the next? People come here not to have a good time, but to suspend time. They come not to sample the natural beauty but to become part of it. Guests at Club O are no mere vacationers; they come to vacate all that is structured in their lives, to let distance and time make their own definitions, to rediscover themselves and their partners. They shed their cares, their contact with the outside world, their masks. Most also shed their costumes, their clothes. Club O is clothing-optional, and the option is exercised sparingly. They wear warm smiles, and hats and sunglasses when the sun shines. They are, mostly, au naturel. <br><br>***<br><br>Unpacking is understandably brief. It is 8:30 in the evening, and we are hungry travelers. We are also rookies. Time to venture out. We opt for shorts and shirts. The restaurant is a few hundred meters south. As we walk, we see couples and foursomes at the picnic tables on the cabin porches. A group of six coming the opposite direction murmurs evening pleasantries. All wear smiles.<br><br> <br><br>Music flows from the restaurant, PapagayoÆs. The accompaniment is recorded, the singing is live, pseudo-Elvis. Our fellow guests seem to range in age from thirties to seventies. We join about sixty others in the restaurant, a third of them dancing. A few are clad, most are not, no one seems to notice or care. The dance beat yields to a solo clarinet. One of the guests is an accomplished musician. The audience applauds and begs an encore, which is granted. Leaving the restaurant we take off our sandals and walk along the beach, the sand and the water spreading between our toes. Back at our mini-suite and journey-weary, we undress. Following our custom over two decades of marriage, we cuddle for a few minutes. Our susurrous words seem somehow richer, and slumber is easy.<br><br>***<br><br>Dawn. While my wife sleeps, I venture to the water. An early shower has moistened the sand. The rising sun heralds a near-complete rainbow. Three young cats are cavorting with one another. At the resort office, I am greeted by NoellaÆs welcoming grin. We are so happy that you and your wife have come to join us, she says, here is the lock and key for your room safe, and enjoy the day! Her warmth will be echoed by every staff member during our stay. A few steps away is LÆOrientique, the resortÆs hybrid gift shop and convenience store. Half a dozen patrons are buying fresh pastries and chilled tropical juices. Much better than a restaurant breakfast, I think. Five minutes later, back in 103, my wife agrees.<br><br> <br><br>On the beach in front of Club O, the yellow umbrellas bloom each day. The sand is pure white, the water translucent turquoise. It is the sea of skin that is variegated - pale here, red there, some cocoa, tan mostly, bronze occasionally. Without patches of cloth to distract, distort or disguise, the bathers seem more a part of the beach, daubs on an impressionist canvas creating a greater whole. To be sure, there are a few tank suits, an occasional bikini, some briefs. Clothing is optional, and optional means exactly that. <br><br> <br><br>Adjacent to each umbrella, there are two chaises: this is couples country. There are couples of all shapes, many colors. Some couples are young, one is at least 75, most are middle aged. Some bear the scars of surgery. They read, they converse quietly with one another or with other couples. They swim together. They stroll the beach. When they stroll, every couple holds hands. This touching is delicate, chaste, and their affection is pure and undisguised. I reach for my wifeÆs hand, just as she reaches for mine. At that instant, the only distance that matters simply vanishes. We discover that the sand of the beach at Club O is possessed of its own gravity, slowing us down and pulling us together. For the next three days, we will do little but read, walk, swim, nap and bask in the sun.<br><br> <br><br>***<br><br> <br><br>The trefoil building just west of PapagayoÆs includes a small fitness center at its core, and three spokes for massage. On the afternoon of our second day, my wife has an hourÆs massage with Caroline. My spouse emerges through the spoke door, glistening and redolent of oil, spice and balm. She fixes her gaze through me to some faraway point and says that I need this too. Not want, need. Tomorrow, she tells Caroline, same time. We wander back to our suite. The massage oils contain no sunblock, so she curls up on the couch with her book. There is a chaise on our porch, where I begin to drift from my book into an afternoon nap. My wife is sliding her hands on my shoulders, whispering that sleep can wait. She draws me indoors, closing the curtains behind. <br><br> <br><br>We rise at dusk, wash, and decide to leave the resort for dinner. Louis returns to take us to Restaurant Sebastiano, a brief ride to the village of Grand Case. He asks whether we are having a good time so far, the answer telegraphed in our faces. He smiles back, gives us his card, and says to call when dinner is done.<br><br> <br><br>We are escorted to a windowside table, overlooking the beach and illuminated waters. A sea kayaker returns our wave. The breeze mixes the scents from other tables. The menu and wine list beckon. We dine on baked swordfish on a bed of peperonata and scallops and shrimp with angelhair pasta, both complemented by a crisp Gavi de Gavi. Dessert proves irresistible, and we share an apple filled parchment pastry accompanied by a dollop of honey ice cream. Conversation drifts through friends, family and even work, yet there is no stress. Unwinding is nearly complete. We linger over coffee, decline the after dinner drinks, and call for Louis who carries us gently back to Club O. <br><br>***<br><br> <br><br>Orient Beach curves northward from Club O. Beyond the small outcropping of sea boulders that marks the north boundary of Club O, the beach takes on a different complexion. Waterside bar-and-grills are juxtaposed with casual boutiques where colorful cover-ups and t-shirts are proffered. Radios and even a live band entertain. If inclined, we could jetski or parasail here. Teenagers and day-glo colored swimsuits accumulate rapidly, although a fair number of women remain topless - this is, after all, a French beach. Halfway up the crescent, a seaside village is under construction. A giant rubber raft is advertised as a water-borne trampoline, a few dollars for an hour of fun. Looking back across Baie Orientale from the Blue Bay complex that anchors the north end of the beach, the umbrellas coalesce into a palette of blue, green, then red and at the south end, tranquil yellow. <br><br> <br><br>The sea boulders are just in front of PedroÆs beach grill. The fragrant ribs grilling outside are advertisement enough, and we are soon enjoying this local delight. The view of the bay is spectacular, but our attention is drawn to the arrival of the æboat peopleÆ: PedroÆs parking lot is a drop-off point for vanloads of visitors from cruise ships. Orient Beach is proffered as a daytime excursion, three hours including "a free tropical drink and beach chair". The van drivers give advice. Turn left from the parking lot, they say, and find the CaribbeanÆs version of the French resort St. Tropez. Turn right, and see the sign that marks the beginning of the Plage Naturiste, unambiguously translated on the sign as æNude BeachÆ. The large painting of a naked couple with the beach in the background suffices for visitors who speak neither French nor English. Slash-in-circle pictographs warn that cameras and radios are prohibited. Leaving PedroÆs, we trail the boat people who have turned right, heading for the yellow umbrellas.<br><br> <br><br>It is surreal, two parallel universes on reciprocal display. The Club O guests serenely sunbathe in their costumes of choice. A few feet away, paralleling the water, boat people in Bermuda shorts and black socks march up and down, pretending not to gawk. A man in body armor, khaki trousers and a long sleeved shirt, seems discomfited and anxious to leave; his similarly incongruous wife - shirt, shorts and pantyhose--is rooted, mesmerized by the sight. <br><br> <br><br>The boat people hold drinks, not hands. When a sunbather heads to the water, the boat people pause in their march, keeping a respectful distance. Later, back onboard ship, they will tell their friends that they saw the ænekkid peopleÆ. Perhaps they have seen, but they have not experienced. They will disappear at precisely 3:00 pm, I am told, because they must race back to their boats. I am doubly grateful that my massage commences earlier.<br><br> <br><br>At the fitness center, Caroline emerges from her spoke, calling my name. She tells me that, for the next hour, I will do precisely nothing. I am face down as she starts, draining the tension from the muscle at the top of my back. A Londoner by birth, she has worked at Club O as a masseuse for nine years. She tells of clients who return year after year, many people just like ourselves who are overburdened with work and responsibilities. She also ministers to the less fortunate who bear the scars of massive burns, have lost limbs or breasts. Her descriptions are tender and lyrical, and I wonder if she is heaven-bound or heaven-sent. <br><br> <br><br>Caroline reminds me that it is time to turn over. Somewhere between scalp and face, I lose consciousness. My mind has emptied, my body powered down. Time and distance no longer have meaning. The unwinding is complete. Later, the five-minute walk back to 103 lasts twenty minutes. My wife says that it is the most relaxed she has ever seen me, ever.<br><br> <br><br>Back in 103, the three beach cats adopt us and demand our attention. They play hide-and-seek under the furniture, knowing just how to charm. An hour slides by, yet we would play on if not for a last engagement. The guests in 100 and the couple in 101 have invited us for wine and cheese. New friends are made, the conversation is lively, the dayÆs experiences are shared, and addresses are exchanged. We are speaking of new memories and next visits, rookies no more. <br><br>***<br><br>Dusk slips, and night falls fast. End-of-vacation packing is a desultory affair. Somehow the trip-home clothes are laid out, the travel documents checked, the bags closed. We cuddle, whisper, remember. A gentle rain lulls us to sleep. We must rise with dawn.<br><br> <br><br>Louis comes to deliver us back across the island to the airport. He knows well that departing is difficult and offers few words, leaving us to our thoughts. As we approach the guardhouse, the gatearm lifts and for a moment, I hold my breath. Once more, I reach for my wifeÆs hand just as she reaches for mine. Time pauses and distance vanishes, and I am suffused with the magic of this place. <br><br> <br>
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