Midwest Gypsy

Thirty years ago, one had to pensively wait for the result of at-home pregnancy test for at least two hours. Nowadays, that seems like such a long time, but back then, just being able to do a pregnancy test in the privacy of one’s home was revolutionary. But if one’s home is a boat, doing such a test was impossible because of the constant movement. Such tests required absolutely stillness, like the kind afforded by a solid table on a solid foundation.

The spring of 1980 found my husband, Dave, and me in the Bahamas. We were living on our first boat, a sailboat named “Foreigner.” Prior to crossing the Gulf Stream, we provisioned with all the supplies we imagined we would need for several months, and I brought along one of these tests, just in case. After all, better to have it and not need it, rather than need it and not have it.

One day, after missing a couple of periods, I announced that we needed to do this test, but obviously, we couldn’t set up the sacred vial on the boat. So we made our way to The Compleat Angler, a modest hotel with 12 guestrooms in Alice Town. Earnest Hemingway was one of its regular patrons in the 1930’s, and that contributed to the hotel becoming a major tourist attraction on the island of North Bimini, with one room being dedicated to his exploits and many of the pine walls covered with decades’ worth of faded photographs and newspaper articles about assorted anglers proudly showing off their trophy fish . Notable visitors included Lucille Ball and Jimmy Buffett, and in the mid-80’s, Colorado senator and then-presidential hopeful, Gary Hart, who was photographed on his boat, “Monkey Business,” with a woman who was not Mrs. Hart. But to Dave and me, The Compleat Angler will be remembered for other reasons.

We were there when the bar/restaurant opened its doors at 11 o’clock, and we quietly slipped into a corner booth. While I went to the bathroom to collect a urine sample, Dave ordered a pitcher of beer and an order of conch fritters. We figured we might as well eat while we were biding our time. I brought back the sample in the vial, and we set it up according to the directions. Now it was just a matter of time.

Bahamians are such gentle folk, you just can’t help but love them, and the islands themselves, for that matter. It wasn’t too long before people began coming in for lunch, and soon the restaurant was full.  Island music filled the air and lively chatter of that morning’s fishing and dive trips echoed throughout the room. Dave and I took it all in, thoroughly enjoying the laid-back atmosphere. It was quite a change from Miami, from which we had departed several weeks before.

One islander, on his way to the restroom, stopped at our table, and, noticing the vial, innocently inquired, “Hey, Mon, what’s that?” Dave told him. Clearly the do-it-yourself pregnancy test was something unheard of here, and without a missing a beat, the man pulled a bill out of his pocket, and said, “I bet one Bahamian dollar she’s pregnant, Mon.” The bartender, overhearing the conversation, soon appeared with clipboard in hand, and duly noted the bet. One by one, people–both men and women–approached our booth to see what the to-do was all about, and in no time at all, a mound of money covered the table. I’ve got to hand it to the bartender; he kept track of each and every bet while ensuring everyone’s drink did not remain empty for too long.

Two hours passed and the restaurant patrons anxiously awaited the results, probably just as much as we did. But, when the contents of the vial were compared to the pictures in the pamphlet that accompanied the test, they looked neither positive nor negative. The crowd began getting restless and disgruntled. They demanded an answer, one way or the other. One of the patrons brought a woman to our table and announced that she had six children…surely she would be able to tell if I was indeed pregnant.

I was ordered to get on a table in the middle of the room, and I gingerly stepped up with some assistance from Dave. The woman slowly walked around the table twice, eyeing me up and down closely. Finally, her conclusion made, she announced with complete certainty, “Honey, you’re pregnant.” That answer was good enough for all who made a bet, and a rousing applause rang throughout The Compleat Angler. The bartender divided the winning shares among the winning bettors and within minutes, Dave and I were the only one left in the room. Well, maybe not the only ones, because the woman was right. I really was pregnant.

Before our first wedding anniversary, my new husband had convinced me to leave St. Louis for a life of sailing.  Never mind that neither leaving home nor sailing had ever entered my mind.  I am now convinced that true love conquers all.

I won’t get into everything that led us to end up in Key West in the fall of 1979.  But there we were, sitting in our Volkswagon camper, eating dinner.  When, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed something scampering along the stove/sink area.

“What was that?!!” I anxiously asked Dave, who was sitting opposite me.

“I think it was a gerbil,” he calmly lied and continued eating. 

Knowing how a mouse had freaked me out a year earlier, he knew better than to tell the truth this time.  If he told me it was a RAT, there is no telling to what degree of hysteria I’d go into. 

So, we finished dinner, cleaned up, and got ready for bed.  There isn’t much room inside a VW camper-van; it’s cramped quarters, but that didn’t matter because we were still in the honeymoon stage, when I hung the moon on Dave’s every word and believed everything he told me.

As we lay in bed, we heard scratch, scratch.  Not too long after, we felt something scamper across our sheet-covered feet.  Right away, Dave flicked on the light.  “I’m going to get a mouse-trap,” he announced.  “I can’t sleep with that going on,” and I, too, was dressed in a flash, ready to go, because I wasn’t going to stay in the van alone.  Even if it was only a little gerbil.

We walked to the Tom Thumb up the road and I looked at magazines while Dave took care of the transaction.  It was only afterwards that he told me he had initially asked the clerk if they had rat traps.  But no, they didn’t, only mouse traps.

Back at the van, he baited the trap with peanut butter, something I had never seen before (having grown up in my mother’s sterile environment, and all.)  He got out our largest pot, and we both got back in bed, him laying there with the mousetrap between his ankles. 

Lights out once again, it wasn’t five minutes before scratch, scratch…SNAP!

Lights on again, and from there I truly can’t remember.  I must have had an out-of-body experience because Dave has always told this story:

“When I turned on the light, Maria had the sheet pulled up to her chin, taut as could be.  The rat, dazed, sat on her chest facing her.  I said, “Maria, flick the sheet,” but there was no response.  Realizing she was, too, was in a daze, I raised my voice and ordered, “Maria, FLICK THE SHEET.”  She did, though without not much oomph.

“I smacked the rat to the rear of the van with the pot and then hammered it until it stopped moving. Then I opened the rear hatch and swept it out of the van.  Next day, it was gone.”

To this day, I do not recall that rat that was no more than 12 inches from my nose.  All I know is that rodents are but one of many phobias I have. 

To be sure, true love does conquer all.

We remained in Key West for the remainder of 1979 and into1980 for a number of reasons. Foremost was that the boat, ripped to pieces during the drug bust during which it had been seized, needed a lot of work before it could be deemed seaworthy, especially on its engine which was as good as useless. We continued to live out of the VW camper, which was now parked at a campground on Stock Island. To get to the boat, which was docked in town at what used to be the old naval submarine basin, we bicycled. We lucked into securing dockage at what then referred to as Truman Annex; the Navy had just closed down the base and except for a few contractors, the place was abandoned. It was big, almost a town unto itself. The city, anxious to collect any revenue as soon as possible from its recent acquisition, began renting dockage. Besides our boat, there were only maybe half a dozen others.

Secondly, our funds had dwindled after many weeks of living large, seeing the sights all the way from St. Louis to the Keys, so we had to find jobs. He was lucky; it so happened that he was a handy sort of person, and a private contractor hired him to do odds and ends, electrical and otherwise. It was the perfect situation, because he could work on our boat in between jobs. Also, he got paid in cash, which was just as well because we didn’t have a local bank account. Like a library card, a bank account was impossible to get without a local address or phone number. Our mail was being forwarded to “General Delivery, Key West, FL 33040” and we didn’t have a telephone.

Finding a job was more difficult for me. I got rejected for every one that I applied for, something I had never experienced. Jobs such as refueling airplanes at the airport and working in the mail room of the local newspaper, the Key West Citizen were unattainable, the reason given usually having something to do with being “over-qualified.” I had to stop admitting that I had even gone to college let alone had a degree, which is kind of funny, considering how driven I was to complete four years’ worth of work in three. Where we were was a lot different from where we had come. Key West was not yet thought of as a destination; it was considered the end of the road–and it literally was for U.S. Highway 1–a place where one could escape conventional America and allowed to do one’s own thing, unabashed. People who had “pasts” came here to escape, as did people whose alternative lifestyle might have made it too difficult to live elsewhere. Things like homosexuality and pot smuggling were accepted and unquestioned. Only people like long-time Conchs and Hemingway admitted to having last names.

I succumbed to a waitressing job at a nightclub called Captain Horn Blowers, not that I think I am above waitressing–actually, I loved my job–but the owner of the nightclub, Captain Horn Blower himself, was a coke-head. His temper was unpredictable and would often be misdirected at the help. After a few months, I quit. Concurrently, the boat we had named “Foreigner” was ready to go, as well. We began thinking about leaving Key West.