Montserrat is a beautiful little island paradise 27 miles southwest of Antigua in the West Indies. A British crown colony, the island comprises only 40 sq. miles and has a population of about 12,000. A friend of mine had been offered a trip there to look for sulphur, and off he went, welcomed by no less than the prime minister.
After two days of sampling sulphur and iron in the sands, accompanied by my friends, Mike and Sean, the geologist figured the grade was too low to be of economic value. However, since they were paid to be there a week, the trio decided to check out other prospects and tour the island.
They hired a local fisherman to take them to the far end of the island, which was accessible only by sea. The boat was powered by an outboard motor with the longest shaft they had ever seen, and, although it looked as if it belonged in a museum, they were assured it was safe. The boat itself was about twenty feet long and probably built by the fisherman himself.
As they approached their destination, the wind picked up and the waves suddenly grew bigger. Sean was leaning over the side, throwing up, and Mike was hanging on for dear life, yet the geologist insisted they continue. As the waves increased, all Mike could see when the boat was in the trough was sky. Even the Montserrat cliffs disappeared. And when it got to the top of the wave, only the middle of the boat touched water. Even the propeller was pushing air. Then the whole kit-and-caboodle would plunge like a rocket into the next trough.
“We have to go back,” the fisherman shouted. “Too much danger!” By this time, the sky was getting darker, but the cliffs were only about a hundred feet away.
The geologist shouted that he had seen what he wanted to see.
“Thank God,” Mike shouted. “I don’t want to end up against those cliffs.” Sean, who by then was white as a sheet, agreed.
The rain started just as they were turning around. It only lasted a few minutes, but it was a heavy downpour. At least it quieted the waves. Everyone was soaked, but they knew that as soon as the sun came out from behind the clouds, the heat would dry them out fast.
On the way back, they noticed a large gully with a creek running down the hill.
“Isn’t that where the volcano is?” Sean asked.
The fisherman nodded.
“And where a plane crashed?”
“Yes. But no see the plane. Too far. I take you to volcano.”
“I can smell it,” Mike replied, holding his nose like the others. The fisherman grinned, his single yellow tooth contrasting with his dark skin.
After they landed on shore, the fisherman told them to take off their shoes. “Water good for feet, but don’t drink. Poison. Even kill fish.”
“No way am I going to drink the smelly water,” Sean replied.
As soon as Mike put his feet in the lukewarm water, he felt a strange yet pleasant sensation. His skin was tingling, as though he had stepped on ice. As they moved up the gully, the water got warmer and the rotten-egg stench stronger. Once they reached the lip of the volcano, they had got used to the smell.
“Put feet in water,” the guide said, smiling.
“But it’s boiling,” they all shot back.
“Not so hot,” he said, dipping his own feet in a steaming puddle.
They all followed suit, commenting that it was the most agreeable feeling they had experienced.
On the way back, they stopped for a smoke. The guide enjoyed our Canadian cigarettes. “Better than Americans,” he said repeatedly.
Just then, Mike noticed what looked like a leaf moving close to his hand.
“Shhh,” the guide whispered, getting up with a finger to his lips. Slowly he bent down, made a strange noise and, in mid-air, caught a giant frog as it leapt from under the leaf. He took a string and knotted it around the creature’s body, tying the other end to his belt. The creature was huge.
“You eat that?” Mike asked.
“No, no. Sell legs. Maybe five dollars each. Eat rest.” He smiled broadly. It had been a good day. Getting top money for his boat and catching a big frog as a bonus. My friends were happy for him and gave him a friendly slap on the back.
The next day, Mike suggested they return to the volcano. “My feet never felt this good before.”
“Mine too,” Sean agreed, “but we’re leaving the island tomorrow.”
Years later, Mike liked to brag that he had bathed his feet in the volcano at Montserrat — the very same volcano that erupted in late 1995, causing great damage to the island.
— The author, a retired prospector and broker, resides in Morrisburg, Ont.
Be the first to comment on "Tropical excursion"