Details, Sint Eustatius
Dutchman Dirk Groeneboer asks how old the kapok is. “We can’t determine the age,” says our guide, park ranger Hannah Madden. They’re speaking English, the main local language. “There are no growth rings on tropical trees,” she adds, “because there are no seasons.”
Enjoying the cool, all-day twilight bestowed by the dense forest canopy above, I think of how easy it would be to lose track of time in more conventional ways. With orchids blooming and the buttress-rooted kapoks buttressing a heavenly stained-glass ceiling of dappled bright greens, the crater provides a serene cathedral for nature worship. It’s not only humans who take refuge inside the Quill. Birds ride out hurricanes in here.
Hannah begins carefully overturning rocks, which wear a dusting of moss that resembles a light coat of lime-colored spray paint. She wants to show us one of the tiny Lesser Antillean whistling frogs that sing the soothing yoo-hoo chirping we can hear. Instead, she finds a creepy-crawly tailless whip scorpion. As befits the tranquil setting, the scorpions lack stingers.
Hannah says that she hopes to uncover an entirely new species one day. It seems possible. Her recent survey found six bee species previously unrecorded on Statia. “It’s been my mission to figure out what we have here,” she says.
You could say that my five-day visit has a similar mission.
I serendipitously discovered Statia six years ago during a sailing trip with my dad and brother. None of us had heard of the tiny island, which measures just eight square miles, before we saw it on the nautical chart. The only reason for our visit was to shorten the crossing from St. Kitts to St. Barts, but when we cruised into the harbor, I was immediately smitten. The shore was lined with mysterious stone ruins and palm trees, overlooked by a storybook fort complete with cannons. Oranjestad, the island’s only town, looked to me like a New England fishing village transplanted to the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.
Ashore, we were almost dumbfounded when several Statians told us, completely unbidden, that they were glad that we’d come and wished us a nice visit. Not only did they say that — something I’ve rarely heard anywhere in the world away from a hotel front desk — but they actually seemed to mean it. I’ve returned to find out whether I’d really caught a glimpse of the Caribbean Shangri-La.
The first salute
Up inside the battlements of that storybook fort, expat Kentuckian Gay Soetekouw explains that warmly greeting Americans is a tradition on the island. Officially, Statians invented the practice. “By the outbreak of the American Revolution, Statia was a major trading port,” she tells the dozen folks who’ve joined her renowned historical walking tour of Oranjestad. “There were up to 200 ships in the harbor at one time,” she adds, gesturing to the virtually empty waters below the fort. Back then, the island was called the “Golden Rock” because of the great wealth its duty-free trade created for local Dutch merchants. The stone ruins along the shore are the remains of the warehouses that held the goods.
In 1777, the Continental Congress dispatched the naval vessel Andrew Doria from New Jersey on a secret mission: Evade British warships, sail to Statia, deliver a copy of the Declaration of Independence to the island’s governor, Johannes de Graaff, and ask whether he would kindly smuggle desperately needed guns and gunpowder to the rebels. The Andrew Doria announced its arrival the old-fashioned way. “You couldn’t send an e-mail, so you fired signal cannons,” Gay says, patting a big black gun as if it were a pet.
Replying to the 13-cannon salute (one for each colony) would be, according to diplomatic formalities, recognition of the American revolutionary government that the ship represented — a gesture sure to infuriate the British.
“The governor gave the order to fire back,” Gay notes, leading us to the plaque that Franklin Delano Roosevelt personally delivered in 1939 to thank Statia for pulling the trigger. America-bound gunpowder moved through Statia by the ton. Without it, lamented the British ambassador to the Netherlands at the time, “the Americans would have had to abandon their revolution.” Four years after the “First Salute,” now celebrated as a Statian holiday, the British invaded and plundered the island in retaliation.
We head out into town, passing red-roofed houses painted in a variety of cheerful pastel colors. Gay leads us to a rather plain-looking dirt back road and directs us to examine the ground for anything unusual. I don’t get it at first, but then someone holds up a half-dollar-size ceramic fragment. Gay looks it over and says in her lilting voice, “Oh, this is a Chinese porcelain shard.” Another discovery: “This is from the base of a wine bottle. . . . Ah, Delft blue. . . . This plate fragment is Mallorcan, maybe Spanish. . . . And here, here we have an almost complete pipe stem.” It turns out that Gay is the president of the nonprofit Sint Eustatius Center for Archaeological Research; she gives these free walking tours for her own enjoyment.
Once our eyes find the right focus, we suddenly perceive that the dirt is littered with artifacts. Our finds are all remnants of actual goods that Statia bought and sold during its 18th-century commercial heyday. “It’s like a museum everywhere you walk!” proclaims a young Dutch woman, without looking up. “Yes!” Gay cheers. “We have more artifacts here per square inch than anywhere in the world.”
Everyone’s ears perk up when Gay mentions that one of the locally famous “blue beads” was found poking up from the dirt underfoot. “Blue beads are found anywhere the Dutch traded,” she says, pushing up her necklace, which is strung with eight of the chunky, ratchet-socket-shaped beads. “They bought Manhattan from the Indians with 30 of these.”
On Statia, the opaque, midnight-blue beads were used as currency by the slaves. Upon emancipation, the slaves saw them as an unwanted reminder of the past and tossed them all over the place. Today, searching for beads is a kind of ongoing island-wide Easter egg hunt. “We say that the bead finds you,” Gay says. “If you have a blue bead, it means you belong to Statia.”
We follow the dirt path to what’s said to be the second-oldest standing synagogue in the Western Hemisphere, Honen Dalim (She Who Shows Mercy to the Poor). Statia, Gay informs us, was a haven for Jews who fled the Spanish Inquisition. Although still standing, the synagogue lacks a roof. “We hope to restore her someday,” she says. “She’s a very special building.” Gay explains that the narrow yellow bricks in the synagogue walls are actually recycled ballast stones from trading vessels.
I’d seen those bricks before. But the ones I saw had gone down with the ship and were lying 60 feet underwater.
Beneath the waves
Although the scuba dive site is called the Double Wreck, the only traces of the two wooden ships that went down there are the ballast stones. As I approach with Kayley Birdsall of Golden Rock Dive Center, I’m blown away by what the sea can do with the stone soup of a rock pile. The coral blankets the stones so densely that you can barely see them at all. I pass over the largest, healthiest barrel sponge I’ve ever seen — it seems plausible that I could fit inside it, like a mini-Quill. Large stingrays array themselves like parked aircraft in the sand a few yards from the coral. New rays come in for a landing, drop to the floor, and with one subtle flap bury themselves in the sand.
In addition to the parks that protect the Quill and the northern wilderness, which together cover a full quarter of Statia’s land area, the island has a marine park that surrounds the entire coastline, guarding everything down to 100 feet. Altogether, the national park system protects an area one and a half times the size of the island itself. No anchors can be dropped on coral, and all scuba divers must go with guides from one of the two dive shops in the harbor.
“The area’s been protected for 16 years, so you really get to see what reef can hold in the Caribbean,” says Glenn Faires, the American expat owner of Golden Rock. Then he examines the heavy, half-broken wine bottle I’ve brought back to the shop, confirms that it’s from the 18th century and politely explains that anything found in the marine park must stay there. “We’ll repatriate this,” he says. The no-independent-diving rule was needed to stop outside divers from pillaging the many old wrecks in the harbor.
There is, however, one loophole in the prohibition against taking artifacts: blue beads. Apparently, a ship crammed full of them sank in the harbor. Dirk, my friend from the Quill, found one on his first dive.
For my second day of diving, I tag along with the other harborside shop, Scubaqua, which is conveniently located about 50 paces from my hotel, the Old Gin House. I consider it a pretty darn good omen that when I arrive at the shop, there’s a big female hawksbill turtle laying her eggs on the beach out back. I’d heard that there would be a lot of turtles on our dive, but seeing one up close before you even hit the water is something else. We head out to the wreck of the Chien Tong, which, like most of the dive sites, is about 10 minutes away by boat.
I follow dive pro Ingrid Walther down the mooring line. Due to some passing clouds, the water darkens, so the Chien Tong doesn’t instantly appear so much as it spookily emerges into view. This makes the Taiwanese fishing vessel appear larger than its 175-foot length. I peek into a gloomy space under the bow and see something moving, something big. I assume that it’s a giant grouper, but when the bamboo-shoot antennae poke into the light, I realize that it’s a massive, dog-size lobster. We do a circuit around the wreck and stop to observe a silver school of sardines. They swirl and shimmer like a scene from “Fantasia.”
Hovering over the wreck, I notice a young green sea turtle paddle to within a couple of feet of a fellow diver. It then turns its attention to me and begins approaching in a slow, graceful arc. The turtle swims closer, stares me in the eye and continues a course for the middle of my face. It’s so close that I wonder whether it sees its reflection in the glass of my dive mask. With a few inches to spare, it at last veers off.
After observing this near-collision, Ingrid sends me a three-part message with hand signals: “Turtle,” a two-handed signal I can’t figure out, and then “you.” I laugh out a burst of bubbles when I realize that the second signal is a heart.
“Turtle loves you.”
Details, Sint Eustatius
Elder is a Washington-based freelance writer.