Coach's Corner

For the past two weeks, The Coach has been out of touch with all his high-tech gizmos and devices, the sum of which keeps him in touch with the world. Though he fancies himself an old-fashioned sort of fellow, the lack of telephones and thus, more importantly, the uselessness of the modem (cutting him off from daily sports fixes and e-mail) vexes him more than he'd care to admit. For $3.00 Cayman ($3.60 U.S.) he could bicycle down to the island general store in the unbearable, late afternoon Caribbean heat, still hours from a reluctant retreat, to get a day-old USA Today. He'd be loath to admit he's too lazy to make the bike ride and too cheap, anyway, to pay for the paper. Nevertheless, there's more than a little truth to this statement. Without these daily anchors to reality, The Coach rarely knew the correct day or time. At night, in the confines of a small room, the television was dominated by an aggressive girlfriend, who quickly seized, and never relinquished, command of the remote control. She prefers A&E to ESPN. It was, most often, a moot point anyway; by 10 o'clock he was sound asleep. A gregarious, chatty, hail fellow writing style encourages the illusion that The Coach is, in real life, the sort of blowhard you might not want to sit next to on a lengthy airplane journey. In fact, his natural social proclivities more resemble an anti-social camel herder. If you called him at home, the chances of his answering the telephone, though he's probably sitting right next to the annoying machine, are not good. His girlfriend is at least as bad, perhaps worse. And so it is, a basic conundrum is set in motion. It's easy to never talk to anyone at an impersonal, sprawling Marriott. At a tiny, intimate resort, this becomes almost impossible.

The tiny hotel, located on a small spit of sand about 80 nautical miles SE of Grand Cayman, had an unusual method to announce each meal. A chef with a white hat would come out into the courtyard and ring -- clang-clang-clang -- a big cowbell. Dr. Pavlov didn't need to use dogs in his experiments. With nothing to do but dive and roast in the equatorial heat, bored, frequently heavily inebriated divers look forward to meals, good ones at that, with eager, salivating anticipation. The ringing of the bell was a happy, anxiously anticipated event.

The dining room is small, with many tables pulled together. Every meal is served buffet style. This kind of social setup, implying sitting down with strangers, causes the couple no little anxiety. "Look, there's a little table over in the corner," she whispers, a little too loudly, "go sit there." This hermit-like behavior goes on for a few days, during which time the couple appears to run afoul of the dining room staff. In truth, this is a recurring traveling theme. They often imagine that dining room personnel dislike them. It might be noted that a strong component of anti-social behavior is paranoia. It's possible that their own guilt-fed gluttony, particularly in dessert buffet conditions, feeds paranoid fantasy. Unseemly, quietly histrionic conversations, emanating from the little table concerning who will parade back up to the dessert table for the third piece of pie, are commonplace. An unpleasant incident, very public, involving the girlfriend, an incorrectly billed lunch charge and the Nazi Sisters -- identical twins, charged with the aggressive enforcement of dining room rules and regulations -- does little to alleviate the uneasiness.

The reality of a small resort is that each week sees almost a 100% turnover in guests. After four or five days, The Coach feels more secure in his position on the island. Only a few days ago an unsure stranger, he's now the longest tenured tourist on the grounds. Sunburned guests seek out his counsel on local issues such as dive boats, evening activities, and even dining room etiquette. At lunch one day, he shocks the girlfriend by suggesting they join some of their fellow divers for lunch.

It's at these awkward long table gatherings that The Coach learns, to his surprise, that Pete Sampras won Wimbledon five days ago, France is in the World Cup finals, and the baseball All Star game has already happened. Uncharacteristically, the waterlogged sportswriter doesn't give a shit. He is content. He notes to his girlfriend that he hasn't had a headache, a daily cross to bear, in over a week. And so he passes his days in ignorant and peaceful bliss. His normally complicated life is reduced to a simple regimen: wake up, drink bad coffee on the beach, bell rings, eat, dive, bell rings, eat, dive, nap, drink, bell rings, eat, smoke a cigar, watch TV, sleep.

Too soon, 10 days have passed. It is, alas, time to go home. Many strangers inhabit his resort. The anti-social Coach and his girlfriend hug and say goodbye to what's left of their new friends. They will miss each other. Even the much-feared Nazi Sisters come to their table to say farewell. They seem sad to see the eccentric couple depart. They board -- bubbling over with palm-sweating terror -- the single-engine airplane which will take them back to the world.

The Coach sees a current USA Today in the airport. Without a backward glance, he passes right by.