I don’t ever recall Iz and I ever talking about what kind of apartment we wanted to rent when we arrived at St. John, only that roommates were not an option. We’ve grown to love a phrase I had first seen used by the author, Matt Haig: [we’re] not anti-social, [we’re] pro-solitude. Isabel and I embodied this phrase in New Orleans, we were social when we needed to be but when there was a choice we found more joy and comfort in the company of each other. Despite the willingness to completely upend our entire lives by moving to a small remote island, we’d be damned if we spent any of our downtime around anyone but ourselves.

This severely limited our rental options.

There was no choice, it was this “windowless, single room apartment with a tiny kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom,” or we slept in the mini-van. Sure, the place was small; its aroma was a mixture of fresh paint and mildew; the shower drain was gross; the power didn’t always work; the “windows” that did exist had no panes, just screens and hurricane shutters; the fans were useless; there was no cross-breeze; it neighbored the car barges; the bugs were relentless; only two of the four stovetop burners worked; hot water was limited; the sink physically couldn’t house a dirty pot; cabinets didn’t exist; there was no storage; the cistern fill-pipes leaked; there was no place to sit, but it’s what we needed. And plus, from the moment we first moved in, we were mentally well beyond this particular living situation.

I don’t miss that apartment, but I do remember it fondly. The day-to-day life in that space was rough, but it grounded us. We spent a lot of time on the porch, before and after school, just talking and sharing the new reality that we were actually living on a remote island in the Caribbean, that we didn’t need much to be happy. We had each other, cheesy pasta, and plenty of Bachelor Nation to stream. Most importantly, it became our safe haven and retreat for what was about to come next: the house.

This whole, ‘Fuck It, Let’s Move to an Island’ story isn’t complete without the house. The inception of the idea on Moloka’i was invigorating, it had legs, and motivated us for a time. It’s what brought us to the island in April of 2018 for the job interviews. But that visit provided more questions than answers. About the school, we were set. The answers to our questions were sufficient enough for us to see ourselves working within the school, we saw the potential and were ready to run with it. The answers to our questions about living on the island were concerning. The beaches are awesome; the nightlife is fun; the people are cool, but it was financially daunting.

Now is a good time to point out to the readers that if you haven’t caught on to the fact that we’re a healthy mix of impulsive, gritty, energized, and crazy, it’s best to be reminded of that. Housing was such a concern because the island was ravaged by two category 5 hurricanes only six months prior and everyone currently on the island was adjusting to their new livelihoods in the wake of such disaster. We wanted to be allies in the recovery efforts, especially as teachers, but the rental market and our offered salaries were going to make this a challenge. I had already worked multiple jobs as a teacher in New Orleans, and it looked as if it was going to be more of the same on the island. We would need additional sources of income.

Isabel and I wanted to make sure we did the legwork on this April trip to experience all that we could about day-to-day life on the island in order to make an informed and sound decision regarding this monumental, life-changing opportunity. Lol. We collected bits of info and manipulated it to justify the irrational prospect of island life. But as we were exiting Starfish Market to ‘cross-reference the price of wine’ we saw what everyone sees as they exit Starfish, the Holiday Homes property listings. It was comical but entertaining. These luxurious listings, outrageously priced, were well beyond anything we would ever own, especially as two educators! But.

There was a listing with a number not-so-outrageous, one photo with a view out to St. Thomas, and a small paragraph:

Although this home sustained some hurricane damage, the lower level remains in perfect condition, leaving a blank slate with amazing views in Chocolate Hole for the buyer. There is an expansive open deck on the lower level with a hot tub and wet bar plus a large covered deck leading to another bedroom or storage area. Could quickly be used as a two-bedroom long term rental. Upper-level walls are in good shape and could support a second-story master bedroom. The sky is the limit with design choices on the upper level. Take advantage of this blank slate in desirable Chocolate Hole.

“Take advantage of this blank slate in desirable Chocolate Hole.” Fuck it, let’s move to an island.

To be continued …