As I walked down the rickety gangplank to the dock in Phillipsburg with my fiancée of 6 days, we said our final farewells to the Barefoot Windjammer’s beautiful vessel, the Polynesia. I knew it would happen again. I knew I would experience the sun-drenched days and warm, moonlit evenings of the Caribbean again.

But, could I make it part of my daily life? I knew there was a way. A better way than how I was currently spending my waking hours. Some way that was simpler. A way to live with less debt, more fun. Less complicated and fewer frivolous items purchased just to be cool and hip.  At the time I was 28, young at heart, looking to obtain as much “stuff” as I could and bury myself deeper in debt. I had a beautiful bride-to-be. I was on the top of the world. After all, I thought I had it all. Still, somewhere in the alcoves of my mind, I found room to hold on to other images—visions of lush green mountains and water painted in hues of aqua. I never knew this kind of scenery existed before my journey into the Caribbean.

Those visions and images were recreated time after time in my mind during the long, dark, dormant days of winter in Maine. The pictures and stories in the assorted travel magazines I subscribed to helped me chip  my way through the ice on my SUV windshield. A 25-minute commute to my job at L.L. Bean only gave me more time to wistfully dream as autopilot led me to my exit. My carpeted cubicle awaited my early morning arrival. There I would spend my next nine hours talking with people from all over the United States, listening to why their “cause,” their charitable request,was worthy of an L.L.Bean donation to their organization. I heard from, you name it, school pageants because the queen candidate wore Bean boots, homeless victims, lepers, the North Duluth Chapter of Ducks Unite. And so my life continued.  All of the sudden, I was 34 and had been with Bean for almost 10 years. My marriage—a quick year and a half event—was a distant memory. That ever so beautiful bride to be was, well, not to be. Yet, while she was a faded memory, my visions of the Caribbean still haunted me; restored every now and then by a trip to my parents home in Florida or, when I was lucky to get to the “real” Caribbean, a week to Antigua or Margarita. I knew there was a better way.  

L.L.Bean had benchmarked many software companies known to be on the cutting edge for tremendous benefits and progressive human resource departments. My employer created a very generous sabbatical program offered as a result of a sluggish year of growth for the catalog giant and a creative way to decrease some payroll dollars. Human resources provided me with an application. Should I read it? Should I submit it? I had no clue that this creativity on Bean’s part was about to change my life forever.  The weekend after grasping my fingers around the application, hallucinations of making tropical drinks actually made me feel warm as I stood barefoot in front of my closet deciding which of my wool sweaters to wear. I imagined my toes in the sand, even though they were actually in a pair of polar fleece slippers. I cranked the heat up in my apartment to combat the frigid January winds that blew off Casco Bay, ignoring the thick peppering of frozen, salty sea spray on my windows. I filled my apartment with tunes from my Latin music collection and let my imagination rip all over that application.  Finished after much duress, it read something like this: The reasons I should be granted the sabbatical are: I want to possibly start my own business, learn to speak Spanish, and I would like two years off, please. Simple huh? Two years away from ice, from my cubicle and my comfort zone. Could I do it? I remembered the words of wisdom from one of the company directors: Stepping out of the comfort zone in anything you do is frightening, but that is also where the most learning and growth happens. I kept that in mind.  Scared, with my head filled with jumbled, crazy thoughts intertwined with beautiful images, my fingers continued to type. It was January of 1996. I asked to leave my position in late August of 1996 and return to work, just after Labor Day, in 1998. My target destination to set up my new domicile was Aruba. My sister, Debbie, had introduced me to the dustbowl of Aruba where she had a timeshare, in 1994. The southern Caribbean island seemed to have just the right blend—perfect weather, nice people, a real island pace.  Now the fear. How did I explain to my girlfriend, Karen, of almost five years that I wanted to move to the Caribbean? Would I be gone for one year, or two? Could I find a job in Aruba? Would I make friends there? What about money? Could I live, eat, enjoy a cocktail occasionally? The money from my recently sold vehicle and a small piggy bank would not last very long without employment. Only 50 sabbaticals were granted out of an employee population of about 7,000. To qualify, an employee had to have seven years with the company, good performance standing, and their manager’s approval. I was able to check mark all of the above.  Still nearly sick to my stomach with anxiety and excitement, I printed the application, sealed it, and off it went via interoffice mail to the human resources department.

From that day on, a lot of “discussions” arose on the love front with Karen, my practical companion. Does she come? Does she leave her job with the State of Maine? Will she have health insurance? What will her mother say? What would my parents think? For sure, they would think it was another silly “Chris move.” The situation was actually both horrible and very stimulating, all at the same time.

About two months later, the days started growing longer in my part of the world. The sun lingered higher in the sky. The lakes in Maine were now, or soon would be, free of ice and the loons would be returning to the same spot they vacated seven months ago. Back in my cubicle, one Friday morning, I was going through my interoffice mail. An envelope from the human resources department caught my eye. Maybe this was something about my application. That pit in my stomach quickly returned as I opened the envelope.

It was news... “Dear Chris, Congratulations! The L.L.Bean Sabbatical Selection Committee has approved your sabbatical application.

We do realize that circumstances may have arisen that have caused you to reconsider your sabbatical request. We have allowed you a brief and final opportunity to withdraw your request. The letter continued with other stuff that I think I read, but can’t remember. Below, hand written in black ink, a message from the friend who got me the application read: Yeah Chris, Have Fun. Mel.  The cramping in my stomach became more severe. From that point on I really can’t recall what I did. My productivity was low on that spring Friday in Maine.

With my head still a mixed up mess of thoughts, I arrived to my Munjoy Hill apartment. In a confused state, I noticed I had some mail in my box. I saw a magazine (magazines always excited me more than a Visa bill or an overdraft notice from Fleet Bank). I had received a new issue of one of my travel magazines. I set down my briefcase and grabbed my mail. Islands Magazine, April 1996 issue, had one of their usual breathtaking images on the front. This cover was different, though. It looked familiar. In big print it  read, “Caribbean Breeze! Carefree in Aruba.”

No lie! I stood motionless for quite some time. Needless to say, my mind was made up…this was a sign, I was on my way. That fateful day a door opened wide. My life was about to change, forever.

Read part two of Chris Smith’s journey to a better way in our Fall edition available this August. Email Island Temptations to reserve yours! (info@island-temptations.com)

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