When we decided to see Bermuda on a motorbike, the classic “moped,” instead of baking in the heat, waiting for buses and taxis, we experienced a new sense of freedom. We could whisk around and explore nooks and crannies that you don’t normally see from the main roads, while the soft breeze caressed our faces and whiffs of frangipani and oleander delighted our senses, and we could come and go at leisure. I rode on the back of my husband’s bike. Fred mastered the left side of the road and the traffic circles quickly.
We enjoyed going from north to south and from one end of the island to the other end. We would stop at different places, Shelly Bay Park for a swim, the Swizzle Inn, Spanish Point, St. George’s and a host of other magical candy-land-like places including a stop at Stone Hole Beach, Jobson’s Cove and the old Tio Pepe’s watering hole and eatery on the south shore on our journey each time, tooling around much of the day. We did this for three visits in three years.
One fine day in 1997, the Year of Our Lord, we were driving around during late afternoon. It was late August and we were hot getting tired and thought about heading back to the rental place and board our ship docked at King’s Wharf. We were in a neighborhood on a hill with winding roads, opposite the water from Hamilton. Then the unexpected happened. Our front wheel bumped the curb, we lost our balance – perhaps I was “leaning out” instead of in – and I fell—rather, was thrown by the impact — on top of my husband. I thought he was a goner. He was fine. The side of my knee crushed the rear view mirror on the handlebars and I had a bleeding gash on my leg, which upset my husband. We were sitting on the grassy curb feeling disoriented and silly! Who’d a thunk? Motorbike accidents have happened many times over and we were lucky ours wasn’t worse.
A young man stopped his car, parked and came over to us. He called an ambulance to take us to King Edward VII Memorial Hospital in Hamilton. The ambulance came quickly and we thanked the man profusely, wanting to get in touch with him again. He told us he owned Club 21, a disco at the time, in the Royal Navy Dockyard, near where the ceramic factory is. Once at the hospital, my leg was x-rayed for broken glass (there was none) but the gash required a stitch and staying out of the water.
Club 21 in the Royal Navy Dockyard is no longer there but that night, we did go to see him to shake his hand. We had a couple of drinks and enjoyed the live music. I wish I remembered his name.
That’s where you, my dear readers, who have been enjoying my travelogues of your land, come into the story: If anyone reading The Fallen story, knows the gentleman to whom I am referring, please contact me through Keeon Minors at wearebermuda.com. He was in his twenties at the time, with black hair and tanned-skin complexion, about medium build and maybe 5’ 7”.
And, please tell that man who stopped that day about my story here. I’d love to know he alive and well and thank him again. How cool it would be to know that he read this!
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