Here's something few announcers can say....."I started in radio in Bermuda!" Obviously, I take delight in that fact. Moreover, only a handful of Americans can make that claim because Bermuda is a member of the British Commonwealth, so they rarely take us Yanks aboard. But through the kind graces of a singing disc jockey and a generous program director, my first radio experience was a weekly record show from the pleasant studios of the Bermuda Broadcasting Company.
BERMUDA!---for those who've never been there---does not disappoint; not now, and certainly not then. Like the rest of the world in the Fifties, Bermuda enjoyed both a relative innocence and a smaller population..hence,a really terrific ambiance. British ties were everywhere--if you knew where to look--like afternoon tea, Christmas pudding and Boxing Day; you could puff on Passing Clouds cigarettes while dodging little Vauxhalls, Hillmans, and Morris Minors; and the wonderful old Pound Sterling was still the standard, with shillings, tuppences, thruppences and pence to play with.
Such influences, together with the small scale and untroubled pace of Bermuda life, produced a liberating sense of being about twenty years behind the times...and that was a very good thing. ZBM even broadcast programs from the BBC Transcription Service, like 'Henry Hall and his Orchestra,' I think it was called; a brisk society band evoking the feel of war-time England's hearth, home, and dancehall life.
All of these things meant, for me, that the world was at once a little old-fashioned, yet suddenly new and unfamiliar. Everywhere I turned I was thoroughly engaged by what I saw: The big blue pristine sea; a cozy, intimate shoreline with exquisite pink sand beaches; dazzling Caribbean architecture in colorful pastels, with the occasional touch of dramatic Bermuda cedar; and winding, hilly roads, sprouting floral abundance from every curb and cranny. The passing scene was, and still is, spectacular.
Bermuda's natives, white, black, and olive, included sizable populations of Bermudian, English and Portuguese, presenting more than enough "foreign" culture to interest a curious young fellow like me. Even the tourists were part of the local charm because tourism then presented no ugly face, as it often does now around the world. And surprisingly, the total population figure, including military bases and tourists, was still of manageable number considering the size of the island..just twenty-one square miles.
On the tiny isle of Bermuda--once you've grown weary of watching pulchritudinous cruise ships slip dramatically into port--what do you do with your time? Well, you jump on your Zundap (moped) and head...anywhere, any direction will do: the North Shore, the South Shore, St. George's or Somerset; from one end of the island to the other it is simply beautiful, night or day. With over a hundred fifty miles of paved road you can personally inspect every hill and curve of the place, and with an island-wide speed limit of twenty miles an hour, a liesurely pace is built right in.
There's excellent reason for that speed limit; the roads are hilly, twisty and narrow, with many a coral wall to bang into..and don't forget, you're driving on the left. They call the nasty results of faulty concentration "road-rash," and even at twenty miles an hour there's lots of...ooops, CRASH, damn!!...sort of action, especially among the tourists. I'm happy to say, it never happened to me. So, one very carefully - and happily - enjoys the everchanging scenery. Each little area has a character of its own, and that makes for an engrossing ride. My trusty Zundap buzzed me down many miles of narrow Bermuda roads, but remarkably, though I never left the island in my two years there, I did not see it all.
Bermuda has more breathtaking bays and inlets than you can count, with almost no flat land. It's all rolling hills and curves, sprinkled with cottages in blue, yellow, peach, and pink pastels--their brilliant white roofs designed to catch and keep the soft rainwater in underground tanks. You'll see picturesque coves of aquamarine perfection that will stop you in your tracks..then, from the next hilltop, a collosal view of the open ocean..sun-dazzled by day and moon-dazzled by night. All the while, your grateful proboscis inhales aromas from pungent Fruiting Fig to Oleander and Frangipani, each fruit and flower warmed by a subtropical sun in air so clean it elevates both mind and spirit.
Scantily clad beach-lovers might toot your horn, too. And later, as nighttime falls, Mother Nature's most effective romantic advantage, Nightblooming Jasmine, will melt your sweetie's resistance. Guaranteed.
Men in Bermuda...wear Bermuda shorts. Women wear...exactly what they need to wear. Horsedrawn carriages clip-clop along Front Street, people are buzzing around on their Zundaps, and the Cricket field is...hopping. Want to have lunch at the Tea Cozy? The crab sandwiches are dainty but delicious, and the view of Front Street from the balcony is solid gold, especially if the Queen of Bermuda is in port; you can almost reach out and touch her. Later we'll stroll over to that Chinese restaurant on Reid St. for a slice of "Kream Pie." It's so good you can't have just one, and it's only four shillings/sixpence a slice...in 1957.
You might even see some American military stiffs who've ventured into town to have a look at the Bermudian "gooks," believe it or not. And rest assured that with an open, curious eye or two, there are a thousand other surprises to blow your flip-flops off. Yes, of all the pretty little spots on earth, Bermuda was the perfect place for me to be. Besides, the angels had a plan.
