Growing up wild and Free

Island Time: Our Wild and Free Virgin Islands Childhood 

 Table of Contents · 

Prologue: The Click of a Marble 

Chapter 1: The Crew of Cruz Bay 

Chapter 2: The Dirt Lot Olympics 

Chapter 3: Fists and Forgiveness 

Chapter 4: The Earth's Candy Store 

Chapter 5: The Kitchen Healers 

Chapter 6: The Ferry to Another World 

Chapter 7: Homemade Magic 

Chapter 8: The House Party: Where the Pot Was Always Full and the House Was Always Packed Epilogue 

Chapter 9: The Sound of the Sea 

Chapter 10: The Rhythm of the Island How life was dictated by nature, seasons, and holidays, not by screens. 

Chapter 11: How we made up our games 

 Book Title : Island Time: Growing Up Wild and Free in the Virgin Isles of the 70s,80s & 90s Book 

Description: Step back into a sun-drenched paradise where the only Wi-Fi was the ocean breeze and the only updates came from the ripening of a mango tree. Before cable TV with few channels and hearing neighbors shouting because of wrestling matches glued us to screens and the world’s worries seeped into our shores, there was a different St. John. 

 This is the vibrant, true story of a childhood unplugged. It was a decade of incredible freedom, from 1970s,1980s and 90s, where we invented our own games under the vast Caribbean sky. We solved arguments with our fists, not firearms, and a fight ended with a handshake. 

We lived off the land and sea, fishing for our supper, tending our gardens, and mastering our mothers' recipes for sweet coconut tarts, tamarind stew and savory pates and sometimes bought them at festivals. 

 We used to ride our bikes up Ginna Hill and race down full speed, feeling the thrill of freedom. The pond was our playground—we climbed in old cars, and even turned an old fridge into our ship-boat for adventures. 

In Jack’s yard, we picked sweet sugar apples, enjoying their taste under the hot sun. Sometimes, we caught a ride to Trunk Bay Beach, where we swam all day until the waves carried us home tired but happy. We even cooked fish on three stones, roasting them over the fire as laughter filled the air. Sweet Days of Childhood The smell of fresh cake baking always carried through the house, filling every room with warmth. We didn’t just love the cake itself—we lived for the moment when Mama was done mixing. As soon as she set the bowl aside, we rushed over like hungry birds. “Save me some!” one of us would shout, grabbing the spoon before anyone else could. We’d take turns licking the sweet batter from the bowl and the mixer blades, laughing as we argued over who got the biggest share. That simple joy tasted better than any dessert. When we weren’t in the kitchen, we were outside chasing fun. Picking genip,and shaking the tamarind and gooseberry trees was one of our favorite adventures. We’d climb trees with scraped knees and calloused hands, shaking the branches until the little green fruit rained down. Most of it went straight into our mouths before we ever thought of saving some to bring home. 

 

Then there were the days we’d sneak into Vegas Bar. We were far too young for the crowd there, but it wasn’t the drinks that pulled us in—it was the jukebox. We’d drop a coin, wait for the crackle, and then the music would fill the room. In an instant, we were dancers on a big stage, spinning and laughing as if the whole world was ours. 

 

Of course, children always find mischief. We thought we were so clever when we rolled up brown paper bags, pretending to smoke. 

We puffed and blew out nothing but air, strutting around like adults while hiding our giggles behind our “serious” faces. The best part of those days was how easily we created our own games. We didn’t need much—just imagination and each other. A stick could be a sword, a stone could be treasure, and a backyard could turn into a kingdom. Back then, life felt safer. We didn’t see the dangerous things that later swept through neighborhoods. Illegal drugs weren’t everywhere, and innocence still had room to breathe. We lived in a world of music, fruit trees, cake bowls, and make-believe—a world that now feels like gold in memory. Our year was marked by pure, homemade joy: the creative frenzy of crafting a Halloween costume from old sheets and dreams, and the unparalleled magic of a Virgin Islands Christmas, where decorating the tree was a family ritual and every gift was a treasure. This is a fantastic addition that captures a specific and exciting cultural moment. A chapter built from memory, designed to fit seamlessly into the ebook and highlight the incredible community fun.

 Concrete Carnival: Boomboxes, Breakdancing, and Roller Skates If the basketball court by day was our arena of competition, by night—especially on weekends—it transformed into something else entirely: a pulsating, open-air carnival of sound and motion. This was the era when breakdancing exploded onto our island, and we embraced it with every fiber of our being. 

The preparation was half the fun. Someone’s older cousin would haul out a giant boombox, its cassette deck ready and its speakers threatening to blow out. The sound of electric funk and the early beats of hip-hop & reggae would crackle through the humid evening air, a siren’s call that brought everyone out of their houses. You could feel the bass in your chest before you even reached the court. 

 We didn’t have a proper wooden floor or a fancy roller rink. We had the same cracked concrete we played basketball on, and it was perfect. We’d lace up our roller skates—the kind with metal wheels that clattered and sent sparks if you hit a rock—and suddenly, we were flying. It wasn’t about smooth glides; it was about energy, about the thunderous roar of dozens of wheels under a canopy of stars. And then there was the breaking. We’d push the skaters to the perimeter and wet down a central patch of concrete to make a slightly slicker circle—our stage. 

This is where legends were born. Kids who spent their afternoons doing homework or chores became kings and queens of the concrete. They practiced for hours, mastering the helicopter windmills, the impossible headspins, and the six-step footwork that made our heads spin just watching. The community would form a roaring circle, clapping in time with the beat. Mamas, papas, grandparents, and little kids all came out. It wasn't just a kid's thing; it was a people thing. The air would smell of grilling meat from the food stalls set up on the sidelines—someone’s mom selling juicy pates and ice-cold Lindy pops to raise a little money, turning the event into a full-blown festival. The competitions were fierce but pure. Crew would face off against crew, not with anger, but with a burning desire to show off their skill and creativity. 

You’d see a boy from Coral Bay try to outspin a girl from Cruz Bay, and the crowd would erupt for both. The prize wasn’t money or a trophy; it was bragging rights for the week and the roaring approval of your entire community. That’s what we had that feels so lost today. We didn’t watch dancers on a screen; we were the show. We didn’t “like” a performance with a thumb; we screamed and clapped until our hands were sore. We didn’t play a skating video game; we felt the ache in our legs and the scrapes on our knees from trying a new move for real. Don't forget the community basketball tournament from different part of st.john. The coaches Chapper,Shino, Charleston and Milk.

 We played video games in each other’s house for hours. It was loud, it was sweaty, it was alive. It was us, together, creating our own magic fun under the night sky, fueled by nothing but a beat, our own energy, and the undeniable joy of being a community that knew how to play together. We weren't just having fun; we were creating a memory so vivid, I can still hear the wheels clattering and the crowd cheering, a perfect, joyful noise that no digital stream could ever replicate. Of course. This is a powerful and poignant memory that gets to the very heart of what has changed in our communities—the shift from collective celebration to individual transaction. 

Here is a new chapter that captures that feeling. You didn’t need a fancy engraved invitation. The news would travel through the island like a telegraph wire strung between coconut trees: “They having a party Saturday by the Roberts family.” That was all we needed to know. 

The anticipation would build for days, not for the music or the gossip, but for the food. My goodness, the food. You couldn’t sleep the night before, thinking about it. The rich, deep, spicy aroma of goat water stewing for hours, the tender meat falling off the bone. The sharp, vinegary kick of souse, with those perfectly cooked pig’s feet that you had to suck clean. The creamy, comforting coolness of potato salad, each family claiming their auntie made the best version. And the main event: the oxtails, slow-cooked until they were melt-in-your-mouth tender, served over a mountain of seasoned rice and peas, with a side of sweet potato stuffing, potatoe salad, coleslaw and slice of bake Mac & cheese. This wasn’t just eating; it was a celebration of flavor, a ritual of togetherness. 

The table groaned under the weight of it all, and everyone—everyone—came with a dish, with a pot, with something to contribute. The sharing was the point. The house would be so packed you could feel the walls breathing. Music—soca, reggae, calypso, soul—would pour from the windows into the night. You’d dance in the living room, on the porch, in the yard, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, laughing and sweating as one giant, happy organism. And it was the same for christenings. 

A christening wasn’t just a church ceremony; it was a village’s promise. The house would be even more packed, if that was possible, buzzing with a different kind of joy. It was a celebration of a new life, and the entire community showed up to bless it. And crucially, everyone came with a gift. It wasn’t about the price tag. 

It was about the gesture. A hand-knitted blanket from Miss Claudia. A carefully chosen silver rattle from the neighbors. A stack of diapers from your father’s work friend. A beautifully wrapped baby outfit from someone you barely knew but who knew your family. The gifts were physical tokens of support, a way of saying, “We are here for you. We welcome this child. We will help you raise them.” 

The pile of gifts was a visible monument to the child’s new place in the community. Time have really changed. I look at parties now, and my heart feels a little heavy. So often, people come empty-handed. The notion of contributing a dish to a host seems to be fading. The expectation is now on one person to bear the entire cost, the entire effort. And gifts? For christenings, for birthdays? 

It’s not a given anymore. Sometimes people come, they eat, they drink, they enjoy the music, and they leave. Not even a helping hand to help to clean up after. The transaction is complete; they consumed the experience. Back then, the transaction was different. 

You gave your time to help decorate, cook and run errands, your dish, your gift, your dance, your laughter. You invested in the community, and the community invested in you. You left a party knowing you were part of something bigger than yourself. You left a christening knowing that baby was wrapped in a blanket of love, literally and figuratively, from an entire island. We weren’t just sharing food and music; we were sharing responsibility. 

We were sharing joy. We were building a network of care, one plate of oxtails, one hand-knitted blanket, at a time. That’s what made the party truly full—not just the pots, but the hearts. Island Time is a joyful, poignant, and thrilling love letter to a forgotten era. 

Party packed with some eating and every one dancing having fun.

It’s a celebration of scraped knees, the clink of marbles, the taste of sun-warmed fruit, and the unbreakable bonds of a community that raised each other. 

This book is an invitation to remember what we’ve lost—and what we can still find if we just look up from our screens. Chapter Summaries Prologue: The Sound of the Ferry Horn A present-day reflection. The constant ping of a smartphone vs. the defining sounds of childhood: the ferry horn, the shout of "Marral!" in a game, and the sizzle of a pate in a frying pan. Step back into a sun-drenched paradise where the only Wi-Fi was the ocean breeze and the only updates came from the ripening of a mango tree. 

 Before cable TV with few channels glued us to screens with the screams and shouts of neighbors watching wrestling matches and the world’s worries seeped into our shores, there was a different St. John.  St. John where your best friends were named Linky, Tarzan, and Chuckle, and your playground was the entire island. 

Playing marbles waiting on the ferry boat to go to Redhook.

Hearing us and the neighbors shouting about the wrestling match.

Your currency was marbles, and your feast was homemade tamarind stew. This is the vibrant, true story of a childhood unplugged. It was a decade of incredible freedom, from 1970s, 1980s and 90s where we invented our own games under the vast Caribbean sky. 

We solved arguments with our fists, not firearms, and a fight ended with a handshake. We lived off the land and sea, fishing for our supper, tending our gardens, and mastering our mothers' recipes for sweet gooseberry, coconut tarts and savory beef,saltfish pates. Our year was marked by pure, homemade joy: 

We couldn’t wait for the creative frenzy of crafting a Halloween costume from old sheets and dreams, and the unparalleled magic of a Virgin Islands especially Christmas time, where decorating the tree was a family ritual and every gift was a treasure. 

 Island Time is a joyful time of year, poignant, and thrilling love letter to a forgotten era. It’s a celebration of scraped knees, the clink of marbles, the taste of sun-warmed fruit, and the unbreakable bonds of a community that raised each other. This book is an invitation to remember what we’ve lost—and what we can still find if we just look up from our screens. 

 Chapter Summaries Prologue: The Sound of the Ferry Horn A present-day reflection. The constant ping of a smartphone vs. the defining sounds of childhood: the ferry horn, the shout of  hopscotch, jump rope!" in a game, and the sizzle of a pate in a frying pan. 

 

Chapter 1: The Crew of Cruz Bay Introducing the vibrant cast of characters: Linky, the fearless leader; Tarzan, the climber; Dian, the clever strategist; Hulky, the strong but gentle giant; Chuckle, who always found the fun; and Shan Shan the dancer, Jack, and Jill (Rip) boy & girl twin sibling A portrait of a community where everyone knew each other. 

 Chapter 2: Kings of the Circle: Boys played Marbles, The intense strategy of marble tournaments in the dirt. The girls played Hopscotch, Marral and hand games Diving deep into the games of skill and tradition. The rhythmic chants and precision of the girls playing hopscotch and the energetic, team-based fun of Marral. A chapter full of competition and camaraderie. 

 

Chapter 3: The Land Provides: Gardens, Fishing, and Roadside Stands Expanding on the food sources. The patience and reward of fishing from the docks or shore. The pride of the family garden (the "virgin islands garden"). The entrepreneurial spirit of the roadside stand, selling the day's catch and harvest. 

 Chapter 4: The Kitchen Magicians: Tamarind Stew and Johnny Cakes A dedicated chapter to the magic of island cooking. Learning to make tart tamarind and gooseberry stews, baking sweet and savory tarts, and mastering the perfect fried pate. The kitchen as a heart of the home, filled with smells and love. 

 Chapter 5: Fists and Forgiveness The code of conduct for conflicts. The "one on one" fights that were about pride and respect, always ending with a truce. A direct contrast to modern youth violence. Did we fight? Of course, we did! 

We were kids. But our fights had rules. If you had a problem with Jack, you squared up. One on one. Fists, not weapons. Pride, not permanent damage. The most important rule came after. When it was over, it was over. You’d dust yourself off, maybe have a stinging lip or a prideful bruise, and within an hour, you’d be sharing a Lindy ice pop, the sweet red syrup washing away any leftover anger. We solved our problems face-to-face. We learned respect and resilience. We didn’t have the option to hide behind a screen and type hateful words. Our violence had a limit, and our forgiveness had no limit. 

 Chapter 6: The Great St. Thomas Expedition The unparalleled excitement of "going to town." The ferry ride as an adventure. The sensory overload of the market in Charlotte Amalie. 

 Chapter 7: Secrets of the Seashore The ocean as a provider and playground. Hunting fish using can on the end of fishing  line, picking  whelks on reef and conch on the grass bed, swimming until pruny, and the simple joy of being in the water. 

 Chapter 8: The Unseen Safety Net Exploring why it was so safe. The community as a living, breathing safety net where everyone's parents were your parents. 

 Chapter 9: homemade Holidays: Halloween Frights and Christmas Lights A joyous chapter dedicated to the highlights of the year. The creativity of homemade Halloween costumes and the genuine, chilling fun of being scared by neighbors. The deep, heartfelt magic of Christmas—the rituals of decorating the tree, the anticipation of a special gift (perhaps a new basketball or a handmade doll), and the unique blend of tropical and traditional festivities. 

 Holidays weren’t bought from a store; they were crafted with love and a little chaos. For Halloween, we didn’t have plastic costumes from China. We had old sheets turned into ghosts, cardboard boxes transformed into robots, and charcoal smudged on our faces. The real terror wasn’t a packaged mask; it was Mr. Adams from down the road, who’d leap out from behind a bush in a truly terrifying homemade get-up. We’d scream with genuine, delicious fear, then run away laughing, our hearts pounding with joy. 

Christmas…oh, Christmas was a feeling. The whole island seemed to glow. We’d help string lights and carefully hang each ornament on the tree, a ritual of pure magic. The gifts under the tree were fewer, but they meant so much more. A new ball, a handmade doll, a crisp outfit. The festivities were about music, food, and being together. It was a warmth that no modern gadget could ever replicate. 

Chapter 10: The Rhythm of the Island How life was dictated by nature, seasons, and holidays, not by screens. The slow, predictable pace that reduced anxiety. 

Chapter 11: The Echo of Their Laughter Where are they now? A catch-up with the crew. What lessons from that decade did they carry into adulthood? 

 

Chapter 12: Epilogue: The Taste of Tamarind A final, powerful reflection. Just one taste of tamarind stew can transport you back. A call to action to incorporate the spirit of that era into today's life: more creating, more connecting, and more living in the moment. The Kitchen Magicians: Tamarind Stew and Johnny Cakes A dedicated chapter to the magic of island cooking. Learning to make tart tamarind and gooseberry stews, baking sweet and savory baked tarts, and mastering the perfect fried pate. The kitchen as a heart of the home, filled with smells and love. 

 Chapter 13: Basketball was our world . The basketball court was our world, and we could play there from sunrise to nightfall without ever noticing the hours slip away. The echo of the ball hitting the pavement mixed with our laughter, the shouts of competition, and the squeak of worn sneakers. Meals never pulled us away; we’d already eaten at a cousin’s house, grabbing just enough fuel to keep the games going. The day always ended the same—either with our mothers’ voices carrying across the neighborhood, calling us home, or with the fading light as the court sank into shadows, leaving us tired but happy, already dreaming of the next game. 

Labor Day in Coral Bay was always something special. We could hardly wait for the excitement when Frank Powell hosted the famous greased pig event. He would grease the pig until it was slick and shiny, and then the real fun began — everyone would race to catch it. The person lucky enough to hold on won the competition. The laughter, the thrill, and the chase made it one of the most unforgettable traditions.

Chapter 14: Final thought about our childhood.

Growing up in the Virgin Islands was a life of freedom, adventure, and joy. The ocean was our playground, the hills were our backyard, and the sunshine was our constant companion. We lived wild and free — running barefoot, chasing laughter, and finding happiness in the simplest things. The sea gave us strength, the land gave us resilience, and the people gave us love. Those days shaped who I am today, and no matter where life takes me, my spirit will always carry the rhythm of the islands and the untamed joy of my childhood.

I believe this generation will never experience childhood the way we did. The world has changed so much, and not always for the better. Corruption and danger force us to stay on guard, while technology and endless distractions keep us tied to our phones. Life has become so modernized that it feels like we can’t step away, as if the devices are taking over our lives. Everything has advanced, but sometimes I wish we could turn back time and bring back some of the simplicity we once had.

Thank you for reading my book. Hopefully you can share the experience with our new generation.

By: [Mariano Amarro]