The trade winds whispered secrets through swaying palm fronds on the balmy night before Three Kings Day in St. Croix. The moon, a luminous pearl in the indigo sky, cast shimmering pathways on the turquoise canvas of the Caribbean Sea. Ten-year-old Miguel, his dark eyes wide with anticipation, lay nestled in his hammock, lulled by the gentle creak of cicadas. Unlike the snowy landscapes of Christmas carols, here, Christmas spirit bloomed with vibrant poinsettias and the intoxicating aroma of Mama’s guava duff baking in the kitchen.
“Mama,” Miguel whispered, tossing himself out of the hammock, “will Santa still come even without snow?”
Mama, humming a Christmas calypso, dusted flour from her hands. “Of course, mi amor. Santa Claus finds his way to every child, no matter where they live.” A smile tickled the corners of her eyes. “Remember Papa’s story about the three wise men? They followed the stars, and Santa does the same, only with a little extra Caribbean magic.”
Miguel pondered this. He knew about the Three Kings, but Santa with a sleigh and reindeer? That seemed a bit out of place on this island paradise. He remembered a song Papa used to sing, a quirky tune about Santa struggling with the tropical terrain.
“But Mama,” he persisted, “how will his reindeer fly over the sea? And where will they land? We don’t have chimneys, Papa says Santa gets stuck in the mango tree!”
Mama’s laughter rang out, chasing away the last doubts. “Ah, Miguelito, that’s where the Caribbean magic comes in! Maybe Santa will borrow a jumbie bird from the rainforest, all sleek and feathered, perfect for soaring over the ocean.”
A mischievous glint sparked in Miguel’s eyes. Maybe Santa would trade his red suit for a bright guayabera shirt, like Papa wore. Instead of boots, he’d wear comfy slippers, perfect for the warm sand. And the presents? Well, those wouldn’t fit in a sleigh anyway. Mama and Papa always had the best gifts under the flamboyant tree in the living room.
Just then, a loud “HEE-HAW!” echoed from outside. Miguel peeked out the window and saw Old Man Johnson, his weathered face lit by a kerosene lamp, leading his trusty donkey, Pedro. Pedro, adorned with colorful Christmas lights, sported a makeshift red harness.
“Mama, look!” Miguel exclaimed. “Maybe Old Man Johnson is giving Pedro a ride to deliver presents!”
Mama chuckled. “Now, Miguel, Pedro might be strong, but delivering presents for all the children on St. Croix is a mighty big job.”
But as the night deepened, a gentle whoosh filled the air, growing louder. Miguel rushed outside, his heart pounding. There, above the swaying palm trees, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, a figure glided through the air. Not a reindeer, not a jumbie bird, but a hang glider! A red one, with a jolly man in a guayabera shirt at the helm, guiding it expertly with a broad smile. The man dipped his wings in a greeting before disappearing towards Frederiksted, a trail of glittering dust marking his path.
Miguel stared, speechless. Santa Claus, Caribbean style! Mama emerged beside him, her eyes twinkling. “See, Miguelito? Caribbean magic always finds a way.”
That night, as Miguel drifted off to sleep, visions of sugar plum beaches and a hang-gliding Santa danced in his head. He knew, with absolute certainty, that St. Croix might not have snow or chimneys, but it had its own unique Christmas magic, and that was more than enough.
