A Family Story

LuckyKid

SBH Insider
Roger Lacour’s passing reminded me of my family’s earliest St Barth visits. This story is from my step-mother Virginia’s family memoir. She was born in England. Her father worked for White Star Line shipping and their family lived abroad, in Genoa and then Hamburg, right up until WWII began. She is in her late-90s now and is still living independently on the Eastern Shore of MD. She and my dad had visited St Maarten several times and then heard about St. Barth.

-Peter


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Our St. Barths Initiation

When Bill joined me in St. Maarten that weekend we boarded a tiny Windward Airways plane and set off for the ten-minute flight to St. Barths--which terminates in a hair-raising nose-dive through a cut in the mountains onto a short, short landing strip ending in the ocean. I was paralyzed. And was to be paralyzed countless of times in the ensuing 20 years.

The 'airport' was a paved runway in a field, and wood benches under a leafy tree served as the terminal. A few low-slung cars with no tops, no windows, no doors, were being hawked for rent by an eager group of St. Barths entrepreneurs. We rented one, and drove the perilously narrow two way roads criss-crossing the hilly island; no guard rails to give us a sense of security from the ominous drop below. With quaking knees we reached the sandy 'hotel' on a magnificent stretch of aquamarine ocean. Reservation? "Oh yes, maybe--let's look in the car to see if there are any letters on the floor ...." St. Barths is known for its sumptuous accommodations and luxurious living. But these were yet to come. In 1975 it was still bare bones. Restaurants were romantically situated on the beach lit by hanging lanterns. And on the menus--all of them--were chicken and string beans. Why?

A trip to the grocery store explained it: freezer chests held the only 'fresh' food on the island. At night the electricity was turned off to save money, turned on again the next morning. And what was in those chests now standing in melted ice water? Thawing chicken and string beans.

One month after our first visit we rented a St. Barths villa for a week. An American on the island had an agency for a few rental houses; she knew how to grab our emotions: she met our plane and drove us to the house, double entry doors flung wide open, with a view of the aquamarine water spread out beyond the house as we entered the front door. We were hooked.

We contacted a young Fenchman, Roger Lacour, who was having his midday swim in crystal-clear water at a sandy beach nearby. He sat down on the sand beside us. "Tell me," he asked, "what are you doing in St. Barths?" "We want to buy a house," we answered. "Well, there are two houses for sale on the island." said Roger, "One is hidden in the underbrush, but I'll show you the other. I'll take you up to Vitet right now, if you like," he offered, pulling a shirt over his swim suit.

In bare feet Roger drove us around the edge of the island, then up a vertical road, up and up. Bill and I hung onto the seats of the roofless, doorless car until Roger stopped on a dangerous incline and pulled hard on the hand brake. "Here's the house," he said. We looked around. We were standing on the drop-off side of the road looking out at the ocean beyond. Roger headed for a tiny opening in a stone wall and rang a small brass bell under a wooden plaque: "Sonnez SVP." Now we could see the top of the green tin roof of a house below.

The entrance sloped steeply and ended in four stone steps which led down into a courtyard shaded by a tall palm tree. The one storey house, cream stucco, seemed to be hanging from the side of the hill, a sheer drop from the front of the house to a terrace three floors below.

A tiny wooden bridge crossed the gap in the terrain onto the terrace of the house. Built half-way up the highest hill on the island, it was owned by the French mayor of St.Barths, Madame Giselle Kokoushkine. Her Russian husband spent his days building small rock walls to contain the soil: he tended the scraggy plants that survived in waterless earth. It had not rained in ten months: all was barren.

We walked across the porch, furnished with unremarkable plastic outdoor chairs and huge terra cotta pots of hibiscus. But all we could see was the sparkling view of the ocean beyond the porch railing.

We were greeted by rapid fire French and explanatory gestures. Madame Kokushkine explained that everything in the house was included in the sale: furniture, linens, china, pots and pans. But our attention was on the ocean view, a sparkling blue, interrupted by a tiny island called La Tortue. The Kokushkines suggested we visit again after dark, to see it in romantic lantern light. We did.

Later that night we drove for dinner to the very top of the island. A German, Heinz Reinke, had built an incredible redoubt of superb quality with a gourmet restaurant--completely out of keeping with austere St. Barths.

To make our dinner reservation that afternoon we had driven up the mountain--no phones--and had walked into Reinke's office, where I stopped dead in my tracks: the entire long wall was a photographic reproduction of a water colour print which hung in our living room in New York: it was the view in Hamburg from my father's office across the Alster lake. Well, Hans Reinke was also from Hamburg, and the scene was the view from his father's office--right next door to my father's.

Reinke's restaurant overlooked a vast spread of ocean; it was set in luxurious surroundings disconnected from the reality of this parched island. Dinner was superb: Reinke had just returned with food from France, set on Provencal linens, gleaming silver and sparkling crystal. We shared our after dinner demi-tasses in the leather upholstered lounge with another couple. They were discussing the Vitet house--should they, or should they not, buy it? We couldn't listen.

The following morning at the airport we gave a taxi driver a message. "Just tell Monsieur Lacour that we want the Kokushkine house." Then we boarded the tiny plane for St. Maarten, then the jet to Kennedy airport.

Back in New York we faced reality. How were we going to buy a St.Barths house? We owned an apartment in New York. We owned a country house in Connecticut. How could we possibly buy a house in St. Barths?

Bill's job as Financial Officer at Marymount Manhattan College kept him in close touch with the Third Avenue branch of Manufacturers Hanover Trust. He approached his friend the manager with a request for a loan.

"What for?" asked Charlie Liggio. "Can't tell you," said Bill. "If I tell you, you won't give me the money." He walked out the door with a check for $45,000.

But we heard nothing from St. Barths.

Finally, three months later, Roger Lacour telephoned: "Do you still want the Vitet house?" He was in New York to meet the family of Brooke, the girl he was to marry. He picked up the check. Cash on the barrel, and the Kokushkine house was ours. Brooke and Roger, who became our good friends, went on to build Sibarth, the largest organization of house rentals and sales in St. Barths.

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wow, love this story and so romantic! thanks for sharing Peter. I am looking forward to getting together with you and Sue when you are on the island.

I met Brooke Lacour on my second visit to st. barths, she was so friendly, she had a bottle of champagne in her hand and was going to meet some friends, she asked me if my husband and I would like to join her and her friends for a little drink before going up to our villa.

If only more people on the island were like her, perhaps the island would not have changed so much.
 
Hi, All....after being in posting retirement for a while, I have to say that this story moved me too....great details...I love that their offices were next to each other....and how the mesmerizing blue sea has the same effect on everyone. Merci, LuckyKid
 
Wow! Thanks for sharing. Great story, and the Hamburg connection is further proof that it's a small world.
 
6 degrees of separation and all that. KISMET fate and meant to be, that they should meet on island.
 
A few photos:

Sonnez SVP as seen from the Devet road

Sonnez-SVP.jpg

The Vitet house in 1977

Vitet-House-uphill.jpg

La Belle Vue - GCdS pre-Guanahani

Vitet-House-View.jpg

Tim, since your house was just next door, you might recognize those electric wires as well. I swear I never saw those wires except in photos. LoL
 
Wonderful story, Peter . . . please tell your stepmother how much the story is appreciated. It's totally reminiscent of the first meeting of Wendy & me with Roger, only three years later, when little had changed. Also a meeting on the beach when Roger had been swimming at St. Jean. Happy memories!
 
Great story. Was the Bill in the story by any chance Bill Catherwood? I was Director of Admissions at Marymount Manhattan College 1968 to 1972 when I left to join the corporate world. Bill was the CFO.
 
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Hi Peter, very cool story and insight into what the island was like back in the day.. the only thing I question in your step-mother's story is this,

it was owned by the French mayor of St.Barths, Madame Giselle Kokoushkine.

as there was no mayor by that name in St Barth...Rosemond thinks they were involved in politics but not mayor... see you soon!



 
Hi Peter, very cool story and insight into what the island was like back in the day.. the only thing I question in your step-mother's story is this,

it was owned by the French mayor of St.Barths, Madame Giselle Kokoushkine.

as there was no mayor by that name in St Barth...Rosemond thinks they were involved in politics but not mayor... see you soon!



 
Great story. Was the Bill in the story by any chance Bill Catherwood? I was Director of Admissions at Marymount Manhattan College 1968 to 1972 when I left to join the corporate world. Bill was the CFO.

Yes! A wonderfully small world. I am Bill's youngest son.
I hope we get the chance to meet someday, Julianne.
 
Hi Peter, very cool story and insight into what the island was like back in the day.. the only thing I question in your step-mother's story is this,

it was owned by the French mayor of St.Barths, Madame Giselle Kokoushkine.

as there was no mayor by that name in St Barth...Rosemond thinks they were involved in politics but not mayor... see you soon!


Like any good family stories there are a few versions. Virginia's is the one worth repeating since she *actually wrote it down.* (So I went with that.) I recall a slightly different version--that Madame K. was the French governor or Prefect. A direct representative of the French government in St Barth.

Would be nice to know. I realize "mayor" is unlikely since they are usually St Barth native, or at v. least residents. As far as I know she was neither, she was a political appointee sent by Paris.
 
Thanks so much for all of the nice comments. Yes this is true nostalgia in the best sense of the word.

Even better that we will be on-island next weekend and get to revisit a few of these memories. Lucky indeed.
 
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