In 1983, American satellites peered down on Point Salines, the southwest corner of Grenada, and detected a newly paved lane toward the sea, plus some nearby armaments and fuel tanks. Cubans had arrived on the island, abetting some coup plotters who captured and then executed the prime minister, and the Reagan administration realized they were watching a hostile military base under construction, some 1,500 miles southeast of Miami. Point Salines was seen as a tiny pinprick in the American sphere of influence.
Intervene the United States did, sending 6,500 Marines, and the violence was mostly over in a matter of days (19 Americans, two dozen Cubans and at least 69 Grenadians died).
The political unrest gave way to rest, and the Grenadian outlook is now resolvedly sunny and leisurely. Islanders have savored relaxation so heartily that there’s a daily docking of cruise ships, disgorging passengers who want to be a part of it. Full-service resorts are opening or expanding, and wealthy property developers laud the terrain of this volcanic island, which is about twice the size of Washington, D.C., as having all the history and vistas of the French Riviera. (Not quite: as hard as I try to think Cap d’Antibes, I think Cap Weinberger— in a good way).
Grenada, despite being buffeted by foreign troops and then major hurricanes in 2004 and 2005, has an air of gratitude that suggests it couldn’t have enjoyed the freedoms of today without the despairs of yesterday.
“When the sun went down, the frogmen came out of these bushes,” I am told during a drive around the Point Salines area, where the international airport has gone up on that insurgents’ airfield. “And they took over antiaircraft guns at these intersections.”
