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I am a new author writing a memoir on my unconventional Christian journey.
Leap Before You Look...But God
This chapter is about moving to the Cayman Islands with only $100 in my pocket, But God...
Chapter 20
From Pallets to Paradise, The Cayman Islands
Palms 24:2: “He hath founded it upon the seas.” I found it... making pallets!
It was one of those crisp autumn days in Southeast Texas, but sweat still beaded on our foreheads and ran down our faces. There we were, sorting through piles of old wooden pallets in what was technically called a pallet yard—but really, it was just someone’s backyard with a business sign. Our job was to take the mangled and splintered pallets and rebuild them like new ones to face the world of forklifts, trucks, and being thrown around carelessly.
Our hands? Tough as the very nails we had been driving into the pallets. After weeks of grabbing splintered, nail-riddled planks that looked like they’d been run over by every truck from Texas to Louisiana, we didn’t flinch at a new cut or scrape. These pallets came in looking like they’d seen better days, more like they’d never had any good days.
Rebuilding the Broken—Pallets and People Alike
These broken and used pallets have a story. Abused, damaged, tossed around roughly without a second glance, they seem worthless—until someone with a bit of vision picks them up, patches them together, and gives them a second chance. Kind of like people, I mused. Life has a habit of leaving splinters and broken bits, but even the most damaged, abused, or neglected people can be restored with the right hands. It made me wonder: how many people in our world have been cast aside and treated like they are useless, not valuable, or considered unimportant? How many wait for someone to see value in them as a person?
We can all be that someone, I thought. The mother figure, the mentor, the friend who sees through the rust and broken slats. There’s beauty in patching up what’s been neglected, even if the process is rough and messy. I hope I can do a better job of consciously seeking people out and offering hope or a hand. And yes, sometimes we deemed a pallet beyond repair, not worth the nails or sweat. But the thought struck me like a rogue splinter: thank you, God, for seeing us differently—always worth redeeming, never too far gone for a second chance.
Turns Out, There's a Right and a Wrong Way to Describe People
The “carpenters” in this story were Paul Nixon and me. Paul is a kind, gentle soul with a knack for turning broken things into something useful. If I’d tried to describe him back then, I might have used words that, I’ve since learned, could be offensive. And that’s been part of my journey—figuring out how to express myself humorously but thoughtfully without trampling over anyone’s dignity. It’s tricky these days, navigating what feels like a tightrope walk between being respectful and getting tangled in a web of “correctness.” But if we’re honest, there’s value in paying attention to how words land. After all, how can we grow if we don’t challenge ourselves?
Paul was Caymanian (say it with me: “Kaymanyun!”), with a look that spoke to the island’s rich history of cultures blending together. He had light brown skin, piercing blue eyes, and blond hair coiled tightly like springs. At first, I reached for a word I thought fit but realized it, too, carried baggage. It turns out that I am evolving, and learning never stops. Soon, hopefully, my knuckles won’t even drag the ground when I walk. There’s hope for me yet. The lesson? Words matter, even when we’re just swapping stories in a yard full of dusty old pallets.
What Part Of Texas is That? Near Dallas?
“The Cayman Islands,” Paul said when I asked him where he was from.
“The Cayman Islands?” I repeated, squinting like I was trying to read the fine print on a receipt. “Where’s that?”
Paul chuckled and started explaining, sketching a picture of turquoise waters, endless beaches, and a laid-back life that seemed straight out of a travel magazine. Then, he casually mentioned, “With you being an air conditioning technician, you could find a job easily there.”
Now, here’s the thing about the air conditioning business in the U.S.: it rides on the coattails of the weather. You get those perfect days—not too hot or cold, just Goldilocks-level comfortable—and the calls dry up. That’s why I moonlighted in the glamorous world of pallet refurbishing. Whenever work slowed, I’d head to the yard to wrestle old, battered pallets back into fighting shape, ready to take on the world’s forklifts and flatbeds again.
Another Leap Without Looking
But that one sentence Paul tossed out—“You could easily find an air conditioning job in my country”—stuck with me. Little did I know it would steer my life onto a path I couldn’t have dreamed up if I tried.
I started hunting for ways to contact air conditioning companies in Cayman. Paul’s words painted a picture of paradise: beautiful beaches and clear water, and his casual mention of the local women didn’t go unnoticed. Plus, he talked about peacefulness, steady work, and a booming economy. What was there not to like?
Now, remember, this was 1983. The internet was still a futuristic dream, and Al Gore hadn’t yet “invented” it. Yep, there was a time when there was no Siri, Alexa, or robots vacuuming your floors while you kicked back. But I did learn that you could call 1-809-555-1212 and get the phone number for any business in the Caribbean. It was like the Yellow Pages, but more exotic. Yellow pages? Well it was this book that…Oh never mind.
So, I dialed, got the numbers for three companies, and rolled the dice. I called one, sent in my resume (by mail, mind you), and got a job…just like Paul said!
Turns Out, I Was the Expert—Lawd have Mercy!
I arrived on August 4th, 1984, with about $100 in my pocket and a three-day hotel voucher. It felt like I was stepping into a postcard—blue skies, palm trees swaying lazily on pure white beaches, and the most beautiful water you can imagine. Heaven on Earth—well, for the moment.
The following day, I was picked up and whisked away to start my new career in the beautiful Cayman Islands. Those first few days are a bit of a blur, but one thing quickly snapped me out of my daze: As a fairly new technician, I thought I would be coming and learning from experienced, skilled technicians—Turns out, I was the experienced, skilled technician. To be clear, that said more about the sad state of the company than it did about my prowess as a technician. Suddenly, I was the go-to guy for problems that the other techs either couldn’t solve or, worse, problems they created themselves.
I made more than a few desperate calls back home to my former journeymen for advice. And at $3.75 CI per minute, each call felt like I was tossing gold coins into the ocean. I’d rattle off symptoms and situations over a crackling line, hoping for the magic words to guide me to a solution before my wallet went on strike.
Even The Turtle on the Money Knew I Was in Trouble
By Wednesday afternoon, my three-day hotel voucher had expired, and my precious US $100 had somehow turned into $80 CI just by touching down at the old wooden Owen Roberts Airport. I remember looking at those paper bills and noticing the little white area with an embedded turtle staring back at me. It felt almost like it was mocking my dwindling fortune. I was down to about $40 CI and needed to find a place to stay until my first paycheck came in on Friday.


Making Deals and Praying for Payday
After some wandering and desperation-fueled searching, I found a tiny studio apartment on West Bay on the ocean. It had linoleum floors peeling up at the edges and a ceiling fan that sounded like a helicopter taking off. The rent was $275 a month. The problem? I had exactly $40 to my name.
Looking back, I realize I should have been better prepared for my grand Cayman adventure. But after paying off my bills in Texas and earning just $2.50 per pallet—which took anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour to fix—I brought every cent I had. So, with my best “trust me, I’m good for it” look, I managed to talk the landlord into accepting $25 as a down payment and promised him the rest as soon as I got paid on Friday. That left me with $15 to stretch for food until then. Tight? Absolutely. But I felt optimistic—or at least stubborn enough to think I’d make it work.
Iron Shore, Iron Will, and a Questionable Budget
I had my first little room! It was perfect. Tiny, affordable, on the ocean, and I loved it! Although there was an August heat out, I slept with the window open to hear the sea, its deep-toned rumbling as the waves crashed against the iron shore. I had bought a small jar of instant coffee and couldn’t wait for my first morning in my tiny island home. After a fitful night of heat and swatting or clapping at mosquitos, as the Jamaicans say, I heated up water on a small 2-burner mini stove. I headed out back with my steaming black coffee and dangled my feet in the beautiful and crystal-clear Caribbean Sea. Life was good…until it wasn’t. My deal with the landlord was to pay him as soon as I got paid on Friday at 3:00 PM.
Living Paycheck to Paycheck—Without the Paycheck
It had been an exhilarating week. I felt a surge of satisfaction knowing I’d already chipped away at long-standing customer issues, solving them like I was back in familiar territory. So far, so good. The problems were similar to what I’d tackled countless times back home, and I was looking forward to my first weekend in Cayman. My plan? Spruce up my little apartment and gear up for the next week.

At 3:00 PM on Friday, August 9, I went to collect my check with all the other workers. When I asked about mine, the clerk said he didn’t see anything for me. Odd, I thought, but I certainly wasn’t worried. I tracked down my manager, only to be redirected with a vague, “You’ll need to talk to the owner.

I entered the owner’s cavernous office, which took up at least half of the building. I remember thinking about the luxurious decor, while the other company spaces and offices were shabby and nondescript. This office was opulent and had deep leather, expensive-looking chairs, a desk that could serve as a landing strip for small aircraft, a fridge, and a TV. There were also modern art pieces on the wall and a paperweight made from a Mercedes car emblem that gleamed on his desk.

I don’t think I had enough sense to be intimidated, so I innocently bounced in, and he asked me, “How can I help you, young man?” I explained that I went to get my check, but it wasn’t available. I was running out of time because I needed to make the bank, join the queue (week one, and I already knew what a queue was!), cash my check, and pay my rent on my new apartment.

As he raised one eyebrow, my boss chuckled and asked if anyone had explained the company’s first check policy. I said no, so he explained that because many people left the company owing money, time, or tools, they held back the employee's first check until they left the company. While I had heard of this and understood, it seemed more sinister now that I was facing it. I still needed my pay to live! Or so I thought. Turns out money is way overrated! I explained my predicament to the boss and asked if he could make an exception.
No.
Could I get this check and give up the next?
No
Could I borrow money to be fully deducted from the week I had ALREADY worked?
No
Could I work on Saturday and be paid in cash?
No