Hunkered down in a VW camper on primitive Cat Island, Bahamas, I tried a hermit's life in 1966-67. Right off, things went wrong. Skittish natives, influenced by Obeah, their version of voodoo, came after me with machetes, fearing I was a witch. And, as my memoir is called, I couldn't FORGET JOE, my recalcitrant lover. I took up with a snobby British Colonial, too haughty to like, that I would visit on occasional excursions for supplies into Nassau. And Cat Island, far from a haven of solitude, harbored a gaggle of misfits, outcasts and opportunists, all scheming to outwit each other, while the locals plotted to bring down the government (and did). Against this often goofy, always volatile backdrop, climaxed by a wedding that didn't come off (mine), I learned how to live alone.