A blonde, Russian sex bomb, she has a different bikini for each day. Reclining in the sun he rests his head on her ass as he reads The Wolf of Wall Street, while she, reading what looks like a Russian supernatural thriller, kicks her feet back and forth in attempt to gather attention.

Simultaneously imperious and kittenish, she’s too obviously desirable to make eye contact with anybody else. To look her in the eyes would be an insult, to disrespect royalty. And so even though these two alphas are begging to be watched, everybody is looking away, pretending that they don’t notice them and that they don’t want to be invited to this crazy sex party they’ll never be invited to. No, we all look off at the horizon of water and sky, thinking of other things.

He defines himself as a man of action, and he loves the the ferocity of the ocean, of the power he will master. She prefers to pose by the poolside, stretching her body and tossing her hair, mastering desire. He’s encouraging her into the ocean, but she doesn’t want to get in. She’d have to take off her sunglasses. He sets an example, showing off, really, by diving and rolling easily through a wave as only a pro wake boarder might. He splashes water at her, but more contemptuously than playfully, as if irritated and saying, “C’mon, you’re in the tropics, enjoy it!”

She’s being bullied and she knows it.

Too small to withstand the surfer’s waves, she decides to recline in the breaking water like a calendar girl, shifting attention back to her, but the wave pushes in and knocks her over. Annoyed she stalks up to the resort where she immediately covers her head in a blanket and begins to furiously text. Moments later she goes into the pool with her big floppy hat and sunglasses and stares angrily off in the distance, literally pouting. The wake boarder returns to her, and just stands there not speaking. Posing in the sun is enough, the opportunity to do so all either of them really want from the other.

Fun fact: The name Barbados is derived from the Bearded Fig trees once found in abundance on the island.

Fun fact: There are only three known ghosts on the entire island.

Fun fact: Barbados is the birthplace of Rihanna who lived here until the age of 16.

Fun fact: If a beach hustler with a gold tooth asks you if you want to buy a coconut or a seashell, he might mean cocaine or weed.

Fun fact: Bicyclists in Barbados do not wear helmets and shoes appear optional.

Fun fact: You will only see white women, as if in a movie they once saw, jogging on the beach.

Fun fact: Tiger Woods chose to have his wedding in Barbados in 2004.

Fun fact: Chickens roam as freely on the streets of Barbados as squirrels do in Toronto!

Fun fact: It is embarrassing to have your wife pull you to shore from an undertow when you were pretty sure you didn’t need any help at all, especially when cool looking locals playing dominoes were watching.

Fun fact: The people of Barbados have a long ingrained history of Christian principles.

Fun fact: Homosexuality is illegal in Barbados!

Fun fact: Some women in Barbados dress like superheroes– like those who wear capes and control the weather– for church on Sunday.

Fun fact: The middle-aged British women who sun on the beach all prefer reading crime mysteries to any other genre.

Fun fact: Sand crabs are faster and more perceptive than you’d think.

Fun fact: Finding an artificial flower petal washed-up on a gorgeous, dream beach is entirely dislocating.

Fun fact: The Six Million Dollar man is not a cultural reference widely understood by most Bajans.

Fun fact: Women who look like they might have worked at Coyote Ugly back in the day really enjoy the attention of beach hustlers.

Fun fact: Squid are also known as Seacat in Barbados.

Fun fact: Sometimes it is easy to mistake a night diver’s flashlight exploring the water just beneath the surface for sub-aquatic UFO activity.

Fun fact: In Barbados, one drives on the left side of the road, which is easy to forget, especially if you only have your Learner’s Permit.

Fun fact: Sometimes a monkey, as fast as a demon, will dart in front of your car.

Fun fact: Monkeys are not supernatural and can be killed upon impact with your car.

Fun fact: Monkey deaths are very upsetting.

Fun fact: The monkey face is very human and expressive and it is heartbreaking to see a dying one reach out to you with its little monkey hand on the side of a tropical road.

Fun fact: My wife can’t stop crying and I am pretty sure she now hates me.

Me: You coming to Barbados for the big surf competition, Soup Bowl?

Man who looked like Chomsky: What?

Me: Barbados. The surf competition. It’s like their version of the Super Bowl, only in water.

Man who looked like Chomsky: No, I have other business, although I do like the beach.

Me: I’d like to surf but I’m scared. I used to be scared of sharks when I was a boy but now I’m scared of jellyfish. They’re taking over the oceans.

Man who looked like Chomsky: (Said nothing)

Me: Are you Noam Chomsky?

Man who looked like Chomsky: Yes.

Me: WOW!! I thought so!

Chomsky: (Nods)

Me: So, what’s up with Occupy Wall Street?

Rachelle: (In a whisper-hiss) Pickle, be quiet, for the love of God!

Chomsky: I don’t know what you mean.

Me: I hear they’re buying up debt from collection agencies and then forgiving it. I would LOVE it if they bought some of my debt. Do you have any sway in that?

Chomsky: No, I don’t.

Me: You know, you’ve really shaped a lot of minds over the decades. I bet a lot of college kids name their pets after you. Thousands of dogs and cats named Chomsky.

Rachelle: I’m sorry, my husband is dehydrated and only slept for an hour last night. Please forgive us.

Chomsky: I see.

Me: If I was an anarchist like you I wouldn’t wait in line. I’d just charge right through, upset the system and start a revolution by hitting the beach!

Chomsky: You do like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?

Me: I’m just social and maybe a little nervous meeting you, I guess.

Chomsky: I’m sorry, I just need to be alone with my thoughts, okay?

(Several minutes pass)

Me: You’re going to be really hot wearing that corduroy jacket on the island, you know.

Chomksy: (Ignores me)

Me: (Whispering to Rachelle) I can’t believe he has a corporate logo on his laptop bag. Adidas? Really? They must have paid for his trip.

Rachelle: (Whisper-hiss) Just find your passport and shut-up, okay?

(Awkward silence for the rest of our wait to customs)

(Photo by Lynda Hall)

Waiting on the beach was an array of kites billowing in the wind like an assembly of tents pitched at an outdoor concert. The surfers preparing to take them out to the water were all so beautiful, unselfconscious and sincerely indifferent to the world watching them, that they seemed holier, of a different order than the rest of us. Fully alive in their bodies, they had been seized by a passion around which their entire lives were organized. Working jobs where they could, they migrated the world seeking out the best combination of wind and waves. Mostly European, they were a tangle of different languages, their communication physical rather than verbal.

(Photo by Rob Hyndman)

Kite Surfing looks insanely challenging, and the surfer’s bodies, driven by their craft, were lithe, hard and practical. Even their children had a preternatural purity to them. Confident, little water bugs, they were free of tan lines and all shared these seraphic mops of hair, as if creatures from another planet. I don’t want to turn it on too much, but it was striking, even mesmerizing.

By the pool at the resort was an expensive looking black woman with the body of a Playmate. We made eye contact and I nodded toward her, but she gave me a dismissive and imperious look, immediately snapping her sunglasses down and scrolling through her iPhone. Later, when a man with an NFL build came by, she became animated and solicitous, eventually striking cheesecake poses for his camera.

Lying in a beach chair was a woman in her late 40s. She was wearing an intensely white bikini that offset her deeply penetrated, lurid tan, had immense fake breasts and hair that was dyed the kind of blonde that can only be synthesized in a lab. All day she lay alone, inert but for occasionally turning over. Every once in awhile her boyfriend, a man in his 50s who oozed vanity, would come by. Top-heavy like a body builder, he had meticulously attended sideburns that were the star of his face, and he walked about in a way that called for attention, which once gathered, he would lead back to his bronzed trophy who just lay there, waiting for him to need her.

The surfers didn’t seem to care if you saw them. Having fully committed themselves to something that they loved, they became beautiful. It was an accident, a byproduct of a physical and supernal devotion that contrasted sharply with those few there who saw beauty as a destination, something that lived on the surface,  could be acquired and then spent like money. 

And just a little further off, in the pool a woman was delicately immersing herself in the water. Her mother leaned over, speaking softly, “ We had a very tough Christmas, Jane was the nanny of one of the children killed at Sandy Hook and we’re just trying to put it all back together and find some light, you know?”