A Day at Arawak Cay-Esplanade
On this sun-kissed Spring afternoon, the salt air was intoxicating. The breeze was far from the warmth of a June day. Apparently, the hint of chill in the air was too much for a local because his attire was not the traditional Bermuda shorts and palm tree shirt but that of a black, fleece hoodie and a wool cap. It was a significant difference compared to the clothing worn by global visitors to the island, who were walking from their cruise ship on Prince George Wharf to the nearby Fish Fry. Their fast pace and giggles indicated a destiny focused and a desire for Bahamian delicacies. “It’s better in The Bahamas,” I imagined them saying. Clearly, it is never too early for conch fritters or a tropical conch salad and a tall glass of fresh gully-wash. Nonetheless, watching the seagulls made the serenity of the nearby beach more enjoyable. They seem to play the “I spy” game we played as children. One can see them flying over the area scouting for their next meal. Then, for a moment, they hover as if to say, “I spy with my little eye one fallen French fry.” The seagulls would then swoop in to retrieve their prize only to be met with a battle from the pigeons. This food fight would not last very long because pigeons cannot see what is directly in front of them. So, the seagulls saw the benefit of waiting because pigeons had no line of sight. One quick head turn, and the food was out of sight.
The sight of beautiful heavenly places was hard not to miss. The blending and parting of cotton white clouds showcased the softness of the afternoon skies. As if royalty, the blue reigned across what looked like thousands of miles of angelic territory. It was nothing to see yet the vision could render one speechless in the awe of such splendor. This blue canvas was utterly and magnificently gorgeous. One might say it was a great day for sailing and indeed it was. Small yachts and boats were cruising through the harbor, no doubt the reason for such an active bay. The four (4) cruise ships docked at the Wharf also explained the varied characters and ethnicities walking the esplanade. Each one with a story to tell. For instance, the family of twelve that had three generations traveling in their pride. Young children with adults and one looked to be intellectually disabled, says they had been saving for a while to manifest their dream. The language suggested a far east country origin, but their pale skin and dark hair whispered a migration had occurred. . As the mother-or-aunt ushered the children along, one of the males in the group just stopped walking then looked up. He took a deep breath, smiled and carried on.
The next observation was another family. They hurried along like they were running away from someone or something. I could imagine the aggression of beach vendors and recent international safety alerts could be their story. However, the little girl within the group, perhaps about seven years of age, kept up the pace yet held tightly to her coconut drink filled with strawberry ice filling. Excellent marketing, I thought, to serve the drink in the coconut itself while stationed under a coconut tree. It made me think of the melodious sounds of Ronnie Butler and Sweet Emily. A fun song and tropical drinks speak to an island paradise. One would think that being a vendor on the esplanade, the musical choice would include at least five (5) selections of authentic Bahamian music. Instead, they acquiesced to the stereotype that to be an island paradise, the musical choice has to be that of Bob Marley. How disappointing. This might be the reason, two of the cruise ship passengers brought along their “tunes.” With a Bluetooth speaker and cell phone in hand, two Spanish speaking men conversed and sang along to their Mexican songs as they headed back to the ship.
All was not well in paradise. A few couples were just going along with the program. There were no smiles or signs of joy on their faces. While there were hand holding, it was just the fingertips. If it were not for the sea breeze carrying the sounds, one would have never heard some of the comments including a husband softly saying, “You can’t make me happy.” Perhaps there was a disagreement earlier or a slight or unkind word said unknowingly. No matter the cause, this island paradise was good for reconciliation.
If ratchet were a person, it would be these next characters. A squad of ghetto fabulous women in waist length, frontal blonde weaves, tarantula thick lashes, and gold-trimmed two-piece black swimsuit. With bodies and style fit for a Lane Bryant cover, the confidence level (as they say) was through the roof! I remember a time when I too had such confidence. The day was every Saturday. The venue was anywhere over the bridge on the eastern side of Grand Bahama with the menu of choice being strawberry ice cream. The beach was my catwalk as I pretended to be a “modella” parading around in a two-piece red bikini with white hearts. As I recall, “Nobody could tell me nothing.” But what did I know? I was six years at the time, and I loved my energy, just as I loved the energy of these women. So did the jet ski operators, apparently, as they endeavored to persuade them to take a salt ride. I was not one to venture into waters deeper than knee high, even as a child, so I wondered if these women could swim. Passengers on the jet ski did not wear life vests, only the operators. Caution and safety were thrown out the proverbial window as money was the only insurance required. The ride was short but the memory would last a lifetime. A moment edged in the cerebral cortex of a mental roller deck. No troubles and no cares, just white hearts on the body of life walking on the catwalk of an island paradise. For them, it was a beautiful day. For me, I guess, it was too. After all, it is better in The Bahamas.