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Authors: Terry McMillan
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getting a little reddish glow to it and I am feeling very tropical already. I would like to get as dark as possible because I’ve always wished I’d been born blacker, so black that I am almost Godiva-edible like the proud Africans I love to look at in my big photography books on the coffee table at home.
I am sweating and need something cool to drink and as I look around the beach I see a young woman with short braids and a tray full of drinks heading my way. I scan the entire beach to see if I can spot Win-ston but I don’t see him and I turn to look toward the swimming pool and because of his height I should be able to see him but I don’t. I drink the second of what will turn out to be probably close to forty or fifty virgin piña coladas over the next eight days and then gallop into the water which is nowhere near cold and I am really freaked when I see a school of at least a hundred tiny silver fish swimming around my ankles. I begin to run, looking down in the water to see if they’re following me but they’re not so I head on out toward the deep part and dive under.
I feel like a mermaid or something as I come up for air and go back and forth below until I’m tired. I’m grateful I spent the money and got human hair instead of that fake stuff like Vanessa did. When she went swimming, she said, she felt like she was sinking to the bottom because those fucking braids weighed a ton when they got wet. As I walk back toward the shore I look over at the snorkeling boat heading out. I’ve been told about the clothing-optional cruise that leaves every day at eleven but I’m not going on that cruise, not even considering it. Volleyball, which starts every day at eleven too, is more my speed. And even though I’m afraid of heights I’m vowing to try parasailing before I leave this island and maybe water-skiing and for sure snorkeling, but I have no desire whatsoever to scuba dive. I don’t want to go that deep.
I drink up and spend the next hour talking to a Canadian couple who are here for two whole weeks on their honeymoon. He is a very tall dark handsome Italian and she is almost cute and very voluptuous and as she lies on her stomach and he wipes her back gently with a towel I wonder what she must’ve done to get this hunkster. She’s French and can hardly speak a word of English. They are both very tanned.
Two young men who work here at the Castle Beach Negril and are called social directors come along, wearing khaki shorts and white T-shirts. Yesterday the color must’ve been yellow, because Abby and the other woman who greeted me at the activities desk as well as the woman in the game room downstairs were all wearing yellow T-shirts and khaki shorts. They too are social directors and Abby explained to me that their job is to make sure the guests are happy entertained don’t want for anything have all our questions answered before we have a chance to ask and to make sure we are having a great time which is why Norris and Gillette are on their way over here to solicit us for a game of volleyball. The Italian guy closes his eyes holds his long arm up pushes the palm of his hand against an invisible wall and says, “Not today, guys. I’m too hungover.”
“Oh, come on, Ben, you can sweat it out,” says Norris, who is a deep chocolate brown and oddly handsome, but could use a set of braces and perhaps a baseball cap to cover up that humongous oval head. “It’ll be good for your body.”
“I don’t think I can,” Ben moans.
The other fellow is parading further down the beach and I can hear him giving the spiel to other people. Norris is now looking at me. “Stella, you look like the athletic type. Come on.”
“How’d you know my name?” He of course is wearing a name tag that says, as big as day, NORRIS.
“You met my friend Winston, and he told me he met a lovely American woman and that she was wearing braids in her hair. So what do you say?” And he holds his volleyball up on the tips
I am sweating and need something cool to drink and as I look around the beach I see a young woman with short braids and a tray full of drinks heading my way. I scan the entire beach to see if I can spot Win-ston but I don’t see him and I turn to look toward the swimming pool and because of his height I should be able to see him but I don’t. I drink the second of what will turn out to be probably close to forty or fifty virgin piña coladas over the next eight days and then gallop into the water which is nowhere near cold and I am really freaked when I see a school of at least a hundred tiny silver fish swimming around my ankles. I begin to run, looking down in the water to see if they’re following me but they’re not so I head on out toward the deep part and dive under.
I feel like a mermaid or something as I come up for air and go back and forth below until I’m tired. I’m grateful I spent the money and got human hair instead of that fake stuff like Vanessa did. When she went swimming, she said, she felt like she was sinking to the bottom because those fucking braids weighed a ton when they got wet. As I walk back toward the shore I look over at the snorkeling boat heading out. I’ve been told about the clothing-optional cruise that leaves every day at eleven but I’m not going on that cruise, not even considering it. Volleyball, which starts every day at eleven too, is more my speed. And even though I’m afraid of heights I’m vowing to try parasailing before I leave this island and maybe water-skiing and for sure snorkeling, but I have no desire whatsoever to scuba dive. I don’t want to go that deep.
I drink up and spend the next hour talking to a Canadian couple who are here for two whole weeks on their honeymoon. He is a very tall dark handsome Italian and she is almost cute and very voluptuous and as she lies on her stomach and he wipes her back gently with a towel I wonder what she must’ve done to get this hunkster. She’s French and can hardly speak a word of English. They are both very tanned.
Two young men who work here at the Castle Beach Negril and are called social directors come along, wearing khaki shorts and white T-shirts. Yesterday the color must’ve been yellow, because Abby and the other woman who greeted me at the activities desk as well as the woman in the game room downstairs were all wearing yellow T-shirts and khaki shorts. They too are social directors and Abby explained to me that their job is to make sure the guests are happy entertained don’t want for anything have all our questions answered before we have a chance to ask and to make sure we are having a great time which is why Norris and Gillette are on their way over here to solicit us for a game of volleyball. The Italian guy closes his eyes holds his long arm up pushes the palm of his hand against an invisible wall and says, “Not today, guys. I’m too hungover.”
“Oh, come on, Ben, you can sweat it out,” says Norris, who is a deep chocolate brown and oddly handsome, but could use a set of braces and perhaps a baseball cap to cover up that humongous oval head. “It’ll be good for your body.”
“I don’t think I can,” Ben moans.
The other fellow is parading further down the beach and I can hear him giving the spiel to other people. Norris is now looking at me. “Stella, you look like the athletic type. Come on.”
“How’d you know my name?” He of course is wearing a name tag that says, as big as day, NORRIS.
“You met my friend Winston, and he told me he met a lovely American woman and that she was wearing braids in her hair. So what do you say?” And he holds his volleyball up on the tips
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