I am transfixed by that one droplet of sea-water making its way down your arm. God, do you smell the fragrance of the ocean? Like a return to the basic stuff of life. Feeling primitive. Sun's going down and the sand is cooling off. Nature is backing away from the tropical heat of the day, but the warmth of your smile dispels the chill and your eyes smolder in the twilight.
My fishing boat bobs on the tide. Earlier, I had just smiled sadly when you asked me about her name. Maybe now you get it. Trim and clean she lies there "The Wasted Years"
"Put down your drink and come with me", you say, "there's more to life than the perfect Daiquiri".
Smiling you walk up the beach, the soft footing causing your perfect hips to sway in a way far more obvious than you would have liked. I watched in rapt appreciation, and tossed off the ambrosiac dregs of the Bacardi Daiquiri.
Turning to follow you, I cast a final glance at my cabin cruiser anchored off-shore. "The Wasted Years" I called her, but we both know the years have been far from wasted. Yes, we had both been committed to others and had loved only from afar, but the love we had shared had kept us both sane, or somewhat so. And, I thought, now here we are together, without any other between us. Oh but difficulties still remain, I remind myself. Soulmates through time, are we sentenced to never share our love – as lovers- in this lifetime? A cruel – but very possible fate.
But this was not a time for philosophical hypotheses. You were up ahead of me, your lovely form at one with the wild sub-tropical night. I felt unfamiliar stirrings deep inside, as I watched you swaying and shimmering in the failing light. Then- on a vagrant breeze, we both heard a snatch of deep throbbing rhythm and plaintive soaring wails – the unmistakable, irresistible soul of the islands, a steel drum band in the little bistro a few hundred yards away.
Suddenly the sultry woman disappeared and you became the eternal girl-child that is never far from your surface. I smiled and nodded and we turned toward the source of the music. Going through the door we found ourselves in a palm frond-bedecked room.
Larger than we had expected, the room had a low stage along the back wall and a rustic bar along one side. Lighting was by Tiki torches, and air conditioning was from the inside out, from the frozen drinks issuing from the bar. Tables were tree stumps of a size not grown on this island this century. Chairs were woven palm thatch on bamboo frames. Drinks were served by dark-skinned girls who would have turned every head in any room not also containing you.. And the band!
Well, this band was a collection of the most exuberant, talented, and gorgeous young men in all of South Florida. Every chest chiseled out of flawless mahogany and bare but for the beads, sharks teeth or flowered leis each one wore. Their white linen pants were skintight and ended at mid-calf. They wore no shoes, but each had an unusual shell anklet on his right leg.
The members of the band seemed to consider themselves guests as well as staff, as they were freely mixing with the clientele. As we entered, it seemed that every person, staff or guest, in the room greeted us. To another couple, it may have been disconcerting, but, with our gregariousness, it seemed quite natural. Indeed, it was as though these strangers knew us, and we were never allowed to feel strange or left out in any way.
A chestnut-skinned beauty led us to a table near the stage and left a basket of conch fritters and a bottle of Tabasco Sauce. As I looked at her admiringly, I felt your eyes appraising her also. Then our eyes met and we smiled, both finding pleasure in the girl's beauty. We had no time to discuss or think about the lovely hostess, because a booming voice filled the room like a clap of thunder.
"New friends! Hey everybody, we got new friends". She was bouncing toward us, a slightly overweight, but still handsome woman of indeterminate age, with long white hair flowing past her strong shoulders. Her smile was contagious and its brilliance illuminated the whole room. "New friends, come say hello to Mama!"
I rose to greet her, but she was sailing headlong to where you sat, smiling your dazzling welcome. You got to your feet just in time to be swept up into her arms and swirled around in an enthusiastic bear hug.
As you were being welcomed in this fashion, I took the moment to scrutinize our new acquaintance. Perhaps 50, I thought... or older... or younger, I had to admit. Dark skin, a Central American accent, beautiful bone structure, and, on the back of her neck, a startling tattoo of a monarch butterfly, in bright orange and shimmering silver. We would learn later that her name was Marcella; also that only "bill collectors and preachers" called her that. If you were her friend, she was "Mama". If you were not her friend, she was unavailable. We would learn that the tattoo on her left bicep, the backyard tat of a motorcycle was a tribute to a man who had presumed to consider himself the love of her life – a presumption like believing yourself to deserve all the rays of the sun. Perhaps he would still be around, had he not tattooed his own name, "Victor", beneath the motorcycle tattoo...and had he not occasionally taken the liberty of using the despised name, Marcella,. And now nothing remained of Victor in Mama's life – except the tattoo.
But, this knowledge came later, for we had already been designated as new friends, and deserving of all the perks that came with the title.
You would ask me later why she took to us as she did, but, had you been able to see your own beautiful smile as she approached us, you would understand. No power on heaven or earth could have failed to melt under that smile.
And. when she had thoroughly hugged and otherwise pummeled you, she made her imperial way to my side of the table. She stopped, gazed deeply into my eyes and said, "Oh, senor, do you not know the pain you invite upon yourself?" But, instantly, her smile returned and she answered her own question. "But of course you do, and it's worth every minute. You will both be Mama's special friends".
The rest of the evening was a blur of sensations. Some were visual- the gorgeous drummers, who were also accomplished singers of Panamanian and other Latin American songs, and dancers of amazing sensuality and grace, combined with the athleticism of world-class gymnasts.
The beautiful hostess/waitresses, who would also dance for us, and who were as arousing as they were innocent.
The colors of the banners and flowers and candles and...well, just the entire panoply of color and movement that mesmerized us, as we enjoyed a night like no other. Mama would not hear of us ordering from the menu. Imperiously, she vetoed my Bacardi Cocktail and your frozen strawberry and Passion Fruit Daiquiri. In their place, she decreed that we would have "Straitjackets". We exchanged a glance that said, "WTF?" as clearly as if we had spoken. Then I leaned toward you and said, "Of course, we need strait jackets. Why else would we be here, and even more, why would we think we should be together?"
