Time Taken: Part four
That evening, Brett stayed over at Kristie’s. The last three years had been a dry spell, intimacy-wise, and a nervous flutter danced in his stomach. He felt rusty, unsure if he could even remember what to do. When he finally took Kristie in his arms, though, instinct took over. He kissed her passionately, a fire igniting within him almost instantly. Too quickly, it seemed. Disappointment crashed over him as the moment faded far too fast.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, mortified.
Kristie smiled softly. “Don’t be,” she said, and then she took the lead.
Her kiss was electric, a playful exploration that erased his anxieties. Her tongue danced in his mouth, igniting sparks he thought had long been extinguished. Her hands trailed down his body, and he felt himself responding, the warmth returning, the anticipation building. He could feel the shyness melting away with each touch.
She moved lower, her touch becoming increasingly intimate and daring. His groans were her reward, a confirmation that she was doing something right, that she was unlocking something within him. When she moved back up, straddling him, and slowly lowered herself onto him, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, their breaths mingling in the dimly lit room. They moaned together, a shared crescendo of pleasure, and climaxed in a wave of pure sensation.
Breathless, Kristie rolled to his side, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. Brett turned to face her, cupping her cheek, kissing her tenderly. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a warmth that spread through his entire being. He felt connected, content. Soon, they drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, both feeling utterly satisfied.
Kristie woke to find Brett still asleep beside her. She’d expected him to be gone already, off to work and the responsibilities of the day. A wave of affection washed over her as she watched him sleep, his face relaxed, his brow unfurrowed. She gently shook him.
He groaned, lifting his weary head. “UGH!” He burrowed his face back into the deep, fluffy pillow.
“Brett, you are going to be late”
“Ugh, why, what time is it?”
“7:30”
“Shit” he jumped up and took a quick shower He ran downstairs and shouted “I’ll see you later “
“Brett?”
“Yeah”
“Here, toast take it with you”
“Thank you he said running out of the door. He was lucky he did not have far to go, he made it just in time. Bembe looked down at his watch, “Wow, cutting that fine, weren’t we?”
Dalia was already getting her tourist on the bus. she looked at Brett and asked if it was a heavy night.
“Ha… ha… sort of”
“Well, see Ya later, I’m on a full day tour today to explore Harrison cave”
“Nice, I love that tour, seeing all the natural wonders and wildlife reserve”
“Where are you heading today?”
“Carlistle Bay, on the glass bottom boat”
Brett, a man whose skin perpetually held a sun-kissed glow, bounded onto the tour coach, a wide grin plastered across his face. “Alright, everyone, welcome aboard! Get comfy, grab some water, and prepare for a morning you won’t forget.” He clapped his hands, his enthusiasm infectious. “First stop, a hearty breakfast to fuel our adventures. Then, we’re off to the main event – the legendary glass-bottom boat tour!”
He ran through the itinerary, painting a picture of sunshine and shimmering turquoise waters with his words. He described the kaleidoscope of colours they would witness beneath the waves, promising sightings of vibrant coral reefs and schools of dazzling fish. The tourists, a mix of families, couples, and solo travellers, buzzed with anticipation.
The drive to the boat dock was scenic, a ribbon of coastal road winding along the azure coastline. As they disembarked, Brett took centre stage. He knew the Glass Bottom Boat like the back of his hand, its history a well-rehearsed, yet still captivating, tale.
“Now,” he began, his voice ringing with authority, “you might have heard some rumours about the original Glass Bottom Boat. Stories of her sinking to the depths… Well, let me set the record straight! These are just myths!” He puffed out his chest. “That grand old lady is alive and well, resting in a modified dry dock on Catalina Island, off the California coast. A testament to ingenuity and a bit of good old-fashioned luck!”
He continued, “But the real story starts much earlier, back in 1878, in Silver Springs, Florida. That’s where the very first glass-bottom boat was born —a brainchild of
forward-thinking entrepreneurs who wanted to share the wonders of the underwater world with everyone. Pretty cool, huh?”
The boat itself was a modern marvel, much larger and more comfortable than the original. As they powered away from the dock, the nervous excitement in the air was palpable. Brett expertly navigated the vessel, keeping a watchful eye on the faces glued to the glass panels beneath their feet.
Then, the magic happened.
A collective gasp swept through the boat as the vibrant underwater world exploded into view. Schools of iridescent fish darted amongst coral formations, their scales shimmering like captured rainbows. A lumbering sea turtle glided gracefully by its ancient eyes seemingly acknowledging their presence. Starfish clung to the seabed; their arms outstretched like welcoming hands.
“Look! Over there!” A child shrieked, pointing to a flamboyant parrotfish nibbling on coral.
“Wow! Incredible!” An elderly woman whispered, her eyes wide with wonder.
Even the most seasoned travellers were mesmerized. Brett, watching their faces, felt a familiar surge of satisfaction. He had brought a little slice of paradise to these people, a memory they would carry with them long after their vacation was over.
The two-hour tour flew by in a flurry of underwater spectacles. As the boat docked and the tourists filed off, their faces glowing with contentment, Brett knew he had done his job well.
The two-hour tour flew by in a flurry of underwater spectacles. As the boat docked and the tourists filed off, their faces glowing with contentment, Brett knew he had done his job well.
His work for the day was finished. He shed his uniform cap and headed towards the beach, the salty air filling his lungs. There, under the shade of a leaning palm tree, sat Kristie, her blonde hair cascading round her face, a book resting on her lap.
“Hey beautiful,” Brett said, dropping a kiss on her forehead.
Kristie looked up, her blue eyes sparkling. “Hey, you! Another successful tour?”
Brett grinned. “The best. Though nothing beats this.” He sank beside her, stretching out on the warm sand.
They spent the rest of the afternoon basking in the glorious sunshine, the rhythmic crash of the waves providing a soothing soundtrack. They talked, laughed, and
enjoyed each other’s company. The worries of the world seemed to melt away as they lay there, lost in the moment, two souls connected by the beauty of the island and the warmth of their love. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Brett knew he wouldn’t trade his life for anything. He had a job he loved, a beautiful partner, and a front-row seat to paradise. It was, he thought, a pretty good life.
August was ridiculously hot. The sky was a blinding blue, the sun a glorious, relentless furnace demanding copious amounts of sun-cream. The air thrummed with anticipation. Crop Over was just around the corner – that fabulous day of singing, Calypso dancing, arts, culture, and so much more. Grand Kadooment Day loomed, promising a riot of colour and a vibrant street party unlike any other. Images flashed in Kristie’s mind: women adorned in shimmering samba dresses, elaborate headpieces, arm pieces, leg pieces, and extravagant tail feathers. Men, painted in a spectrum of rainbow hues, with strands of beads draped across their chests. It was a magnificent sight, a feast for the senses.
Kristie bounced on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement. She adored Crop Over, had reveled in the energy of two of these fantastic carnivals already, and was eager for another.
“Brett, look at his costume! Isn’t it fabulous?” Kristie exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm as they strolled through the crowded marketplace.
Brett craned his neck, following her gaze to a performer showcasing a dazzling array of feathers and sequins. “Yeah, look at hers! Not much to that, is there?” he countered, equally enthusiastic, but with a teasing glint in his eye, directing his comment to a woman in a barely-there ensemble.
Kristie laughed, swatting his arm playfully. “Trust you! You’re incorrigible.”
As they continued to soak in the pre-Kadooment atmosphere, they bumped into Camilo and Davao, two familiar faces known for their love of a good time.
“Having fun?” Camilo asked, a wide grin splitting his face.
“Hey Camilo, Davao!” Kristie replied, her voice laced with genuine pleasure.
“We are having a Calypso-themed night in the bar tonight,” Davao announced, tilting his head towards a lively establishment overflowing with music. “Come on by, if you’re not too exhausted from all the pre-Kadooment festivities.”
“Wonderful!” Kristie remarked enthusiastically, already imagining the pulsating rhythms and vibrant atmosphere.
“Wonderful!” Kristie remarked enthusiastically, already imagining the pulsating rhythms and vibrant atmosphere.
“Yeah, always fun,” Camilo added. “Last year, the reggae theme was a great night. I still have the dreadlocks I bought! Might even wear them tonight.” He chuckled, patting his head.
The idea of dancing the night away, surrounded by the sounds of Calypso, filled Kristie with even more excitement. She exchanged a look with Brett. The heat of the day wasn’t enough to diminish the energy that permeated everything. Crop Over was nearly here, and with it, a promise of music, dance, and pure, unadulterated joy. Tonight, Calypso. Tomorrow, Kadooment. The rhythm of Barbados was in her soul.
The humid air hung heavy, scented with salt and the promise of a good night. Camilo, a local with a smile as wide as the beach itself, clapped Brett on the back. “Yeah, always fun! Last year, the reggae theme – that was a great night.” He laughed, the sound bouncing off the brightly painted walls of the Seashell Hut, even though it was still early evening.
Brett chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t remember much about it, being so drunk.”
Davao, the owner of the Seashell Hut and a master of keeping the island vibes flowing, nodded, his eyes twinkling. “I remember,” he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. Whatever Brett had done, Davao clearly found it amusing.
Later, Brett and Kristie strolled through the heart of the town, the air cooling slightly as the sun dipped towards the horizon. The streets hummed with the energy of tourists and locals alike, a melody of languages and laughter. They passed an arts and crafts market, stalls overflowing with vibrant textiles, carved wood, and hand-painted ceramics.
Kristie stopped, drawn to a particular canvas. It depicted a swirling cascade of turquoise and emerald, capturing the essence of the island’s reefs. “That would look great in the villa,” she murmured, tracing the artist’s signature with her finger. Brett, ever attentive, made a mental note to return and purchase it later.
As darkness finally descended, Brett found himself drawn back to the Seashell Hut. It was a kaleidoscope of color tonight, a riot of pinks, oranges, greens, and blues radiating from within. Davao had outdone himself, transforming the place into a vibrant underwater paradise. Fairy lights twinkled like bioluminescent plankton, casting a warm glow on the happy faces gathered inside.
This wasn’t just any night; Davao had booked a calypso band. The rhythmic steel drums, the lively bassline, and the soaring vocals instantly transported everyone to a Caribbean carnival. The place was buzzing. Holidaymakers and locals alike swayed and sang along, caught in the irresistible energy of the music. Brett, even before the first drink arrived, felt the tension of the day melt away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of carefree joy.
He found a spot at the bar and ordered a rum punch, the sweet, fruity concoction a taste of pure island bliss. He watched as Davao, his face beaming, weaved through the crowd, ensuring everyone was having a good time. It was clear the Seashell Hut wasn’t just a bar; it was the heart of the island’s social life.
Later that evening, Kristie joined him. She’d changed into a flowing, floral dress, her hair pulled back in a loose braid. Seeing her, Brett felt a surge of affection. She looked radiant, completely at ease and happy.
At first, Kristie stood on the periphery, observing the scene with a tentative smile. But the music was infectious, the atmosphere welcoming, and the rum punch surprisingly potent. Little by little, she started to tap her foot, then sway her hips. Soon, she was laughing and chatting with the people around her, her initial hesitation wholly gone.
Brett and Kristie found themselves lost in the music, dancing and singing along to the familiar melodies. They spun each other around, their laughter mingling with the cheers of the crowd. The night blurred into a kaleidoscope of music, laughter, and the taste of salty sea air.
As the night wore on, Brett remembered snippets of the infamous reggae night from the year before, flashes of drunken dancing and a slightly embarrassing attempt to climb a palm tree. He grinned, knowing that tonight, whatever happened, he’d be creating memories, hopefully slightly less blurry ones, with Kristie.
The Seashell Hut, bathed in the vibrant glow of the fairy lights and pulsating with the rhythm of calypso, had woven its magic once again. It was more than just a bar; it was a haven, a place where worries faded away and the spirit of the island took hold. And for Brett and Kristie, it was a night they wouldn’t soon forget. They were just two of many souls caught in the joyous, vibrant current of the Seashell Hut, swept away by the magic of the island.
Brett stretched, the morning sun warm on his face. Today was his day. No eager tourists to usher around the island, no historical facts to recite. Just him and Kristie, and a whole island to explore. He found her already buzzing with activity, packing a small cooler bag.
“Ready for an adventure?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Born ready,” Brett grinned, grabbing the car keys. “Where to, my lady?”
“Cherry Tree Hill Rum Distillery first, then lunch with a view!”
The drive was a winding tapestry of vibrant greens and blues, the air thick with the scent of tropical flowers and salty breezes. At Cherry Tree Hill, they learned about the rum-making process, sampled the fiery spirit —perhaps a little too much, Brett thought with a chuckle —and admired the panoramic vista that stretched before them.
Later, they found themselves at a charming restaurant overlooking Bathsheba on the East Coast. The powerful waves crashed against the dramatic rock formations, creating a symphony of sound. They ordered a feast of local delicacies: plump, Savory dumplings, smoky jerk chicken that tingled the tongue, and sweet, golden Jamaican cornbread fritters. A bottle of rich red wine accompanied the meal, deepening the already intoxicating atmosphere.
“This is paradise,” Kristie sighed contentedly, swirling the wine in her glass. The breeze tousled her hair as she looked out at the vast expanse of the ocean.
Brett nodded; his heart full. “It is.” He paused, then a thought sparked. “Hey, do you fancy going to St. Nicholas Abbey Heritage Railway? We could take a train tour?”
Kristie considered for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on a fritter. “Why not? We have all day. Besides,” she added with a playful nudge, “I want to see if you can handle a whole day off without wanting to give a history lesson.”
The drive to St. Nicholas Abbey was equally scenic, the landscape shifting from rugged coastline to lush, rolling hills as they approached the estate. The magnificent great house came into view, a Jacobean architectural marvel standing proudly against the backdrop of vibrant green foliage.
They boarded the miniature train, its engine puffing merrily. As it chugged along the tracks, Brett, despite his initial intention to remain tour-guide-free, found himself subtly pointing out interesting features.
“Look, Kristie, you’ll love this,” he said, his voice laced with genuine enthusiasm. “The train goes through a stunning view of the great house plantation, with its woodlands and lush hidden valley that eventually leads into the limestone quarry.”
Kristie squeezed his hand, a smile playing on her lips. “See? Told you, couldn’t resist.”
He chuckled, but his attention quickly returned to the passing scenery. The train wound its way through dense woodlands, the air cool and damp, filled with the chirping of unseen birds. Then, suddenly, the trees parted, revealing a breathtaking panorama of the hidden valley. It was a verdant haven, a secret world of vibrant greens and delicate wildflowers.
As the train continued, they reached the limestone quarry, a stark contrast to the lush valley. The white stone shimmered in the sunlight, creating an almost ethereal glow. They learned about the historical significance of the quarry, how it had provided the building materials for many of the island’s iconic structures.
The tour was more than just a train ride; it was a journey through time, a glimpse into Barbados’ rich history and stunning natural beauty. As the train pulled back into the station, Brett and Kristie felt a sense of peaceful contentment.
Later, as they drove back towards their accommodation, the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in a kaleidoscope of oranges, pinks, and purples.
“That was perfect,” Kristie said softly, leaning her head against Brett’s shoulder. “Thanks for suggesting it.”
Brett smiled, his heart overflowing with happiness. He had shown her a different side of his passion, a genuine love for the island that went beyond memorised facts and rehearsed speeches. He had shared a part of himself, and she had embraced it wholeheartedly.
As the stars began to appear, twinkling in the velvet sky, Brett knew that this was a day he would cherish forever. It was a day filled with laughter, exploration, and the quiet joy of being together, a day that had solidified their bond and deepened their connection to the beautiful island they called home. It was, without a doubt, a perfect day off
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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