The Heat Is A Balm

Content warning: This post contains unabashed gushing about life on a Caribbean Island.

If you are deep in winter and will be triggered by mention of sunshine, warmth, or beaches, please skip this post. Take care of yourself.

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It is about a six-minute walk from our door to the dark, pebbly sand of our favorite beach. This beach might not be everyone’s favorite. The sand is not pristine white. The waves can be rougher, and they break onto rocks and coral. This beach is used mostly by locals, and is often nearly empty. We adore it.

During our first week here, the ocean was calm and clear. Time disappeared while we snorkeled, trying to hold all the fish characteristics in our minds until we could look up their identities. We kept going back each day to check our memories and because there were too many kinds to remember. We compared notes about the wide ones with vertical stripes or the ones with a yellow stripe from mouth to tail or that one I still can’t figure out with dark above and light below and maybe a bluish tail. Since that week, the water has been vigorous and turbid, allowing limited snorkeling.

We love the beach even without snorkeling. We can walk there in the evening after school and stay until the sun sets around 6pm. Stella loves to hunt for shells or build little houses of sand and rocks. Sam and Andrew often take their fishing rods. One evening, Andrew fished up a gorgeous flame box crab. Its claws fit against its body perfectly, so it could fold itself into a box or open up like a transformer, claws blazing, which is how it bloodied Andrew’s finger. He set it on the sand, and the crab immediately burrowed by pushing its claws outward and tucking its body fast into the scooped out spot. I could have watched it for hours, but we returned it to the ocean.

Lining the beach are sea almond trees, shading us with their large dark green leaves. We can hang our hammock between them and spread our beach blanket. We lie there, cool in the wave sounds. With my eyes closed, the waves remind me of a storm—wind and thunder—but with no worry about the roof that leaks or what might blow down. The ocean, when I’m lying on the beach, is the antidote to worry. I want to bottle this feeling and send it to everyone I love. I want to feel it forever.

On and off the beach, I am feeling fully present here and fully lucky to be here. Now my body accepts the heat as a balm. It soothes me. With exertion, I still sweat like a horse, but I cool down fast. My ears accept the roosters crowing and the reggae remixes and the night-whistling frogs and barking dogs and the weed-eaters as background rhythms. Even my nose is growing accustomed to a cornucopia of smells—brush smoke and laundry detergent.

My legs understand the dance with traffic. I no longer flinch constantly as I walk. Honks mean something. The first loud bus honk lets me know it’s coming up behind me, then a short, uplifted question honk, asking if I need a ride. I level my hand and give it a small “no” wave or meet the hustler’s eyes and shake my head just slightly. Most days I am walking.

Each weekday, I walk about a mile to pick up Stella from school. I take off my sandals for the middle third of this walk, along Grand Anse beach. I walk with the waves around my ankles, sometimes splashing my knees. As I dodge cruise-ship tourists in the busiest section, I think, Don’t mind me, I’m just heading to parent pickup. Then I angle away from the water and sit in the shade on a horizontal section of tree trunk. I slap the sand off my feet in my habitual sets of three short slaps, two long brushes. I pull on my sandals.

I cross the busy road, pass the Food Fair, and climb the hill to the Montessori. Standing by the gate, I am the sweaty mom who cannot stop myself from grinning at the little kids, sharing our joy. Soon, Stella fast-walks down through the school yard. She holds my hand on our way back down the hill. Sometimes, she wants to visit the koi pond in the Food Fair courtyard. Then we cross the road to the bus stop. We know how to slide into the farthest-back available bus seats. We let our bodies sway and the loud music wash over us. Stella gives me a glance when it’s time to rap my knuckle on the bus window, signaling to let us off at Grey Stones Road. We will have a snack and homework. Then we might head to the beach.