"T'anks, mon. Yo goin' Old Road?"
"Certainly we are. Blow the smoke out of the window would you?"
My guest had a large hand-rolled cigarette cupped in his hand. The smoke smelled sweet. He rolled down the window and exhaled.
"Ah do declayuh, we all have paid fo' this excursion and ah see no reason to shayuh our conveyance!"
Stetson drew agreeing murmurs from her companions. I was getting really rather fed up with them, and we weren't half way there yet.
"A courtesy folks, a little Southern hospitality."
"We are from Texas, not Louisiana!"
There was a smaller switch beside "Air Conditioning," to bring in flow of air from outside or to recirculate the air inside the bus. I flicked the switch to "Recirculate."
"Exhale into that vent there, would you, old boy?"
Rasta grinned amicably and bent down. Nothing if not generous he reduced the joint by two or three inches and shared his bounty. I stuck my head half way out of the window to catch the draft.
The chatter and complaints in the rear of the bus died down until there was silence broken only by the sounds of the vehicle negotiating an Antiguan road at speed. Hardy and Jay were already way out of sight.
Rasta held up three fingers, then two, then one. As the last finger dropped a giggle came from the rear seat, followed by another, then another.
"Tail up goat, tail down sheep! Tail up goat, tail down sheep!"
Within a mile the passengers had put the words to music, something resembling The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Rasta beat out the rhythm on the dashboard and I punctuated the end of each line with the horn. We hardly noticed the speed bumps in Bolan's Village, but we had reduced speed to ten miles an hour by then.
A skinny man in a Rifle Association t-shirt was telling his third dirty limerick when we turned the corner and beheld Darkwood Beach. The limerick tailed off amid oohs and aahs. The view never fails to amaze me, as well, brilliant white sand and every shade of aquamarine water you can imagine. With the added stimulation my passengers had taken on board the effect was obviously even more magical.
We rolled along the beach in appreciation until we reached a small clump of buildings.
"Anyone thirsty?"
The loud reply was incomprehensible but affirmative. I turned off the road into the yard behind OJ's Beach Bar (Oliver and Jean, not the one you are thinking of).
"Rum punch for my friends and Red Stripe for Rasta and me!"
A hooting horn dragged my attention back from the spectacle on the beach.
Rasta had organized the limbo dancing and Stetson was busy digging a pit under the bar so she could get her substantial bosom under it. The skinny gunman was chatting up the cook, while the rest of the party rumba'd to Bob Marley.
I sat on the deck on a palm-frond decorated throne, with a Red Stripe in one hand and a conch shell in the other. I waved imperiously to my subjects to carry on and turned to face the interruption.
"Harry Neptune! What the hell have you done this time?"
My decision to take the trip with Kismet Hardy proved fairly pointless. We had barely traveled half a mile before he glanced sharply in his rear-view mirror and started shouting and swearing about "that roody Neptune" having taken a wrong turn. There was a sudden slamming on of well-worn squeaky brakes, accompanied by a rather impressive skidding U-turn, which I wouldn't have thought achievable in a large and cumbersome vehicle like Hardy's bus. There was a chorus of screeching from the Texans, who had been nervously clutching their seats, baseball caps and camcorders during the rattling ride through the center of town. I was beginning to get used to transport, Caribbean-style, and just giggled every time I got bounced out of my seat. At one point, my sun-hat flew off and slid away down the aisle but I knew better than to attempt to rescue it until the bus had come to a halt.
"Land sakes! Y'all need to take some driving lessons, Mister Hardy!"
Kismet muttered something blue under his breath and we took off in the same direction we had come from, then made a turning onto a road sign-posted "Darkwood Beach."
"Oi should've known better! What was oi thinkin' of? Oi must've been temporarily insane!"
I reached out to pat the little chap's arm.
"It'll be all right, Mr. Hardy. Harry's a dreadful mischief-maker but he wouldn't do anything really nasty. I don't think. Unless he's got it in for Texans or something. He never did like Dallas, come to think of it."
After much bumping, vociferous complaints from the Southerners and a steady stream of grumbling expletives from the driver, we arrived at an absolutely gorgeous beach. Spotting the other bus parked beside a waterfront bar, Kismet's expression relaxed a little.
"Oi could do with a nice cold glass of Guinness."
Without another word, he hopped out of the driver's seat and disappeared inside the building, which was, apparently, called OJ's Beach Bar.
"Well, that's just wunnerful! Highly educational, ah'm sure!"
I decided to make some attempt to save the day and, picking up my rather dusty hat, I struck a tour-guide pose at the helm of the bus.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it would appear that we have made an impromptu stop for refreshment. Hopefully, Mr. Simpson is not at home, but if he is, just keep your heads down and don't mention speeding violations. I would like to add that all drinks are courtesy of Mr. Harry Neptune, who will be the large gentleman in the Panama hat, propping up the bar. Have fun and please avoid putting ice in your drinks unless your hepatitis shots are up to date. Thank you."
There was a general fussing, the gist of which was related to the early hour of the day, so I left them to it. The bar was pulsing with reggae music, cranked up to full volume, and I ducked through the strangely giggly crowd to a large deck overlooking the bright blue sea. My beloved sat on a makeshift throne, in splendid isolation, looking every bit like his namesake, old man Neptune. All he needed was a trident and a team of horses.
"Harry Neptune! What the hell have you done this time?"
My husband grinned and I noticed that the pupils of his eyes were somewhat dilated. He had a can of beer in one hand and a large shell in the other. I wanted to laugh but I put my hands on my hips and pretended to be the outraged wife.
"Come here and sit on my knee, little girl. Santa has something special in his stocking for you."
I looked at the bulge in his shorts and smiled sweetly, hitching my sun dress up to my waist, then letting it fall.
"So I see, Santa baby. Well, now. I'd love to sit on your knee but I don't think this is quite the place for it. What a perfect view, my darling, quite sublime."
Harry squinted at the glittering water. He definitely seemed to be under the influence. Odd. I wouldn't have thought he'd had time to imbibe enough Red Stripe to make his eyes go funny. Suddenly suspicious, I leaned forward and sniffed at his breath.
"You've been smoking pot! You naughty boy!"
"Merely indulging in an intrinsic ritual of Caribbean culture, old girl. Get your knickers off, I want you."
Two large hands reached up my flimsy skirt and began to tug at my thin cotton panties. I took a quick step backwards and bumped into someone.
"Buenos dias, senora!"
"Clara! Good heavens!"
I turned to see the Colombian tour-guide, her slim, tight body rather deliciously presented in a deep blue sarong and a burnt orange bikini top. Harry leered and I pinched his thigh, but he wasn't to be silenced.
"Ah yes, the latest conquest in Mrs. Neptune's endless entourage of hapless victims! Am I to join the queue, old girl? Or does your dear old man come top of the list? Hmm?"
I planted a loving kiss on my pouting spouse's forehead.