all the French doors thrown open, was a miracle, thanks to secret chemical she administered to it religiously.
I fell in love with Katie, the owner, when I met her. I couldn’t help myself; I fawned all over her, her shop, and asked her a million and one questions. I was so intrigued. I talked her right into being my first island client. Before I left her shop, my office faxed over documents, brochures, and my graphic design guy was already in rescue mode. Her website was the only downside to her business. The rest was crème de la crème island divine!
And buy? Hell, yes! Enough to fill two large rolling suitcases, for sure. Dresses, shoes, shorts, tops, bikini, cover-ups, a beach towel, and sexy yoga clothes. I refused to return to that fucking-yoga-god’s class without being equipped to make those yoga shorts of his tight enough to show me his goods.
On my way back to the resort, I took in the island’s beauty, courtesy of my driver pointing out various sights. My native-to-the-area tour guide told me about the island’s history and myths. Very interesting. Apparently, if I wished to find true love on the island, I would have to risk life and limb to achieve it. Good thing I wasn’t looking for love. But if someone was, you needed a pineapple to offer up to the Ocean gods. And in this day and time, if you secured the tropical fruit, according to the myth, you might need bail money—that is, if your life was spared.
So here is what I learned from my storyteller. Many years ago, a pineapple planation owner’s son found himself in love with, what I would call, a girl from the wrong side of the track. The father, of course, refused their union, and like all old tales, it ended tragically. The young couple, equipped with an outrigger boat, decided to run away to a neighboring island, and wound up drowning off the coast of it in a turbulent storm. Though they were no longer physically on the earth together, their souls ascended to heaven as one because their boat was filled with heavenly pineapples, and that pleased the Ocean gods.
What?! I thought as he continued this tale. According to myth, if you wanted to find true love, you must enter a pineapple field just before the sun rises and, without the sun catching you, pluck the juiciest, ripest, richest one. Then, you must carry it to the sea, say a little chant, offering your pineapple along with the name of your intended if you had one, or you could wish for one. The gods must accept your pineapple and carry it away for you to find your true love. But, if the pineapple was not swept away or was pushed back on shore, you were destined to walk alone.
“So, let me get this straight,” I questioned my guide, “if I wanted to find love, I need to grab a pineapple from a nearby field at the crack of dawn, take it to the beach, chant, and throw it in the ocean?”
He laughed like crazy. “No, not if you wish to live freely. Stealing a pineapple is against the law. Not to mention, other things often grow in the field near the prickly fruit and owners might think you are after that weedy crop. If not arrested, being shot is another possibility.”
“I think I will just stick to eating store bought pineapple on the beach, and forget about the love stuff.”
“Good idea,” he told me as he pointed out one of the most beautiful beaches on the island, according to him. Captivated by its beauty, he agreed to give me a closer look by pulling into a small parking area adjacent to the practically empty beach.
“I wish I would’ve changed into a bathing suit back at the store. I would love to relax on the beach for a bit.”
“Change in the car. I’ll give you some privacy and make sure no one peeks. When you’re done with the beach, just call up to the hotel and I’ll come back to pick you up. Meantime, I’ll deliver your purchases to your room.”
“Really? That would be great.” Hopping out, I searched the bags and then popped back into the car to gear up.
I fell in love with Katie, the owner, when I met her. I couldn’t help myself; I fawned all over her, her shop, and asked her a million and one questions. I was so intrigued. I talked her right into being my first island client. Before I left her shop, my office faxed over documents, brochures, and my graphic design guy was already in rescue mode. Her website was the only downside to her business. The rest was crème de la crème island divine!
And buy? Hell, yes! Enough to fill two large rolling suitcases, for sure. Dresses, shoes, shorts, tops, bikini, cover-ups, a beach towel, and sexy yoga clothes. I refused to return to that fucking-yoga-god’s class without being equipped to make those yoga shorts of his tight enough to show me his goods.
On my way back to the resort, I took in the island’s beauty, courtesy of my driver pointing out various sights. My native-to-the-area tour guide told me about the island’s history and myths. Very interesting. Apparently, if I wished to find true love on the island, I would have to risk life and limb to achieve it. Good thing I wasn’t looking for love. But if someone was, you needed a pineapple to offer up to the Ocean gods. And in this day and time, if you secured the tropical fruit, according to the myth, you might need bail money—that is, if your life was spared.
So here is what I learned from my storyteller. Many years ago, a pineapple planation owner’s son found himself in love with, what I would call, a girl from the wrong side of the track. The father, of course, refused their union, and like all old tales, it ended tragically. The young couple, equipped with an outrigger boat, decided to run away to a neighboring island, and wound up drowning off the coast of it in a turbulent storm. Though they were no longer physically on the earth together, their souls ascended to heaven as one because their boat was filled with heavenly pineapples, and that pleased the Ocean gods.
What?! I thought as he continued this tale. According to myth, if you wanted to find true love, you must enter a pineapple field just before the sun rises and, without the sun catching you, pluck the juiciest, ripest, richest one. Then, you must carry it to the sea, say a little chant, offering your pineapple along with the name of your intended if you had one, or you could wish for one. The gods must accept your pineapple and carry it away for you to find your true love. But, if the pineapple was not swept away or was pushed back on shore, you were destined to walk alone.
“So, let me get this straight,” I questioned my guide, “if I wanted to find love, I need to grab a pineapple from a nearby field at the crack of dawn, take it to the beach, chant, and throw it in the ocean?”
He laughed like crazy. “No, not if you wish to live freely. Stealing a pineapple is against the law. Not to mention, other things often grow in the field near the prickly fruit and owners might think you are after that weedy crop. If not arrested, being shot is another possibility.”
“I think I will just stick to eating store bought pineapple on the beach, and forget about the love stuff.”
“Good idea,” he told me as he pointed out one of the most beautiful beaches on the island, according to him. Captivated by its beauty, he agreed to give me a closer look by pulling into a small parking area adjacent to the practically empty beach.
“I wish I would’ve changed into a bathing suit back at the store. I would love to relax on the beach for a bit.”
“Change in the car. I’ll give you some privacy and make sure no one peeks. When you’re done with the beach, just call up to the hotel and I’ll come back to pick you up. Meantime, I’ll deliver your purchases to your room.”
“Really? That would be great.” Hopping out, I searched the bags and then popped back into the car to gear up.
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