says thebartenderatKamalameashemixes
mehissignaturerumpunch. Icouldn’tkeep
myeyesopenduring themassage lastnight,
soI’vewandereddownoneof thesandy lanes
to thebeachsideTikibar.Myplan is tohavea
sundownerand look forfins.
Thebartender isnotreallyabartender,
butawell-knownTVanchor.Hecomes
onvacationhereeveryyear,hesays.His
villa (oneof21cottagesandvillashidden
amonga forestofsilverpalms) feelsmore
likearich friend’sguesthouse thanaresort.
“AndbecauseAndros isadifferentkindof
Bahamas,”headds. “It’sa timelessplace.”
He talksabout thepastel-coloredvillages
drippingwithbougainvilleaand thesmiling
fishermen in theirhandcraftedfishingdories.
Andros,hesays, looks like itwas lifted from
anoldWinslowHomerwatercolor.
“Whatmakes itall themoresurprising,”
hesays,handingmemydrink (fourdifferent
kindsofrumwithadarkrumasamixer), “is
thatwe’reonlya10-minuteseaplaneflight
fromNassau.This is thewildest island in the
Bahamas,peoplecall itunexplored, andyet it
takes less time togethere than itdoes toread
thesafetycardon theplane.”
He isamusedwhenImentionmyquest for
PoncedeLéon’sspring.Hesmilesandslipsa
limewedgeonmyglass. “To theFountainof
Youth,”he toasts.
TimeslidesbyeasilyonKamalame,andIcan
feelmyambitiontofindthefountainslipping
away.Ifindmyselfseducedbytherelaxing
tempooftheisland.Whenthemorningsun
glowsonmycurtains,Islipintoasit-upon
kayakandexploreanearbymazeofredand
blackmangroves.Idriftpastegretsstalkingthe
coffee-coloredmudflatsandwatchasminnows
creasetheshallowwater.Ababysharknobigger
thanahotdogspooksandfleesforthesafetyof
thejungle-gymroots.
Eventhoughtheresortisfullybooked,Ionly
seeotherguestsattheBigHousefor lunches
anddinners;theoccasionalcouplewavesatme
fromwaydownthemile-longbeachorwhenwe
passeachotherinourgolfcarts.
Onenightafteraconchand lobsterdinner
so freshIcouldtastetheseasalt, Iwander
“
n
OBODY
DIESOF A
HEARTATTACK
DOWNHERE,
”
