5 days ago
24
Christmas in Barbados is different. Forget snow and scarves – we do Christmas in flip-flops, sweating through church services and pretending to feel festive because there’s tinsel on a palm tree. Everyone’s singing Mary’s Boy Child as if they’re auditioning for Caribbean Idol, and someone’s auntie is halfway through a bottle of Mount Gay before 11am.
But my weirdest Christmas was when I was about 19 – that magical age when you’re convinced you’re grown, but you still have braces. My mum had taken me “back home” to spend the holidays with family. I was excited because 1) I needed a break from university, 2) I could finally escape the British winter, and 3) I was ready to find a husband.
Enter Dwayne, my grandad’s neighbour’s grandson. He had the kind of Bajan confidence that comes from growing up near a beach and being told since birth that you’re handsome. He wore his flip-flops as if they were designer shoes. He was 24, shirtless, and could open a coconut with a machete.
We were all at the Christmas beach picnic, the air smelling like ham, pepperpot and sea salt. My auntie was blasting Soca Santa from her car speakers. My plan was simple: swim, eat, and act like I wasn’t bothered that Dwayne’s abs had their own postcode.
I saw he was cooking flying fish on the barbecue and figured it was the perfect time to flirt. I offered to “help” – and, within seconds, managed to drop an entire tray of raw fish into the sand. Dwayne tried to save them but people were still like: “Who put the beach in the food?”
I knew I needed a new tactic to impress him, and so I decided to play it cool – the casual kind of cool you see in music videos. I strutted into the sea like Rihanna in slow motion … or so I thought. The water was crystal clear, glittering under the sun, and I was convinced this was my time to shine – a proper island-girl goddess moment. I even threw a little glance over my shoulder at Dwayne, just to make sure he was watching. He was. Unfortunately, so was everyone else.
Here’s the thing: the Barbados sea doesn’t care about your confidence. It’s not the peaceful, flirty waves you see on postcards – it’s full of power.
The first wave hit my knees. Fine. I smiled. The second hit my hips – dramatic but manageable. The third, though? The third was a full-on attack. It came out of nowhere, slapped me across the chest, and sent me somersaulting like a Christmas turkey in a washing machine. That wave was disrespectful.
When I finally resurfaced, my sunglasses were gone, my hair was drenched, and my bikini top had clocked out for the day. I emerged from the water gasping, hair in my mouth, one boob out. I looked less like a sexy beach goddess and more like a drowned rat.
And just when I thought maybe, maybe, no one had noticed, Dwayne started to clap. Slowly. Like I’d just performed an interpretive dance titled Girl v Nature: The Struggle.
My mum shouted from under the beach umbrella, “You good, baby?” – which is Caribbean for: “You’ve embarrassed the whole family, but we still love you.” I gave a thumbs-up, tried to laugh it off, and pretended the seawater running down my face was tears of festive joy.
For the rest of the day, Dwayne kept calling me “Baywatch” – I might have been flattered if he hadn’t laughed a little every time he said it. I learned one big lesson that Christmas: flirting is a little like swimming in the sea – best attempted when you’re prepared, sober and fully strapped in.
