The Age of Warm Tears

    A school of Flying Fish and darting Dolphins was reassuring to Helena and I and helped displace our fear of this low-flying aircraft. The journey itself lasted only thirty minutes or so but seemed uncomfortably longer.
    Once again, an island vision approached from beneath the low-lying clouds. This one seemed more extraordinary than Barbados had appeared when first spotted. The beach water had a sharper, clearer blue hue that reflected the sun’s rays in spectacular fashion. The glimmering beaches matched only in intensity by the monumental array of trees and jagged rocks that supported them. The airport itself was so peacefully paced as if in tune with the tranquil nature that surrounded it. The air was without doubt the most captivating feature as we set foot on this island utopia. It had a calming, spellbinding, episodic breeze and an aroma that seemed to purge the body of all ill feelings and accumulated contaminants from a lengthened City-living. Divine is an overused word but appropriate for this undiscovered piece of paradise.
    Entrapped by this newfound serenity, I confronted a hurried blast of reality when a scream emanated from the female authority. I quickly concluded an injury of some kind. This authoritative figure was tightly wrapped around an older female crying authority. It was the authority's mother. I stared curiously at this wrinkled, older authority and with a heavy island accent, she muttered something about how cute I was and clumsily grabbed me crushing all innards in the process. I backed away from any more such greetings from the long line of family in queue, and in a smallish car we were on our way to a place of residence. Fatty, however typically assimilated these affections from family with all the gusto and zeal of a child opening gifts on a Christmas morning.
    The trip was sedately pleasurable to the eyes. I seemed to be the only person acknowledging the raw beauty of my surroundings. Little Helena was sound asleep in the male authority's arms and the other authority was busy in meaningless chatter with her reunited family. From the left side of the vehicle was a thrashing ocean emancipating birds of numerous varieties chirping and fluttering in search of coastal meals. I inhaled that wonderful, invigorating smell of the ocean until I became intoxicated with its alluring, unspoiled passage. I felt for this place the way I once felt for Cindy McFarland and the association I now made with her to this island was now plain to see. Immediately, they had both enraptured me.    
    We entered a small village where some of the people attended their duties half-dressed. Yes, even women, barely adorned with tattered garments startled me at the time. Their dwellings were quite unlike the old, sound red-brick houses of a London neighborhood but were instead mostly grey, dingy cinder blocks. Galvanized steel, decaying straw and bamboo served as rooftops.
    Driving through the village, as if in dire shock, unnerving glares aimed towards us. Strangers in a strange village like this demanded such attention I suppose. The facial expressions of these native souls was a little breathtaking. Their expressions seemed to conjure thoughts of bad intentions jeopardizing my future stay in this exotic, new abode.
    "They're here!" barked a young gender-less voice upon seeing the vehicles roll-up on to a dirt-layered driveway leading to miles of wide open land. It was occupied by just a single, solid home.
    These words set ablaze a cacophony of alarming sounds to our much-anticipated arrival.
It was a large house: two stories high but made of a sturdier material than the village homes with white plastic paneling on the outside. Huge birdcages filled with many native parrots straddled along each side of the dirt driveway. There were many hybrid dogs barking in the background as a bevy of raggedly clad young boys tried to control them. Unwilling to leave the sanctuary of the vehicle and set foot on acreage where menacing dogs roamed freely, I,  for a split second hesitated.
    "Come nah, they no hurt you, come?" spoke a male voice layerd with a strong island tongue.
    A boy around my age insured my safety and led me up the wide stony stairway and onto a massive porch overlooking an arrangement of vast green foliage praying before picturesque mountaintops.
    One by one, children emerged. Most of them were very attractive females. They giggled at me when I spoke. My thick cockney accent emphasized while I had trouble deciphering their own hearty island accents. They appeared so healthy and were constantly smiling and laughing with other family members. I soon learned that nearly all of this young, robust populace were in fact my cousins. At least twenty of them had gathered to meet us on this day.
    I was partial to a delight pure in contentment and returning my scrutiny. We did not speak a word but the eye contact between us transmitted emotions and desires however confusing they may have seemed at the time. Her name was Betty-Ann Abbey. She was one of eleven children of my Uncle Stan, an older brother of the female authority. This was his house. Silky, long black waves encircled Betty’s most tantalizingly tanned face. When fixed upon me, her hypnotic brown eyes expelled me from gravity and all my surroundings lay missing. As she smiled at me from a distance, I knew our paths would cross again and it would be for time’s sake to be held hostage agonizingly awaiting that next meeting.
    
    Quite unexpectedly, a feeling of absolute drowsiness overcame me and I fought it off only for a short time in order to prolong the joyous introductions to my newly discovered overseas family. Even a