Down where the trade winds play,
Down where they lose the day,
We found a new world.
Where Paradise starts, we traded hearts
[As the night winds blew us away.]
– With apologies to Hank Snow (Where The Trade Winds Blow).
HANK?SNOW might not have recognized that when he wrote most of the lyrics above for his American and Canadian audiences that he was relieving them of all worry about sunburn, if they should visit the Caribbean isles.
But his imagery, though long ago conjured up, is well suited to the current dreamy Bajan nights with their bustling cool breeze. Oxymoron as it may be, these nights warm my heart. And if you have a better half, they can heat hers even more.
Better halves have been jumping at the opportunity these past windy nights to seduce their partners – force some of them, I am told – to cuddle under sheets, blankets or hairy chests, or all three. Add this to the cutback in eating out and nightlife, because of the economic recession and the multichoice of CBCTV’s old pictures and reruns, and you could expect babies galore (numerous twins among them) in October.
Chilling conspiracy
It is a chilling conspiracy of women, aided and abetted by Nature. Winds indoor are different from those outside.
Our better halves show it.
When women do go out in these “chilly” breezes at night in micro-minis, backouts and off-the-shoulders, they never complain. It appears hairstyle and the latest in clothing fashion are dependable body warmers.
I haven’t heard them complaining about the north-east trades coming over Bath and Martin’s Bay. Not when they were on their St John by-election night excursions. Neither the model type nor the obese, of which there are plenty.
It is an inexplicably ecstatic experience our women seem to share: this thrill of breezy air on skin, complemented by the alto aaahhhs of the rustling foliage mixed with the sopranos of the howling power lines above. Just cool!
I was some place – I am not saying where – the other night, and appearing on the scene was one of these off-the-shoulder, micro-minidress, sculpted model types.
It was pellucidly clear, as Chris Sinckler would say, that she hadn’t come by car, or even by SUV.
It was not possible for her to sit in that shortest and skimpiest of wear anywhere. Neither by cut nor in these cool night winds.
And she didn’t walk there either. Strolling for any length of time would have been pellucidly impossible. I learnt later she had come by a minibus – standing. I figured they had to lift her inside like they would a manikin. No sweat; the nights are quite cool.
The winds were so strong against the window panes one night, I thought the Met Office had missed out on the weather, and I would see Judy Thomas on television again complaining about not being prepared.
So loud were the power cables, I thought Marcelle might call Larry Mayers next morning, telling him that she would have sworn she heard wolves howling in the night. Instead, to my amusement, she engaged in some banter about a “certain person” and a “truck”, or some such thing, and sent out greetings to friends and prayers to the nation.
Desmond Weekes tells me Marcelle is real cool. I guess I’ll find out sometime. Till then I’ll just chill.
After being so spitefully critical about a very warm and humid December, we have been ambushed by some “wintry” wailing night winds that some party music singers could do well to emulate.
Way out [here] they’ve got a name For rain and wind and fire.
The rain is Tess, the fire’s Joe and They call the wind Maria.
(With apologies to Lerner and Loewe.)
Readers like a rushing wind will conclude that this week I have really cooled it. Blame the north-east trades!