Dangling from a branch the uniform bag foreshadows more than just a passing tide.  The white strand invites more than feet.  The overhanging branches shade the playground.  A day trip to the beach would be a holiday, a week on the waves could be an immigration, a lifetime in this community might redefine freedom  The freedom from slavery, the freedom from dull routine and even the freedom from self all point to a single pylon erected at the edge of a racquet court.  In Dutch and English the pylon reads, “May Peace Prevail on Earth.”  The quotation drawn from a traditional Christmas hymn hints at a pointed prayer request miles from the current theaters of war.

On the streets in Bridgetown the bike shop turned food palace has turned the ordinary pork chop into a cleavered evaluation of the art of the motorcycle.  The sign points beyond the visible to an understanding that as with motorcycles art-food is likely a souped-up version.

The palm tree waves across the skyline as we stand at the tideline posing a farewell to the land. The pitch forks of Poseidon emblazoned on spectacles are positioned to roust any debris from the beach. In a world of flat white coffee and white sand and white landowners the removal of beach bums might not be flattering.