Settling In Gently by R.A.Davis

It's a tiny island, and people feel strongly about things. The place is so beautiful, so fruitful, so productive-- the history is fraught with racial blow-ups and slow simmers but ribboned with intermarriages and cross-cultural pot-melting-- and there is nowhere on earth like it. People born here either want to stay here forever, or run for the hills of the mainland. People on the mainland fantasize about the crashing waves and tropical breezes and long to move here finally. And then do, and find it provincial, stubborn and unaccommodating. But no denying the shocking fertility of the earth, with our passionfruit vines coiling up the electrical wires, and the unique-- sacred-- diversity of the reefs. There was even a shark in the baby pond recently, along with the usual endangered seals, endangered turtles, rare octopuses, leaping black crabs, revolting sea slugs, and las vegas show-girl lobsters. So today at playgroup Skyla said, "did you hear they're trying to turn all o...

It’s a beautiful hot and clear morning. We decided to head to the beach with RJ’s big foam noodle and a slick boogie board to crash in the waves. I set up camp in the shade of a palm tree with baby while Matt took RJ to the water. I noticed some music—the un-chick, un-chick of inexpert ukuleles—from a nearby pavilion. I pointed my toes along with the beat—the singing was loud and earnest. I was feeling a bit antsy and lonely and thought—what the heck. What’s the purpose of music, anyway? To create a little community, to participate in something. So I picked up baby and walked over to listen. It wasn’t a sing-along. It was church-on-the-beach. I’ve seen the signs along the road, “Come Worship With Us!” It reminds me of the Simpsons joke about the godless showiness of nature. I’m sure it cuts down on A/C bills. The pastor looked like a model in a catalogue—Carribean black skin, with a goldenrod silk short-sleeved shirt and brown pants, leather sandals. He shook my hand...