Carnal Hours

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The low-flying seaplane made a shimmering mosaic of the tropical waters beneath: blue turning bluer, then graying, even whitening over coral or sand. Shallow waters seemed emerald one moment, red as a Chinese robe the next, then-without warning-midnight blue. Islands, tiny, scraggly, apparently unpopulated keys-the sort pirates hid out on two or three centuries ago-dabbed the sea with more color, like a bold impressionist painter: pink beaches lined with mangroves, or pines, or palmettos. Then, nearing a larger island called New Providence (a particular pirate favorite), shallows that were sapphire turned emerald again in a lagoon surrounded by sand so white it might have been snow.

Beyond the lagoon rose the capital of the Bahamas, Nassau, sprawling over a modest hillside, white and pink and yellow limestone buildings peeking out among lazy palms, pastel ghosts haunting a world of vivid green under a pure blue sky. Glittering coral roads coiled through this landscape like sensuously loose jewelry on the necks and wrists and ankles of pretty native girls. Dazzling in the morning sun, it was a vista at once exciting and restful-you couldn’t wait to run breakneck to a beach, and fall fast asleep.

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