One October afternoon time was chugga chug chugging nice and slow. Soft sculpted clouds freeze-framed across the sky parading sleepily for a small boy and his dad. Late autumn dampness was creeping though our clothes as we lay side by side in the still green grass. The sun was at its warmest warm for this time of year. It was glorious mundi. We had fallen into a moment of now that rippled through the rest of our backyard adventure.

Inspired by shiny dots of silver with pluming contrails in the sky Noah rolled over and pushed himself up. “A plane papa, I want to be a plane”, he pointed upwards. He spun around, ran toward me and launched himself into my upstretched arms. Still on my back, I manoeuvred him until he was resting tummy down on my raised legs with his arms winged out. We got clearance for about 20 quick take-offs for destinations we know and love - Montréal, San Diego, Barbados and of course Halifax. Noah was the pilot and the plane, the sky and the earth as he soared above a world of his making. He buckled me in on his flights. I was the lucky dad tumbling into make believe looking up at eyes lit with laughter and a smile stretched from cheek to cheek on my son’s cherubic face.

The afternoon was full of simple, fun moments. We raced around the house 4 or 5 times. The uphill climb from back to front yard tuckered out Noah’s little legs. He more than made up for it on the flat stretches bursting into high gear. Giggling seemed to be the fuel that got us through the blistering pace as we circled the house. With each pass we waved at maman through the picture window on our way to the downward slope and return to the backyard.

We did a little training that afternoon too in preparation for the next day’s tiny tots soccer - a weekly organized activity led by 3 young enthusiasts for 10 or so little ones aged 3 to 5. Noah started his soccer career at about 16 months. Kicky ball is the name he made up for one of his favourite running and up and down the hallway activities. He had at least 10 balls to choose from and we’d pretend that he was a star striker for Barcelona. I’d provide the colour commentary play by play as he moved the ball up the hall and let fly with a fierce shot that went right through the door jamb uprights - un but.

It’s still a game that we like to play in the backyard as we did that afternoon. I suit up as Man U - my Mom’s favourite team - but invariably the dazzling footwork of the Barcelona Kid takes us down to defeat. I added some drills to the menu that Noah had been doing at the tiny tots too. He had red light, green light nailed - when to go, when to stop and how to control the ball. The Simon Says exercise was another story altogether. It took the longest while for him to understand that he was only to perform a requested action when it was prefaced by Simon Says. He grasped the concept finally at the end of a long trail of laughter.

We also invented our own game that afternoon, table top handball. We had a lot of laughs propelling a spinning mini soccer ball across a glass table - more than I would have ever thought imaginable.

During Noah’s nap time that day, Nellie-Rose and I packed ourselves up and headed across the Caldwell Road into Dartmouth for a surprise visit with Gramma Helen, aka GH. Nellie’s one imperative wherever she’s at is to get in, get at, get on, get under places that she isn’t supposed to be. It’s a constant chase, run, apprehend and replace her bum on the floor in a safe, neutral zone. Saucy is GH’s favourite adjective for our Nellie-Rose and it’s a good one. If we considered a continuum of saucy, saucier and sauciest we’d have to place Nellie in the superlative zone. She is without a doubt bold and lively. An argument could be made for flippant too as it’s a rare toddler that can be labeled serious. Our girl was all sauce and cheekiness that afternoon. It was good for Nellie to have some one on one time with GH, to shine her own sun, to giggle, crawl, laugh, pull herself up to GH’S chair and get her little cheeks pinched. It was a mighty fine visit.

Our mid-October return from Barbados signalled the inevitable, the unthinkable, the inescapable. Our 180 days of magic were trickling into the wrong end of the hour glass. We had plenty of fun before the last grain of sand dropped though. It was a time to settle into our own particular brand of domestic bliss, to enjoy the recently purchased house and to establish some new routines in our Eastern Passage home.

There were plenty of milestones and much excitement in those few weeks. Les petites cousines de Gatineau came to visit for 4 or 5 days. Maxim and Catherine have about the same age gap between them as do Noah and Nellie. They’re younger - Maxim is still part of the 2-year-old club. Noah and Max were good together and Noah was very happy to have a playmate for days on end. We made a trip out to our local beach with hard packed sand, an ever constant blow and cresting waves in an endless march to land. We played a magnificent jam session worthy of being chronicled by the late, great Dr. Seuss. We brought to life a fantastic variety of musical knicks and knacks with a great puffing and banging and shaking and clanging. It was cacaphonous din par excellence, free form, undisciplined and unapologetic noise. Noah was sad when they hopped into the van bound for the airport and Gatineau. I hope the 4 of them will continue to make memories together and enjoy each other’s company over the years.

Noah was a terrifying spider at Hallowe’en letting loose with a deep, dark roar that echoed throughout the house. “All right”, he cried out jubilantly as he left each lighted doorway with a new treat in his bag. He’s still young enough that it was the event that was paramount. His candy loot is tucked away in a dark cupboard forlorn and forgotten, languishing in a ribbed fabric pumpkin we bought in Scotland a couple of years ago. Nellie was dressed up in a sweet green and orange felt suit with matching cap and looked like she was just plucked from the pumpkin patch. She stayed home with papa to help pass out the candies a job that Noah took on after he returned from his trick or treating adventure with maman.

One Saturday we scooted down the 101 to the Valley where the summers are hotter, the winters colder and snowier than coastal Halifax. We went for the U-pick apples inside Wolfville’s town limits. We’d done this the last couple of years with my folks and my brother’s family. This year it was a solo run and as it turned out we were late by a week or two. The trees were bare and the pumpkins looked rough - partially decomposed and withering on the vine in their patches. We had a walk through the orchards and bought some bagged apples at the retail outlet.

In Grand Pré on the other side of Wolfville we stopped at the Evangeline Inn. Their café is now a traditional lunch stop for Valley outings. We got in just under the wire as it closed the next day for the season. The place has a well deserved reputation and gets great word of mouth. It’s always busy and there’s often a wait to get seated. The food is good. Their pies are the subject of apocryphal rural legends, their lobster sandwiches generous and succulent and the service is excellent - genuine down home and friendly. I will always associate the café with the day we took out Tomoyo prior to her departure for Europe and ultimately Japan.

Some other notables include Noah’s first visit to the dentist. He and maman are looking after his teeth very well. The dentist and staff created an environment where he was at ease and confident of what was going on around him. They did an excellent job and Noah walked away with a new toothbrush and a treat. All the while that Noah was in the chair, Nellie watched intently. When she got bored she had a lovely view looking south along Argyle St. and was a patient little doll. For an interesting sense of perspective on dentists, read this classic text, Body Ritual Among the Nacirema, that is a standard in many introductory anthropology courses. It continues to give me a smile 30 years down the road.

There’s been a good crop of Noahisms over the last month or two. Some of the recurring ones are: ça c’est close; ça c’est cool; oh mands not even sure of this transcription but we think it’s supposed to mean oh man; and, pronounced in a tone of ‘can’t you see for yourself’ disbelief, papa, come on.

Noah has had another visit with a speech language pathologist as we continue to experience some challenges in understanding everything he has to say. His communications are substantial both in content and volume. We’re not picking up on everything because of problems around pronunciation and speed of delivery. The specialist said that although he is having difficulty with some consonants, he is storytelling at the level of a 5 or 6-year-old.

He does have a flair for the dramatic. When Noah asks to do something and receives a negative response, he immediately hunches his shoulders forward in a very exaggerated posture, bows his head, looks forward obliquely and incants in a quavering voice that speaks to the unconscionable injustice of the situation, “I never, never, never get to _________” - fill in the blank with whatever he has just been denied. This brief, yet highly charged spectacle in which he has the only starring role is becoming less common of late. When it does happen it’s hard to keep a straight face. The transformation into the despondent, shoulder scrunch super-boude pouty sulk is instantaneous. It’s a character performance piece, method acting for the under 5s. Robert DeNiro watch out.

I got fixated one afternoon on getting Noah some hot wheels. I remember my brother’s loop-the-loop track that he absolutely adored those many years ago. I headed over to the mall with Nellie and went to Toys ‘R Us - not a store I visit very frequently. They had an entire section dedicated to hot wheels and they were all far more complex than anything I remembered. I was overwhelmed, even a little intimidated by the choice and it took me 15 minutes of rooting around, looking at illustrations on the boxes and reading to make a decision. At one point I was just going to leave empty handed as I didn’t see anything similar to what was tickling my memory. Then I saw the 4-lane raceway. This was the closest to the double strips of orange plastic track that my brother had. It wasn’t quite as adaptable but we’ve been having a lot of fun revving the motors and racing to victory.

The sand finally ran out of the hour glass and I had to return to work. I’ve been back in the office for 14 days. It’s been a transition for all of us here at home. There are no words that can adequately express the splendour of this gift of time that we shared. We have had some marvellous adventures over the months that we’ll hold dear for years to come. Yet what strikes me is that it was the daily comings and goings, the small things, the unhurried play, the leisurely visit, a seemingly endless horizon of togetherness that were truly extraordinary. We are very thankful for the moments and the memories…….

I’m well beyond the 180 days now, blogging on borrowed time. You can find our post parental leave stories at Commuter Dad.

Considering we were on vacation, our dosage of politics was quite high. There were the US Presidential debates, the leadership debates for Canada’s federal election and the daily media reports on matters political in Barbados and the region.

I watched the second Obama - McCain face-off out of the corner of my eyes from my former mother-in-law’s dining room table. Twenty-five years after her daughter and I parted ways I still call her Mommy though on this visit I sprinkled in a few Sheilas too. It was our third and, as it turned out, final match up at Scrabble. It was a celebratory night as Mommy had just received a clean bill of health earlier that day following treatment for a serious illness. Her family and friends were happy and relieved. Sheila was already planning her next trip to Canada to see her daughter on stage and catch up with some of her grandchildren studying at the University of Toronto.

I didn’t even put up as good a showing against Mommy as McCain did against Obama. Even saddled with more than her fair share of vowels there was little doubt of the outcome. I went down to my third consecutive defeat by an ass-whupping 392 to 292. Mommy’s an avid player well schooled in the exotica of tiny words and gifted at getting all 7 letters out on the board and collecting the 50 bonus points associated with this feat. I took some solace in the fact that I wasn’t alone in the losing end. Mommy was on a winning streak taking all comers. If we have the opportunity to play again, I’ll need to be on a strict training regimen to limber up my scrabble decoder.

Sheila’s sister Nella, on a prolonged visit from England, was hugged in close to the TV gesticulating, commenting, present in the moment encouraging her choice to lead the American people. Tonight millions are ready to revel in America and around the world but the festivities may be sweetest of all in the communities and countries of the black diaspora. The reverberations of an Obama victory will reach into the most unlikely places, tickle imaginations, fuel dreams and sadly bring out the nutbars who will rail against black man in white house. It’s a great day for democracy as witnessed by massive voter turnouts in some parts of the US.

We made a trip down to Mommy’s at least once a week during our stay - lunch, scrabble, dropping off Noah and Nellie for our 1 day of kidless wanderlust. Noah-David was fascinated by the Rhodesian Ridgebacks being raised as guard dogs. Nella got a scare trying to pull 2 of the fighting dogs apart one night and received some pretty serious abrasions to her back for her troubles.

One Friday at ten in the morning we dropped the sproglets at Mommy’s to be cared for by Colleen her part-time domestic. She’d already been up at our place the previous week helping us with some cooking - spicing up a dozen flying fish and doing a nice chicken curry. Noah liked her right off - not surprising as she had a son who is just a little older. Colleen immigrated from Guyana with her mother. Now all her siblings have made their way to Barbados and the family is reunited.

No matter how much I hummed Bob’s Sun is Shining into myself we had to settle for rain a falling and weather is shite. Our big day was literally a bit of a pisser. We spent the time in Bridgetown poking our heads about here and there all along Broad Street and Swan Street, across the bridge to Bay Street past Independence Square and cross back by another bridge to Queen Elizabeth Park. We got a break from the heat in the Cave Shepherd department store and spent a few pennies on gifts.

Before we started to head for the children, we walked over to the west side of the city by Temple Yard - a kind of open air Rastafari mini-mall with food, crafts and art. Herb was hanging in the air but there wasn’t much movement, or activity. The weather was keeping most of the vendors away. We did get a stick of sugar cane though and some delicious guavas. We pushed on past the Cheapside bus depot and took the roundabout way to Pelican Village home of artists and artisans. Here we found out about a culinary event taking place there the next evening - The Best Big Bajan Barbecue.

Noah-David had been having a good boo-hoo during our absence and had been inconsolable for part of his stay with Colleen, Sheila and Nella. We bundled the 2 little ones up and trundled off to Bagatelle for supper.

We made it to the BBQ the next evening and did some controlled gorging on fish cakes, somozas (small bite size versions) currant slices, pone and BICO ice cream. The food was great and there was a cook off with students from around the Eastern Caribbean. We were standing beside them before their competition got underway and the young women fell in love with Nellie-Rose. She was passed back and forth and all around smiling and cooing all the while. As they prepared for their competition we followed the sound of tunes to a Bumbatuk band that was warming up. Noah needed no encouragement - this was his signal to dance, dance, dance - a little bit of wind the waist. He had the beat nailed and a couple of the girls in the band were having a fine time watching him groove. Stilt men finished off the excitement for our little lad craning his neck back, back to see how far up these tall, tall men stretch.

Always a lot to do, see and experience but never enough time. That evening we left as the crowds started to pack the Princess Alice Highway. There was a stage for live music, plenty more food available for tasting and the makings of a fine night but our little ones were at the limit, or maybe just beyond. They needed their bed after an eventful social outing.

In our last week, Dover Beach took the prize as the runaway favourite swimming and sunning spot. Beachside parking available for early arrivals, good mix of locals and tourists, shade, shade, shade, sandy bottom, easy rolling waves with occasional crashers, water depth increasing gradually over 200 - 300 metres and a small convenience store just a short barefoot walk away.

Last Sunday was my fourth visit in as many days. Flip off the highway at the Errol Barrow roundabout, down to the next circle of madness, take the second exit and follow the road until you see the beach public access point on the right. The umbrella and beach chair concession is right there at the entry though a towel and shade from the mature trees just in front of the condo construction site suited us well.

Noah has had a blast at Dover each visit. He’s got the merriment and amusement trinity at his fingertips. There’s the contractor, big, big job work that’s a sure thing. Dump truck, digger, big stainless steel spoon, an empty plastic ice cream container filled with the magic ingredient water are all that’s required for unlimited barrels of fun and major public works projects.

Bobbing in the wet salt salt in maman’s, or papa’s arms almost oblivious now to accidental splashes by rogue waves, Noah is sprouting mile wide seaside smiles framed by soaked curling ringlets. BB (Before Barbados) this cavorting, this comfort in the deep blue sea approaching insouciance would have been incredulous. Now our young dude is getting prepped for swimming classes - learning respect for and survival in the water. It’s a whole new game in waterworld.

Rounding out the trio is ‘kicky ball’ more and more often being called by it’s North American name - soccer, sounding like saw-ker as per Noah’s personal inflection. Dover is wide and long enough that we can kick the ball about running back and forth without bothering other subtropic worshippers or worrying that the ball will end up in the big coral drink. We race, pass, deke, feint, sweat and laugh. Every match we’re in the league of champions.

Those last few days, we were arriving beachside in the 8h00 to 9h30 window. Nellie girl usually fell asleep on the way and continued to nap on a towel after we’d planted ourselves. Not surprising as she was getting up while the nocturnal animals still had a couple of hours left to put in on their shifts. Her every morning early o’clock between 04h00 and 05h00 was the big hand that swept us to bed usually not much later than 21h00 though we stretched it out on a couple of rare nights to 23h00. I guess we were just drop dead wild and crazy in the Caribbean….

Nellie-Rose was a natural in the water floating with the best of them. She likes the wave action, enjoys getting pulled around or supported under her tummy, or being held tightly next to our chests. The water does not dampen her conversational ability and she’s always game to play games with others. Nellie and Silma developed a friendship over talk and a waterlogged leaf that Silma gave the young Nell to play with. There was a lot of smiling, cooing and giggling over 15 to 20 minutes and all the while Nellie held onto that leaf. Silma has a daughter and 3 grans in Vancouver and loves to see them when they visit but has no real interest in travelling to Canada as her comfort, friends and home are firmly in Barbados.

Nellie plopped sitting in the sand unencumbered by adult fussing, or with a popsicle in her mouth, is Nellie in heaven. Following each beach outing she was in need of a serious rinse when we arrived home to wash away all the fine grains from every skin fold and crevice where they could possibly hide. After three weeks, she had not learned the etiquette around peeing at the beach. Then again, maybe we had not been successful in relaying it to her. I just remember that 2 days running, shortly after having brought her out of the water I felt the telltale trickle that grew into a warm and steady flow running down my torso as I held our saucy little pup in my arms. A quick dip and rinse in the sea and we were both pretty much pee free.

We met another couple from England with a toddler on one of our Dover excursions. They were also staying in a family home far from the coastlines (in Barbados that means measuring the kilometres in single digits). Danny is a trumpeter who plays in the West End production of Wicked. His wife Louise had a few suggestions of kid friendly places to eat out. Our culinary adventures were taken care of by Chefette, Curry King across from Palm Plaza in Wildey, St. Michael, cheese cutters from rum shops and a ginormous feed of battered and spiced Bajan flying fish - a delectable treat tucked into a salt bread bun. Louise has recorded a number of songs and is working on a release strategy. Her sister is also a singer and is down in Barbados this week performing. Her brother is a guest conductor with orchestras around the world.

Both Mélanie and I enjoyed their company as brief as it was. I was hoping we would meet them and their daughter Alicia before we left but it wasn’t to be. Danny and I compared notes a little and we were all suffering from the sandflies and the it’s so hot it’s silly heat. We agreed though that there was no substitute to living in an actual home with everything that implies - room for the kids to play, privacy, access to food and cooking at all hours, a place to invite people to, a space that is more of a home than a hotel type venue.

My last visit on Sunday was solo. I quaffed a Banks beer after plunge 1 and walked from the piazza skirting the washed red umbrella hamlet interspersed with the deep red of new to the sun parasols all with fringes dancing in the wind. The young boy, 7 or 8, was there with his boogie board looking for a wave to hop and ride. I didn’t see his father so I kept him in view out of the corner of my eye. On my back and weightless I saw a whorl of clouds parading across the late morning sky, highstacked, soft sculpted towers and formless swirls of misty white. The peaceful float was sweet but I missed the sproglets and Mélanie. I didn’t know it at the time but it was the last trip to the beach. The talked about Monday sortie didn’t happen and really it would have been miraculous to take a last plunge and make AC flight 967.

It would have been nice to loll and laze on Dover’s white sands a couple of weeks earlier. The beach had been on our radar screen from day one. We bumped into a few English blokes over at Folkestone on our first day who told us there were a few turtle nests cordoned off at Dover. We headed that way later in the week but got lost at the roundabout after the ABC Highway Errol Barrow roundabout and ended up at Worthing Beach. Worthing was worthwhile but we should have persevered in our quest for Dover.

In winter’s cold dark I’ll think back to days of lazing laughter with Noah and Nellie locked in my and Mé’s arms as we rolled and swayed warm and carefree in Dover’s caressing waters. Then I’ll hit play to see if I can swing back to beauty, heat and Bajan beat.

With the exception of the underwater world, and it’s facing its own challenges, wild Barbados is just about gone. A centuries long monoculture, small land mass, growing population and a very high intake of tourists all place a signficant strain on the island’s ecosystems.

Barbados’ fringing reefs are bubbling with life. Glass bottom boats are a sure way to get a close up look at some of the common fishes and the various types of coral. We boarded at Folkestone Park just north of Holetown on the west coast. We skirted the shore motoring south and passed over an intentionally sunken wreck en route. Our guide cut the engine at Payne’s Bay no more than 200 metres from the beach. Three catamarans had already dropped anchor.

The ‘cruise directors’ from all 4 vessels were throwing small fish into the greening blue to attract sea turtles. Within a couple of minutes they were rising in the water column to take the free food. According to our guide they got fed 20 to 30 times a day. It was a thrill to see them swim below and beside me - almost close enough to touch on a couple of occasions. It would have been even more breath taking if I had a prescription mask or goggles. I was in the water for about 15 minutes and could easily have enjoyed another 20 but without a prescription mask, my underwater vision was somewhat impaired. Even more important, Mélanie was in the boat with the 2 sproglets and although they were very well behaved, Mé rightly requested me to haul my butt out of the water and over the side to get on with some of my parenting duties. Further adventures with Jacques Cousteau would have to wait.

A conservation program is in full swing for the Hawksbill Turtle in Barbados. Both Hawksbill and Green turtles continue to nest on the south and west coasts of the island. I do wonder though what impact an almost continuous presence of human interlopers has on their behaviour as we insert ourselves into their environment. To the untrained eye those turtles we saw flying through the water with the greatest of ease off of Payne’s Bay looked like they were holding their own. I hope the conservation work is successful.

We stopped at the wreck on our way back and got out for another swim. Down below were beautiful brain, mushroom and fingers corals and lots of fish. Throwing food over the side made a rolling shimmer of shiny bubble to the surface wherever the pieces of bread hit the water. The sergeant majors and jakes racing to reach the food were a spectacular sight.

But all is not rosy in the world of Bajan reefs as reported last week in The Nation, one of the island’s two dailies. On a positive note, the intrinsic value of the reefs are generally well recognized, a critical advantage in the conservation efforts that are underway to ensure their health as a natural and economic legacy for future generations.

On the land side there’s a relatively new project that is preserving the last mangrove habitat in Barbados, the Graeme Hall Nature Sanctuary (video). This 35 acre reserve located opposite Worthing Beach on the island’s south coast is a great family trip. In a postage stamp pocket of nature there are a variety of bird species, both wild and in aviaries, green monkeys, mongoose, tarpons and let’s not forget the insects.

When we told Noah-David there would be flamingos he started to do his one-legged balancing act - an impersonation in honour of his pinkified buddies whom he had last seen at the San Diego Zoo. The sanctuary is well laid out for the little ones. The red brick path is very wide and easy for children to follow. Noah did much racing back and forth on the path interspersed with looking in the waterways, appreciating the ibises, the parrots and spoonbills and straining his eyes in search of green monkeys (we weren’t fortunate enough to see any). This is an excellent natural attraction that provides residents and visitors with an opportunity to learn about a fragile and threatened ecosystem. If we lived here this place would be on our recurring visit schedule. Just prior to leaving, we fed the tarpons - giant silver fish in rest mode under a bridge until the food pellets hit the water. Then they sauntered out their 3 to 5 foot long bodies moving effortlessly with the swish of a tail. We watched as they skimmed just below the surface until every last pellet of food was gone.

Tip - if you visit, the Sanctuary is a great place to park your car under the shade and proceed to Worthing Beach which is just across the street.

Outside there is nature, people, commerce, rocketing roads, the sea, sand and hot, hot sun. Inside there is heat, lizards, itinerant birds, sticky sleep with trickling sweat, skeeters, sandflies and TV. TV is our distraction when the sun dips down and when dawn cracks its redding light. Where we’re staying there is a satellite system installed that pulls in the Caribbean and South American affiliates of American networks and specialty channels such as Discovery Kids.

There are some familiar Canadian programs such as The BackYardigans, Daniel Cook, Emily Yeung and Lunar Jim. There are others that I’ve never seen before that I wish we could get at home - Lazy Town, Jakers - The Adventures of Piggy Winkles, Mister Maker and Pinky Dinky Doo.

The station has a cute little mascot Doki, a mostly white animated puppy with a black ring around one eye. He serves as the bridge between programming and advertising. His 2 favourite utterances are ya regressa and continuamos. The first, “right back” is one of Noah’s favourite English expressions although with him it’s linked to his movements and whereabouts and not television programming. Commercials for programming on the station are in Spanish as are the station IDs and all advertising. The programs themselves run in English. We haven’t been able to sort out the rhyme and reason for this language approach but it’s been an amusing opportunity to test my retention of university Spanish nearly 30 years later. On the note of advertising, I’m very pleased that Treehouse TV back home is a commercial-free zone.

A sad last note on TV tribulations. We’ve been Barney bopped. In Nova Scotia, Barney and Friends is interdit. In Barbados it has slipped by because it first appears on air at 6h00. It’s really the only quiet thing we can engage them in at this time of day to manage their exuberance so that it falls within the no peels or squeals of laughter zone, or wailing of tears, or gnashing of teeth. We don’t want to wake the neighbours

Barbados treating us sweet. More later when I find time to write.

The morning chorale of cock crows caroms from yard to yard - an avian call and answer as neighbourhood roosters puff up and let loose. They’re at it from 3h00 with brief sign offs filled by crickets, operatic frogs and yabbering, yapping guard dogs owned by just about every household. The cocks of the walk pick up momentum until just before dawn. As the red sun readies to creep over the horizon, it’s easy to distinguish 5 or 6 different voices cranked up in a flurry of self expression. It’s a sound we don’t hear in urban Canada.

There is much different to sound and sense here - the deep reds of bouganvillea, the star white blossoms of the breadfruit tree, the myriad shades of green to luxuriate in, the buoyant salt sea with steady dreaming breakers, the heavy elixir smell of humidity. Every day there is the bite of a nearly equatorial sun, the cooing of mourning doves, the bass beat boom throbbing from mini-buses and lizards skittering across walls in all directions.

Lots of marvel eyed wonder from Noah-David. He is particularly enamoured of the lizards. “Mr. Lizard what are you doing?”, he calls out to the green mini-dragons. He enjoys seeing the yellow throat sacks inflate as they pause to take in their surroundings. The water has been a real hit with him too. He shows no reservation, no reluctance to get in and get wet and will bob and float with us for 15 to 20 minutes at a time. The water skittishness seems to have been skittled by the greening blue shallows of the Caribbean Sea, the warm air and the hot, hot sun.

Nellie is the Queen of the Warrens SuperCentre. We’ve been shopping here 4 or 5 times and without exception Nellie-Rose makes friends with fellow shoppers and staff alike. It’s her whole face is a smile, hiya look that gets strangers pulled right in and engaged with our little imp. She talks up a storm in her own dialect amidst giggles and oh so cute facial expressions. She likes the water, isn’t ga-ga about it but usually will give an abbreviated squeal of delight before she heads back to the sand where there is potential for unsupervised mischief to get into.

This first week we’ve been on the beach-a-day plan and have floated, soaked and submerged on the west, south and east coasts. Getting there is a fair sized production. With prepping the sproglets (a basic marinade in the highest SPF sunscreen available and a serious dousing with insect repellent), travel back and forth to the deep blue sea (which invariably includes a “we’re lost” component) and the actual baptism, immersion into the mystically cleansing and refreshing waters, we’ve been out and about for 2 to 3 hours.

Each beach has its own distinguishing characteristics. I’d return to all of the ones we’ve visited to date: Folkestone, Batt’s Rock, St. Lawrence Bay, Bathsheba and Mullins. Some are sandier than others, or have a gentler gradient leading to deeper water. Some have crashing breakers while others have a barely noticeable swell. Some have plenty of shade, at others a big beach umbrella is de rigueur. All have a breath of breeze en route from South America, Central America or Africa. Some have winds that blow and froth and chop and undercurrents that can quickly drag a person to an unhappy end. Those waters are for extreme enthusiasts or fools. I crave the security of safety for our 2 little ones - simple pleasures in soft, calm waters sporting the occasional splashy breaker.

“Attache-toi papa“, buckle up is Noah’s mantra as soon as we get into H1096. It’s an unloaded compact - automatic transmission, manual everything else. Haven’t checked the make as yet but it’s running fine having proven itself climbing the summits of the east coast hills and providing us a safe return to St. Thomas. All tourist rental cars bear the mark of the “H”. This is a designation that’s as readily recognized by good samaritans as those whose interest in the tourist driver might run more toward prey. Our experience to date with strangers has wavered between positive and neutral. No nasties and that’s how we hope it will remain.

Back to driving and the buckle up admonition. It took me 4 days before I would drive at night and then only along a familiar route. The non-highway roads are narrow, twisty-turny, watch out what’s coming at you type thoroughfares. In addition to the buses, motorcycles, minivans and regular old cars bearing down there are also the pedestrians and ditches at the side of the road to preoccupy a driver’s mind. Driving on the left fully consumed my grey cells for the first few days. It was characterized not by near misses but by constantly ripping the wiper rubber across the dry window because it was on the left hand side of the steering column where I usually find my direction indicators. Driving is an adventure that requires constant vigilance and if you’re not careful can send you around the bend especially if you’re not paying strict attention to the approaches to and traffic flow on the roundabouts.

Over 70% of the roads are not named on maps. They look to be accurately represented in relation to their position and scale but sadly the all important identifier is in most cases not there. This does not augur well when lost because it is very difficult to precisely pinpoint where you’re located with the general result that the lost lasts a little longer. Although not as abysmal as the map situation, road signage is not always brillant. For example on the way back to Bridgetown from Bathsheba, the main road comes to a “T” junction with no indication of what lies in either direction. On that particular one we made the wrong choice and had to backtrack. With all its vagaries driving can be a quixotic pursuit where the road not taken could in fact be the one you are desperately looking for to arrive at your destination.

By end of day, or earlier, we like to be back at Bagatelle. As the sky falls, the sinking sun pinks and roses migrating clouds, light scrapers reflecting the day for just a few moments longer. As the dark fills the dying day a helter-skelter squadron of bats displays its aerial magic. Each individual flight path undulates to a constantly shifting take out counter with only one item on the menu - insects. Three cheers for the bats and any other natural enemies that take a bite out of the 6-legged population.

The bugs have proven to be quite formidable - skeeters, sand flies and gnats would fare better in hell than they would leaving their fate in our hands. Mélanie gets an allergic reaction to the bites - a more significant swelling than what most individuals would experience. With all our chemical repellents, there is still a need for stalking and I’m proud to say that Mé has become The Terminator - tracking down biting bugs for the final kill. The kids are not bothered by the bugs at all, a fortunate turn of events for them and us.

Plenty of discoveries and rememberings still to come from the outlier island, a coral beacon at 13° 10′ North and 59° 32′ West.

It’s early morning and the sun is shining sweet. The house is quiet – no one stirring. Babies will be on the loose soon. Lots of domestic bliss to get through today before we take off to LAX with final destination San Diego on Monday.

My arm is sore from repeated pinchings. It’s still hard to believe that this is happening. “This” is parental leave – six months out of the workforce to be en famille. Thanks employer, thanks parliamentarians for the legislation. This is the single hugest gift I will receive in my professional life. It’s the cure par excellence for putting the “life” into work-life balance….

Les Canadiens lost last night. That disappointment was tempered by speaking with old friends and older children – one whose adventure is well underway and the other who is just on the precipice of leaping.

Today is ours to caress, weave, shape and savour – we rise on the east coast and we’ll set snugly on the west.

Ta-daaa - so exclaims my 2 ½ year old son when he is engaged in something wonderful – a magical sleight of moment. Relatively speaking it seems to happen quite often. This blog will echo the waving of wands, documenting months full of wonder for a 50 year-old dad on his first ever parental leave thanks to the support of his wife Mélanie and the birth of his six-month-old daughter, Nellie-Rose.

Today is day one and there were at least five or six audible “ta-daas”. Some were  associated with hockey and our role playing as stars on the team of teams, the most renowned professional franchise in the world, les Canadiens. Bravo is another exclamation de rigueur and each time I hear it coupled with “papa” I know that I have arrived – at the beginning of my life.