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the heat. We all watched a man fishing for squid
and then cheered on someone’s dog who had
dived into the water.
I eventually found Paul, and we caught up
over lunch at Sea Side Bar, a classic island shack
that locals frequent to hear cricket matches on
the radio and eat a mean mahi-mahi sandwich,
heavy on the addictive, just-spicy-enough
yellow-pepper sauce that’s more ubiquitous on
the island than ketchup. Paul filled me in on his
trip to Bath Beach, about half an hour south,
with Jason Cole, who owns Paddle Barbados,
one of the island’s most popular surf outfitters.
“Soup Bowl was windy in the morning, so we
went down the coast, where the waves were
about waist-high,” Paul told me. “There are sea
urchins and lionfish, so you have to be careful.”
One day at Soup Bowl, Paul and I ran into
Chelsea Tuach and her mom, Margot. Tuach is
an east-coast fixture. Ranked 23rd in the world in
women’s professional surfing, Tuach is a third-
generation Bajan. She’s 22, but looks much
younger in her braces and jean shorts. “Out here
it’s a bit of everyone surfing, really,” she said in
her lilting, almost Irish-sounding accent. “Old
guys like Snake who come down for big swells,
my generation who go out every day, parents
teaching their kids to surf.”
While Tuach went out in the water, we sat
on raised benches under a sign that read
DA SPOT. Paul explained the byzantine and
entirely unspoken pecking order that determines
which surfer gets which wave. “It’s who was
there first, but at the same time, the local surfer
and the better surfer go first.” As both a local and
a pro, Tuach would always get priority. We
watched as she caught a wave and Paul narrated:
“Chelsea up. Boom! Off the lip.” A serene momentpassed between us. “Who knew I’d ever be sitting
and watching surfing with you?” I asked. My dad
laughed and patted my head. “I love you.”
OUR FATHER-DAUGHTER SERENITY lasted until
the next day, when we had to drive together.
We were leaving the eastern coast for the west,
the wild for the more expected, and doing the
hour-long road trip ourselves in a rented Suzuki
jeep with a canvas roof. In Barbados, which is
part of the British commonwealth, driving is on
the left. When Paul would veer off the narrow
highway so as to avoid cars coming in the other
direction, my eyes jumped to the four-foot-deep
ditch just inches away from our vehicle—I was
terrified that the jeep was going to roll over.
The interior of the island can be dry compared
with the jungly eastern coast. We passed small,
faded houses and seemingly endless fields of
sugarcane until we came to Hunte’s Gardens.
What sounded like just another tourist attraction
turned out to be a lush oasis (and a welcome relief
from the tension between us). Bajan horticulturist
Anthony Hunte bought this former sugar
plantation, which dates back to the 17th century,
in 1990; he opened it as one of the world’s most
unlikely public gardens 10 years ago.
“This is paradise,” I shouted to Paul as we
parked on the side of the road and walked down
the stairs to see this incredible spot in the middle
of the rain forest. Spread out before us was an over-
the-top, rambling tropical garden built into a
sinkhole 150 feet deep and 500 feet across. Paths
wound through towering palm trees, red ginger,
birds-of-paradise, monsteras, impatiens, and taro
that would make any budding horticulturist burn
with envy. Sculptures of saints and Buddhas were
scattered about. I followed a trail past a giant
lobster-claw plant and was surprised to come upon
a British family having a proper afternoon tea.
Later, I bumped into Imran, the sole
groundskeeper. “We keep it natural,” he told me.
“How does it stay so lush but groomed?” I asked.
“Remember, a weed is only a weed if you don’t
want it there,” he replied.
As bewitching as we found these unexpected
havens, there comes a time when calm, sandy
beaches and climate-controlled hotel rooms call
out to you. The Lone Star, a stylish boutique hotel
and restaurant on the western coast, was the
answer to our prayers.
Purchased in 2013 by the British millionaire
and soccer team owner David Whelan, the Lone
Star was once a garage and gas station. The old
structure is still intact, but it now houses six chic
guest rooms, each named for a classic AmericanI ATTACHED THE
LEASH TO MY ANKLE,
SWAM OUT IN THE
WAVELESS WATER,
AND HURLED MYSELF
ONTO THE BOARD
WITH ALL THE GRACE
OF A SEA LION.
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