Lunch: 1PM
My writing is pleasantly abated: a Dutchman named Hans strolls past me with his Surinamese wife, Sita, and he is wearing a short sleeve buttoned-up shirt with a mildly severe clashing of patterns and color combinations, plain dark shorts and hiking boots. He is tall and skinny and this is further pronounced by his short white spiky hair and reading glasses which are resting on top of his head. I instantly like him. This man has character. This man has opinions. Sita is almost half Hans' height, somewhat stout, and even though she is very moderately dressed, her dress highlights her curves. They are only 10 feet away from me and I realize that they are speaking Dutch.
The owner comes out on the deck and breaks my train of thought, "Lunch is ready. Where are the others? Where is your boy?" Hans takes a moment to process the owners' accent and question, "...my boy? ... ah my son. Yes. Who knows? You know they were talking with us on the beach a little ways back. They must be here soon." The intonation of his words and the timing of his speech reminds me much of Curaçao and I smile. With this the owner dully but politely fancies a joker-like smile and goes back to the kitchen.
After some discussion between Hans and Sita, Hans leans over the rail and makes a muffled battle cry which both startles and humors me as I realize it was his way of calling for his boy.
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