With 2.7 miles of almost entirely empty beach, a couple arrive and plonk themselves on the sand directly in front of me. They lie on their backs, perfectly still, arms by their sides; they tag team a swim; they lie on their fronts; and they fuck off. It all seems very regimented, as if they're timing themselves cook.
Helen returns, and we buy an air freshener made of spice, but not a tea towel. A load of divers come onshore from their excursion; we leave our seats and go into the bar behind us named Umbrellas. Beer and a cocktail plus 3 plates of munchie fried goods please, that would be lovely.
A mildly unpleasant interaction with a local as she emerges from the sea puts a slight downer on the experience, but it's soon forgotten as we first watch a dog chase some crabs then walk to Esther's, where we'd eaten alongside chickens and a dog a couple of days previous. The lady serving remembers us, clocking our mojito-and-a-Carib order before we've even chosen where to sit (i.e. at exactly the same place as before).
The mojito is not, this time, an insta-pissed drink; the same cannot be said of the next round, because we choose (largely on my insistence, though there wasn't much push back) to have a couple of cocktails. Asking for advice/ingredients, we end up with a Dark & Stormy (a couple of types of ginger, and shitloads of booze) and a Yellow Bird (lots of yellow fruit juices, and shitloads of booze).
Unsurprisingly, the steep road down is now a steep road up. Were there really this many steps this morning?