Page 9 of Promise Not To Fall

1½ parts Stoli® Vanil vodka

1½ parts Cruzan® Coconut Rum

¾ part Coco Lopez® cream of coconut

½ part grenadine

½ part blue Curaçao

Mix first three ingredients in a mixing glass

Shake and strain into a martini glass

Sink grenadine and float Curaçao on top.

Everywhere you go on Paradise Island, whether it’s the hotel lobby or the streets, the beats of island rhythms take hold of you. The music, the people—everywhere I look, there are people dancing and enjoying themselves. It’s a different type of music, not reggae, but more like trumpets and drums with a scrapping sound.

That needs to be me too. I need to be dancing and enjoying myself. And I plan on it. And so, as Rylee and Wesley settle into their room, I decide I’m going to have a good time.

It’s around five that evening, my buzz from earlier has completely worn off and I need a drink. And by drink, I mean ten. I make the executive decision to spend my first night in paradise getting totally shit-faced.

Because of the humidity, I can’t do shit with my hair, so I toss it up in a messy bun, grab my sunglasses, and go with it.

Before I walk outside, I know I need sunscreen. The sun is close to setting, and I have a nice golden skin tone, but skin care is important to me. So I lather myself up.

I’m literally wearing SPF 900. They don’t actually make it, by the way. But if they did, you’d better believe I would wear it.

Inside the hotel is a few different bars and restaurants to choose from, and though I plan to explore them eventually, tonight I’m looking for something a little less touristy.

My plan leads me farther up the beach. The moment the warm, sparkly white sand touches my toes, the shoes are gone. The sand. The fucking toe-wiggling sand there. It’s like heaven. So warm, so soft, it’s like walking on satin.

The sun glows, reflecting off the turquoise waters, casting a light over the sand, making it look like white diamonds beneath my feet.

As I walk around, a woman catches my attention. Or at least her blender and her small beachside hut does.

“You want a drink, pretty lady?” the woman with an afro the size of Manhattan asks me. At least she’s friendlier than the maid and isn’t trying to sell me drugs.

“Fuck yeah, I want a drink.” I push my sunglasses up to look at her without the darkness. “Serve that shit up, gurl.” Look at me getting friendly.

While she makes the drink, I bob my head to whatever catchy tune is playing through her boom box.

I pay $18 for that drink. Might as well have bent over and let her shove that blender up my butt, because she fucked my ignorant American ass. But good goddamn, is that drink delicious. It’s half piña colada and half banana daiquiri. It’s like a tropical banana coconut heaven with a straw.

I suck it down in no time, and by the time I’m another mile up the beach, I’m feeling amazing. Sweating like a motherfucker, but not a care in the world. Okay, I won’t go that far, but you get my point.

As I glance around, I notice people lying out in lounge chairs, bathing in the sun. They’re relaxing and enjoying what the sand and the water have to offer.

I’m getting hungry and my drink is gone, so that leaves only one option—find a place to eat and get my drunk on.

In the distance, there’s a small bar right on the beach, and I have a feeling it’s the place for me. It’s larger than any of the other ones I’ve seen on the beach, and it appears to serve food too. Vintage signs, ones that give you a feel for the fifties look in modern times, clutter the entrance of the bar called The Sand Pit. Tiny white lights are strung up, barely visible now, but come sundown, I know they’ll light the path I’m pretty sure some have probably crawled.

As I step up to the deck, I see bright yellow paint lining the bar, and its turquoise walls are covered with more vintage beer and beach signs. The place looks to be a small family-owned bar, as opposed to the ones closer to the hotels, which are franchised.

I’m in luck because I’m searching for anything but your standard resort life. I want a real Bahama experience with bartenders and tropical music, and enough drinks that I too will know what it’s like to crawl out of this bar. And the floor looks clean too, so that’s a bonus.

On the deck, I put my heels back on and walk toward the bar.

Painted white wooden tables and matching chairs occupy an open deck with colorful umbrellas. They look inviting, but I don’t want to sit at a table alone, so I take a seat on one of the dark metal stools at the bar.

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