by Susan M. Toy

The invitation read… Dress: Women – bathing suits, wraps – Men – colourful shirts.

This Christian community seldom allows ceremonies outside the church, but the Anglican Archbishop of the West Indies had given special dispensation, allowing the couple to exchange vows on a beach in the Tobago Cays.

Foreign expats, we were honoured to be included, indicating we reach, accepted by local friends.

The groom had been born on Union Island. While that’s still within the country of St. Vincent & the Grenadines, Bequians consider him an outsider. So he’d splurged on his wedding, ensuring the day would be talked about for years. We were among several invited expats, all business associates, friends of the groom. The other two-hundred-and-fifty guests were family and friends from Bequia, Union Island, and Trinidad. It was a first marriage for both, although Ras’ five children, fathered with other women, dominated the bridal party.

A light rain fell as we departed Bequia, blessing the marriage with luck, according to island superstition. The sky soon cleared, promising a great tourist-day at the Cays.

The company truck was backed on the lower ferry deck, its bed filled with equipment, including massive speakers and DJ, for a beach party. Throughout the day, that incessant thump-thump of too-loud calypso and soca, entertained guests. Some danced the entire trip, to and from the Cays, stopping only momentarily for a quick beer.

Still early, diehards were already into the rum, wandering around, chatting, enjoying the ride. When a “light” breakfast was served in the galley, we obediently lined up, waiting to load paper plates while the wedding planner shouted orders. The bride, visibly nervous, pitched in behind the bar to calm herself, dispensing coffee. The groom, with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, laughed at jibes from friends as he dandled a child on one knee. Women sitting at a long table assembled more food for the afternoon feast. Several suit bags hanging from a ceiling pipe swung lazily with the boat’s movement.

Two hours out of Bequia, we arrived at the Cays. I’ve been there a number of times, but the view of that water still pleasantly surprises with a blue that’s impossible to describe.

The captain manoeuvred the ferry in, lowering its ramp. Passengers disembarked. Festive decorations of blue and white balloons and streamers had already transformed the palm-lined beach.

Guests dispersed over the area, claiming shady spots, waiting for the bar to open. I went swimming and, from a distance, the beach looked as though a new community was being erected. People scurried, placing chairs for the congregation, erecting awnings to protect the two wedding cakes, propping up palm fronds to fence off bar and dining areas. Music continued to pulsate from the ferry.

The bridal party remained onboard, changing. When the loud music was finally silenced, fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen trooped down the ramp accompanied by an “interesting” guitar and saxophone rendition of The Wedding March. The bride and her father followed, and the group assembled in front of the Archbishop and groom. The women wore bathing suits wrapped with gauzy material - the bride’s white, the rest blue; the men sported matching cabana sets. The groom was prettiest of all in loose-fitting grey-blue pants, matching knee-length shirt, dreadlocks hanging down his back, and sunglasses. Everyone was barefoot.

The Archbishop lectured at length on the necessity of remaining faithful, the emphasis leaning towards Ras whose progeny comprised a large number of the bridal party.

Champagne was served at ceremony’s end then women uncovered food trays and began serving callaloo soup in Styrofoam cups. We joined a line and filled plates with macaroni pie, breadfruit salad, pellau – all starchy, but local favourites. Chicken, fish AND lobster-halves were barbecued over split drums. Beer-wine-rum flowed generously without a sign of drying up. No expense had been spared; everyone enjoyed the afternoon immensely.

As the food line-up dwindled, the music changed to sixties rock-and-roll. We expats hooted approval, jumping up to cut the … sand, while a group of women on the perimeter looked on with disapproval – although they were likely just heavy into serious gossip.

Late in the day, people began gathering up. The bride returned to the boat, but the groom still circulated, accepting congratulations, having his picture taken with guests. As Dennis and I made our way to the ramp, we saw Ras, still wedding-clothed, frolicking in the water with a bikini-clad woman – who was not his new wife. Dennis laughed, “Looks like Ras wasn’t paying attention to the Archbishop.”

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 15th, 2008 at 9:00 pm and is filed under Contest, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.