Six Weeks of Magic



My son and I spent our summer in this little house behind the staircase on a pink-sand beach in the West Indies. Like we always do. But this year was, somehow, extra special.

Our doors and windows always open to the clean salty air, we fell asleep under a velvety night sky, lit up by a million stars, as legions of crickets serenaded our dreams and the warm trade winds (and quite a few ceiling fans) attempted to cool our hot faces, but never quite succeeded. We woke up every morning to the sound of the Palm-and Casuarina trees, older than both of us, swaying in the wind and waves breaking in the surf at the bottom of our staircase, songs – we both agreed – we’ll never get tired of; The very breath and essence of life.

Mother Nature painted our days and our memories with her sage palette of cotton candy sunsets, vibrant rainbows, dead calm, tropical storms, biblical deluge, blistering sunshine and every condition in between.





Nobody has to remind us how lucky we are. Nobody has to remind us that we are island people at heart. Nobody has to remind us that there’s no place like this.

My son swam before he walked, but he took his first steps on this island, it’s his second home, but his first choice. He speaks with the voice of the ocean, knows the name and look of every tropical fish known to man, never ever gets sick at sea and can out-swim boys twice his size.

Nobody has to remind me that he’s a soul of the wild blue and much older than his years.




Today, in Denmark, at the edge of Summer’s demise, I think of this place – so far away, and yet so close, this home that we both love so much, and a rush of butterflies fill my insides and my heart flutters. And I want to go back. Rewind. Do it all over again. And again. For a lifetime – or whatever is left of it. Walk that beach in the sunset, barefoot and careless, hand in hand with my boy, whilst he spins his whale tales and looks toward heaven.