His swimming practice stands him in good stead on the first day of our Amazing Race: St. Lucia—I get sick from swallowing too much salt water while snorkelling, but he paddles around easily. I’m starting to realize that while I may be on top when it comes to spin class, my big-city man has dastardly advantages I didn’t foresee! He was once a small-town boy with a pool and the Niagara Escarpment in his backyard. I may just have to—eek—chill out. That night, he tells me pirate stories while we sip wine on the beach, and then he carries me around the infinity pool under the moonlight. “My little pasty tart,” he dubs me, teasing me about my lack of a tan. Well, maybe small-town boys aren’t so bad. Even if they are winning.
St. Lucia is a good place for non-beachy sorts like us to lose our resort virginity, as its varied topography allows for lots of activities besides reading OK! magazine in a bikini. Today is the big day—horseback riding and zip lining through the rain forest. He jauntily bests me at horseback riding—oh yes, he forgot to mention he used to jump horses—but we’re pretty even at zip lining. After nearly getting thrown from testosterone-fuelled horses (apparently you’re not supposed to let stallions nuzzle each other), we’re dangling from cables hundreds of feet up when he tells me he’s really impressed, and had no idea I had such a “spirit of adventure.”
“Where’s the boss man?” asks our butler, catching me alone outside our room.
“I’m the boss!” I snap.
“I know,” he says, winking.
At this clip, I’m ready for a little less adventure. Who planned this vacation, anyways? I’m exhausted.
But it’s too late. The next day is scuba diving. I can’t keep the pressure from building up in my ears, so I hover just under the surface of the water while I watch the instructor and Jason dive below. He swims up and holds my hand as we paddle along. At dinner, I’m strangely, comfortably quiet, staring out at the mountains—usually I’m chattering madly while he nods his head. I express an unheard-of desire to lie on a beach.
“So that’s all it took,” he says, amazed.
“I just had to drag you to a posh resort. Well, congratulations, baby, now you’re as lazy as me!”
We hold hands up the tropical foliage– lined path to our room. “Did I call you my little pirate treasure already?” he asks. “’Cause you got nice booty.”
OK, he wins.
First published in FASHION Magazine February 2009
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