You shall write a poem for these curly-haired blond demigods who are scattered on the islands. Refugees from colder climes, they have left countries and the frenetic rhythm of city life to be skippers, dive instructors, bartenders on little slips of paradise. They are tall and toned. They care not a wit about Marc Jacobs or the newest lounge, the underground concert. They want to know what visibility will be like tomorrow, where the current flows. They worry about the storms from Costa Rica. They pay attention to the wind. When they dive into water, they slice through it gracefully. They emerge as golden mermen, glistening. They have been so long under the sun that their skin has forgotten what it is to be pale.