On the Leeward Island of Tortola, there is a house on the north coast, just east of the island's western end, built into the side of a mountain some fifty feet or so above the shoreline. I am fortunate enough to be related to the owners.
This house faces out onto the sea and the neighboring island of Jost Van Dyke. And at a certain hour of the evening, when the sun reaches a certain distance from the horizon, the whole scene suddenly, briefly explodes into the most magnificent colors. In this house, these colors signal the onset of a very special time of day: Brown Water Time.
This is a tradition I believe was inherited from the next door neighbor, Mrs. Tidswell. Mrs. Tidswell is the octogenarian widow of a real old-fashioned British colonialist, a vestige of white imperialism that remained behind to savor the land and the sea after the more blatant trappings of empire were swept away. Until she was hobbled by hip surgery a few months ago, Mrs. Tidswell rose every morning at 5 am and walked down the mountainside to the sea for a morning swim. She still wakes up at 5 am, but she doesn't make it down to the sea anymore.
Mrs. Tidswell has many lessons to teach her neighbors. One of the most valuable I've learned from her is this: No civilized human being will drink gin after noon.
The islands struggle to cultivate a culture of relaxation. A day on the sand and in the sea may relax you, but island life has its own stresses. The washed-out, rock-studded dirt roads between the house and the beach, or between the house and the nearest grocery store. The mosquitoes that attack every inch of exposed flesh not protected by chemical repellents. The overbearing need to conserve the painfully finite resources of potable water and electricity.
On Tortola, drink is part of the culture of relaxation. There is rum; there is beer. The children drink ghastly malt-flavored sodas. But in this house just west of a beach called Smuggler's Cove, where even gin is forbidden while the sun is casting its dying light, civilization has one last lesson to aid in the struggle of island culture against the meaner realities of island living. A glass of inexpensive scotch whiskey -- bought by the handle in a duty-free shop in town -- poured over a few painstakingly prepared and precious cubes of ice, and topped off with a dash of club soda. In this house on the side of the mountain, the day's last glimpse of paradise -- bathed in rose-copper light under a blanket of lavender skies -- is captured and preserved in a glass of amber liquid, where it can be nurtured after darkness steals away everything but the gentle rushing noises of the waves. Even as the mosquitoes wake from their daytime slumber to begin their nightly feast on my blood, I cannot shake the thought from my mind: there is no better life than this.
I understand Mrs. Tidswell takes her brown water neat. She's much more rehearsed in this than I. But I'm a quick study. And I have a week to practice.
Many European Jews fulfil this requirement with apples dipped in honey, a traditional Rosh Hashanah pairing. My family, being from the Middle East, has somewhat different traditions. Whereas at every other time of year we break our bread and dip it in salt, on Rosh Hashanah we dip it in sugar. We pass around a plate of plump medjool dates. We pile up treats flavored with the Middle Eastern dessert aromatics of choice: Rosewater and Cardamom. We drench pastries with a sugar syrup perfumed with roses, cardamom, and lemon. We eat candies infused with the aroma of roses, like these marzipan dainties.
