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Byline: Suzanne Boyd
I was fourteen when my family moved to the South Point of Barbados. Happily situated on a surf break, it was a coastal enclave that beguiled with sea grapes and coral reefs, briny, crumbling cliffs, secret caves, and all manner of sea creatures, not the least of which was a mostly teenage tribe of neighborhood surfers with exotic names like Heads, Bright, and Blackrock.
Having been previously domiciled at a draconian Franciscan boarding school in Jamaica where we wore white for the Virgin and a girl was expelled for having an Afro-even though an errant nun did boast that an alumna had recently bagged the Miss World title, and Bob ...