That pattern was repeated the next two days—raw, above-the-rim afternoon jam sessions played to a pulsing reggae beat, followed by nights of dancing beneath the moon. I never got to see the Briland Buccaneers in action—they had an away game at nearby Spanish Wells that weekend. But on Monday afternoon I did see the Jimmy Buffett van, parked near the weathered taxis that met me and the other tourists headed to the North Eleuthera airport for our flight back to the U.S.
As the plane climbed and banked over the shimmering water of Harbour Island, I hoped for a glimpse of Hitler's court or the schoolyard. But all I could see were palm trees, pink sand and fishing boats.