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A Rastafarian man reaches into rusty metal barrel, fashioned as a barbecue grill, to rearrange hot coals and bits of burnt wood with his bare hands. "Whoa! Hands of steel!" I exclaim, thinking he needs tongs, or something I'd find at my local Home Depot and any other typical, commercial-like grilling tools. He seems unphased by my exclamation, taunting myself and a couple other boys hailing from the island of St. Lucia, teasing us for our poor barbecue grilling skills. We've been unable to light this fire to properly cook the fish that we have caught earlier that day - a whole bucketful of fish that I've caught close to the shore from a tiny aluminum skiff. I've enjoyed great locals-type fishing day, drinking their national beer, a pale ale called Piton, named for the great pair of lush green, cylindrical pistes that iconically and unmistakably identify this Caribbean island. Now, I stand grilling our catch on a palm-lined, starlit beach, and additionally enjoying the illumination of the new flames created by the Rastafarian. His hands seemingly unscathed, he smiles and congratulates himself on his accomplishment of starting the flame. He eyes my small, digital camera in my pocket, "My name is Hollywood!" he begs me to allow him to take my photo. I think I'll need to coach him on the instruction of my camera use, but he assures me that his photography and videography skills would be so acclaimed if only he could get a chance to make it in Hollywood. He doesn't have his own camera, but a willing tourist without a tripod is always looking for a friendly face to capture a portrait to take back home. My other grilling companions, a group of young boys from the island, are a bit of a band of misfits. Our first crossing of paths, I was walking through the gates of my modest hotel in the otherwise, over-the-top luxurious setting of Marigot Bay, and they quietly asked me if I wanted to buy drugs of the smoking variety. I sheepishly bowed my head, politely declined, and felt a bit ashamed, wondering what about myself looked like I needed marijuana on vacation. My shame quickly subsided when I noticed that they were making the same offer to any tourist walking through those hotel gates and after a few days, the boys knew my face and knew what answer I would give to any sales pitch. Except one day, I answered in the affirmative to join a fishing trip and in return I'd provide groceries for a fish dinner on the beach. Now, I asked my grilling companions about the re