He wears a wool cap of black and gold, red and green covering his dreadlocks, smiling, toothless. We make eye-contact; he pauses, displays the two whole pineapples he carries in a gunny sack, and offers the little baggy of freshly cut fruit for my approval.

“Pinapple, mon."

“Looks good,” I tell him. “But no thanks."

“Pinepple. Good for the dingles."

On the beach in Ocho Rios, long before there was Viagra, there was pineapple.