I don’t usually write fiction—but let’s just say this little tale was inspired by something that happened to me on my first trip to the Bahamas. I was a kid, full of nerves and full of ginger ale, and I may or may not have committed a minor bathroom faux pas that haunted me all the way to Man-O-War Cay. So here’s a very humorous (and slightly exaggerated) story about a girl named Mary, a pee emergency, and her horrifying discovery of an unspoken Bahamian rule…
Mary had been many things in her short seven years on Earth—spelling bee runner-up, honorary bug rescuer, sister to a brother who refused to bathe—but she had never been international.
Until now.
Her parents were taking her to the Bahamas, and despite the bright sun, blue sky, and her mom’s relentless cheerfulness, Mary was a nervous wreck.
“Things are just a little different in the Bahamas,” her mom had said with a knowing smile. “Just do as the Bahamians do, and you’ll be fine.”
Mary wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. Did Bahamians walk backwards? Eat pancakes with their hands? Brush their teeth with coconut milk? She had no idea, but it all sounded very risky.
After a short flight from Florida to Marsh Harbour, her dad got busy negotiating with a taxi driver while Mary began what could only be described as a Code Red Potty Crisis.
“Mom, I have to go. Like, right now.”
Her mom whisked her off toward a tiny airport bathroom. “I’ll be right outside, honey. Go ahead. And remember—when in Rome…”
“We are not in Rome!” Mary hollered as the door swung shut.
She rushed into the stall, relieved herself with the kind of dramatic urgency reserved for Oscar-winning performances, and then—like the civilized, well-trained child she was—she flushed.
And that’s when everything fell apart.
As she washed her hands (because obviously you never skip that part), she looked up and saw it.
A sign taped above the sink in big colorful letters:
“In this land of sun and fun,
We never flush our number one!”
Mary stopped mid-hand-wash. The water was still running. So was her imagination.
“Oh. No. I FLUSHED MY NUMBER ONE.”
Her stomach dropped. Her face turned the color of canned tuna. Her life flashed before her eyes: her bike, her stuffed llama, her glittery lip balm collection. All gone. Because she had broken a sacred Bahamian law.
She bolted out of the bathroom like it was on fire.
“Mom!” she stage-whispered with the intensity of a spy in enemy territory. “We have a situation.”
Her mom, mid-text, looked up. “What happened?”
“I FLUSHED. My pee. There’s a sign. It said they don’t do that here. I didn’t know until it was too late! I’m going to Bahamian jail!”
“Wait… what?”
“There’s a RULE! It said they don’t flush number one! I flushed! They’re going to call the police. Or worse—a bathroom monitor! What if there’s a secret camera?! What if I’m on a ‘Worst Tourists of 2025’ list now?!”
Her mom laughed. Out loud. In public. While Mary was clearly in crisis.
“Oh, sweetie. It’s just a water conservation thing. Lots of islands have signs like that. It’s a suggestion, not a felony.”
Mary squinted suspiciously. “So I’m not going to be deported?”
“Nope.”
“No fine? No mop duty?”
“Nothing.”
Mary sighed in dramatic relief, wiped imaginary sweat from her brow, and said, “Well next time, you go in first and scout for bathroom laws.”
“Deal.”
That afternoon, as they bounced across the water toward Man-O-War Cay, Mary sat beside her mom, hair blowing in the salty breeze, sunglasses slightly crooked, trying to pretend she hadn’t just had a full-blown bathroom meltdown.
She looked around and smiled. The Bahamas were pretty amazing after all.
Warm breeze. Clear water. Kind people.
And best of all—a second chance at peeing properly.
