Free A Trip to the Beach by Melinda Blanchard

late-afternoon sun reflected off the tin roof of the terminal, and Bob squinted as he walked down onto the dock toward the
Lady Odessa.
The boat’s light green hull was nearly camouflaged by the aquamarine water, and it looked like something you might come across in the South China Sea or cruising up the Amazon. Its wooden bow scooped up high to a point, and a boxy cabin covered the rear of the boat. From under the deck, soggy cases of raw chicken parts were being passed up to a man who tossed them to another on the pier, where they were stacked in a dripping pile.
    Bob tried to shake the word
salmonella
from his mind. The cartons of chicken sat defrosting in the sun, surrounded by a growing puddle of water, and were marked KEEP FROZEN.
    He waited for someone to stop tossing chicken, but they ignored him. “I’m looking for the captain,” Bob said finally. “I’m here to pick up that bed.”
    â€œCap’n down in the hole.” The man stacking the chicken pointed to an opening in the deck. “Jus’ wait till he finish countin’ the chicken.”
    So Bob sat down on the Heineken boxes and waited.
Island time,
he told himself. He looked at the ferryboats anchored in the harbor and tried to picture the dugout canoes used by the Arawak Indians who had lived here before the island became a British colony. He envisioned the boatloads of slaves brought in by the English settlers.
    The
Lady Odessa
rose and fell with the waves, softly thudding against the rubber tires that cushioned it from the pier. As it rocked, the bowline creaked like a squeaky floorboard, tightening, falling slack, then tightening again. It was clear how Blowing Point got its name. The soft trade winds from the east funneled down the channel between St. Martin and Anguilla and blew steadily over the small protrusion of land. One of the ferryboats roared into the quiet harbor, leaving a frothy white trail behind. The
Lady Odessa
rocked wildly in the wake, and Bob watched as the waves calmed and turned into gentle ripples against the shore.
    Observing a stream of passengers pour out of the ferry, Bob felt very much a part of Anguilla. Tourists would come and go, but he and I would stay. We were no longer visitors here, but locals.
I wonder where we’ll go on vacation,
he thought.
    A snorkeler swam past the boat and in toward shore, his air tube bobbing above the waves. Once in shallow water, he stood up, holding his bag proudly for Bob to see.
    â€œLobsters,” he said as Bob got up to take a closer look.
    â€œHow’d you catch them?”
    â€œCaught ’em with my lasso.” He held up a stick about four feet long with a piece of wire tied in a loop at one end. “I dives down an’ looks under the rocks where the lobsters live. Then I take my lasso like this.” He held his stick out as if to touch an imaginary lobster. “I slip the noose over his head and then . . . gotcha.” He yanked the stick back, demonstrating how it was done, and handed it to Bob for closer examination.
    Bob admired the tool, paying particular attention to the wire at the end.
    â€œHow many lobsters do you have in there?” he asked.
    â€œAbout twenty-five or so, and I shot this snapper with my spear gun.” The lobsters snapped their tails violently, making the bag shake. “Whatcha’ doin’ down here on the freight dock?”
    â€œI’m trying to pick up a bed I bought in St. Martin. I can’t seem to find out how much to pay the captain. He’s busy unloading chicken.”
    â€œLemme see if I can help.” The man tossed his bag of lobsters onto the pier and pulled himself up out of the water. He was wearing a black wet suit and was built like Arnold Schwarzenegger, his narrow waist expanding upward into a huge chest and massive shoulders. His biceps were bigger than Bob’s legs, and his thighs bulged with muscle, presumably from a life of swimming around the