Free A Trip to the Beach by Melinda Blanchard Page A

bottom of the sea.
    He walked toward the
Lady Odessa,
leaving a wet trail behind him, and Bob followed, feeling very small.
    â€œYo, Rupert,” he yelled to the man unloading the chicken. “The man come for he bed. Stop now. How much it tis?”
    â€œFifty dollar,” came a reply from below as another case of chicken was handed up.
    â€œFifty too mucha money, man,” he said, jumping down onto the deck of the
Lady Odessa
and kneeling next to the opening to negotiate the freight bill. “The man say twenty-five.”
    â€œForty. Nuttin’ less,” the captain answered.
    â€œCome.” The snorkeler motioned for Bob to come aboard. “Pay the cap’n. Leff we go with the bed.”
    Bob pulled out two twenties, offering them to the captain.
    â€œNo, man,” Bob’s new friend said. “Forty E.C.”
    Bob sheepishly put the money back in his wallet and pulled out two E.C. twenties (about $15 U.S.). He wondered how to determine if someone was quoting U.S. dollars or Eastern Caribbean dollars, and would be sure to ask in the future.
    â€œThanks a lot,” Bob said as the two went for the mattress and box spring. “My name’s Bob.”
    â€œI Shabby,” he replied, offering a strong, wet handshake.
    Shabby picked up the box spring as if it were a feather, balanced it on his head, and carried it to the roof of the rented jeep. Bob dragged the mattress along behind, but before he got too far, Shabby returned, lifted it to his head, and carried it off effortlessly.
    They tied the bed onto the roof, and Bob offered to give Shabby a ride home.
    â€œYou wanna learn how to dive for lobsters?” Shabby asked with a killer white smile.
    â€œI’d love to,” said Bob.
    â€œMeet me here tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. I got extra snorkeling gear at home, and I’ll make you a lasso tonight.” Bob dropped Shabby at his house and drove away, anxious to tell me he was going to a tropical rodeo the next day to lasso lobsters.
    The following afternoon Shabby was sitting in the shade of the taxi driver tree with the usual group, and he sprang up as Bob approached. The two walked down to the beach where Shabby had put the snorkeling gear.
    â€œLeff we go,” Shabby said, and disappeared under the waves, towing the nylon lobster bag by one foot and carrying his spear gun and lasso stick. Bob followed, armed with his new lasso, awed by the silent, colorful world he had just entered. On the way into deeper water, the sandy bottom gradually gave way to outcroppings of coral. Shabby motioned repeatedly for Bob to resurface so he could identify the innumerable kinds of fish. A bright blue and yellow angelfish, a luminous yellow grunt with blue stripes, red hind, needlefish, grouper, parrot fish, and oldwife. A large stingray drifted over Bob’s head, and schools of fish scooted away in unison, darting in and out of the strange and exotic-looking coral. Patches of sea grass danced in the currents, and Shabby swam gracefully through it, gliding along the bottom like a big black fish. He was clearly at home under water and seemed able to hold his breath forever as he peered under every crevice in the reef. He would slip his lasso over a lobster, snap it out in a flurry of sand and bubbles, and add it to his bag.
    A decent swimmer and a respectable athlete, Bob tried to keep up. Actually, the hardest part was keeping
down.
The incredible buoyancy of the salt water made him feel as though he had on a life jacket. He’d fight his way down toward Shabby but often would bounce back to the surface like a submerged beach ball.
    After two hours Shabby had filled the lobster bag and Bob had caught one. He was exhausted, and as he stumbled out of the water back by the ferry dock his arms and legs felt like lead. Even the air felt heavy. He collapsed on the beach, wishing he’d put more lotion on the backs of his legs, which were beet red with