A Trip to the Beach (23 page)

“You ever been Sombrero, Mel?” Hughes asked.

“No.”

“I hear this guy gonna cover it up with concrete for he rocket ships,” Bug warned. “If you wants to see Sombrero, you better go soon.”

My mind filled instantly with images of
Apollo 13
streaking to the moon with a blaze of fire behind it and a thunderous roar shaking the ground below. I shuddered at the thought of visitors to Anguilla lying on the beach with a good book and a rum punch and then,
bang,
they look up in the sky and see a rocket blasting off over their heads. Ozzie explained that the Texan was only planning to launch one rocket a month and that the government would earn many thousands of dollars from the project. Still, what if on that one day a travel writer from the
New York Times
happened to be sunning on peaceful Anguilla?

The debate continued throughout the evening and I was careful to steer clear of questions. “They ain' gonna lettum launch rockets from here,” someone said. “Oh, yeah,” answered another. “They gonna launch the rockets an' Anguilla gonna have more money than ever before. You'll see.”

Apparently the decision to rent Sombrero to the Texan was not finalized, and he was meeting more resistance than anticipated. International environmental groups were fighting to protect the booby birds, and local fishermen were fighting to safeguard their source of income. The future of little Sombrero Island made headlines from Los Angeles to London, and my guess was that the dispute would continue for quite some time. Cape Canaveral right here in Anguilla . . . that would take some adjustment.

“Local ice cream. Get your local ice cream, for true.” We heard the loudspeaker from the road booming through the kitchen door. Talk of Sombrero and rocket ships was forgotten, and Ozzie began taking orders for ice cream from the staff. The owners of the ice cream parlor in town had a vehicle resembling a golf cart with a house over the top that they used to visit various villages and scoop ice cream. On Saturday nights they came to the west end, and Blanchard's was always one of their stops.

Ozzie and Garrilin distributed cups filled with every flavor: guava, passion fruit, coconut, kiwi, banana, and rum. We continued serving dinners while eating the ice cream, and I tried hard to pick up on the next conversation that had started. I was getting better at understanding the local patois, but at times it was still a foreign language to me. I caught bits and pieces about a man who was apprehended at the airport with $450,000 taped to his body under a wet suit. I heard something about drugs and smuggling and a private flight to St. Kitts. It was a touchy subject—and not something I thought I should know more about. I didn't ask any questions.

July 31 was our last night for the season. We were shutting down for August and September, along with many of the hotels, since it was peak hurricane season. We served only a few dinners that night and spent the evening emptying and scrubbing refrigerators and giving away the remaining food to the staff. We packed up the linens in plastic bags and cleared the dining room of all the candleholders and wine buckets. We carried the potted palms outside, where they would get some light and rain during our two-month vacation.

“We gonna miss all you,” Bug said to Bob.

“We're gonna miss you too,” Bob said. “But we'll be around for another week. Jesse's coming down tomorrow so we can all be here for Carnival. I wouldn't leave before the boat races, you know.
De Tree
is gonna win.” Bob knew his prediction would spark a boat race debate, and he grinned as it began.

“No, man,” Lowell jumped in. “
Light and Peace
gonna win this year.”

Bug's voice was louder, and he said, “
Light and Peace,
nothing.
Bluebird
the boat to beat. Can't touch
Bluebird.
”

“
De Wizard
sailin' sweet, ya know,” Alwyn countered. “We be lookin' over our shoulders at all you.”

Everyone was yelling at once, and they were speaking so fast and so loud that Bob and I could barely follow what they were saying. We smiled at each other, enjoying the last kitchen squabble of the season.

It was hard to believe we'd lived in Anguilla a whole year. I thought back to building the restaurant with the Davis brothers, the opening the previous fall, Thanksgiving, then the high season. I looked at Clinton, who had gone from being a mason to a dishwasher to a prep cook and was now my sous chef. He had no idea how proud I was of him. And Lowell, who was Bob's right hand, had moved up from being a waiter to practically running the dining room. He had a key to the restaurant and would be responsible for checking on it regularly while we were up in Vermont visiting friends and family. I watched Miguel polishing a wineglass. His knowledge of wine had expanded immensely over the year; he could talk confidently about everything from puligny montrachet to zinfandel.

Hughes grilled leftover steaks, lobster, and fish, and we all feasted while the boat race discussion continued. Bob opened several bottles of champagne and poured it into plastic cups.

By midnight Blanchard's was scrubbed and empty. The refrigerators were unplugged and propped open. The gas was shut off along with the ice machine, and only the coolers in the wine cellar continued to run. We said goodbye to everyone and watched as our crew drove away, backseats loaded with leftover cheese, milk, butter, lemons, oranges, and lettuce.

I changed the message on the answering machine to say we'd be closed until October, and then Bob shut off the lights. We locked the door and walked down the winding path to the beach. The full moon lit the waves, and we stood for several minutes quietly listening to the soft sound of the surf.

“You loves Anguilla?” Bob asked, recalling Joshua's familiar question.

“I loves Anguilla,” I said, and we turned to go home.

Chapter 13

Jesse landed on the afternoon American Eagle flight, and we drove home, anxious to show him our new apartment. After he dropped his bags and got a quick tour, he changed into shorts and we walked down to the beach.

“This is amazing,” he said. “No more gas station and no more traffic in front of the house. And look at this beach!”

We walked along the edge of the water, following three sandpipers that darted up and down in front of the waves. Their sticklike legs moved in a blur as they raced down behind a receding wave, then scampered back up ahead of another. At the end of the beach we sat on some rocks and watched two pelicans circling and diving for fish.

“Tomorrow is the Sunday warm-up race,” Bob told Jesse. “I'm going out in
De Tree.
”

“Mom told me you've turned into quite a sailor.”

Bob said, “I'm the only foreigner in a boat, and it's kind of an honor to be included. The boat feels like it's going to tip over half the time, and it's hard to hang on, but I love it.”

“August Monday is the first big race for Carnival,” I explained to Jesse. “You and I are going out in Lowell's motorboat and we'll follow the race. And I thought we'd go to J'ouvert Morning, too.”

“What's J'ouvert Morning?” he asked.

“It's the official opening of Carnival. It starts at four A.M., and there are bands and people dance in the streets in town. Ozzie and Hughes said we shouldn't miss it.”

We walked back up the beach and spent the rest of the afternoon reading on our balcony. It reminded us of the old days when we were tourists. The restaurant was closed, and we were once again relaxing in paradise. We walked up to Malliouhana to enjoy a rum punch and watch the sunset. The bar at Malliouhana is one of the most elegant and relaxing places on earth. Extra-deep, cushiony couches are built in and around the white stucco arches and columns. Lots of batik throw pillows make it even more comfortable. Tall mahogany shutters, hinged at the top, are propped outward, letting the sea breeze blow through. The bar opens wide onto a terra-cotta terrace perched on the edge of a cliff, with the sea directly below. We sat on the terrace under a fat palm tree that looked like a big pineapple, and ordered our rum punches. They were a muddy pink, from Mt. Gay and assorted freshly squeezed juices, and arrived in extra-tall skinny glasses. The sun poked through a hole in the orange clouds on the horizon, and a stream of yellow shot down and danced on the sea. We walked home on the beach as the colors faded into the evening.

Talk around the island shifted to calypso and boat racing. Word was out that three new boats were getting their final coats of paint and were almost ready for August Monday. “New brand boat in Island Harbor,” Clinton had said. “Mr. Cool say she gonna be
fast.
She built by the same guy that build
UFO.
You know
UFO.
She that Island Harbor boat. Can' beat
UFO.
She tearin' up the island.”

That night we went to Bandorama, a competition of local musical groups, which took place in an outdoor amphitheater called Landsome Bowl. During Carnival there is a different show there every night. The main street in town was decorated with a rainbow of lights strung overhead. They crisscrossed the road from telephone poles to rooftops, forming a multicolored canopy of bulbs almost a mile long. The lights turned down a side street and led directly to Landsome Bowl. A huge crowd was gathered outside, and food vans, grills, and tents were everywhere, as people wandered around eating johnnycakes, sweet-potato dumplings, and grilled chicken and ribs.

We could hear the thumping of bass pounding from inside the arena while we waited in line to pay our admission fee. We entered the arena, stepping over a goat sleeping alongside the crowd. He didn't even know we were there. The music was so loud, I could feel it vibrating in my chest.
Everyone will be deaf tomorrow,
I thought.

Landsome Bowl during Carnival is not unlike a fairground in Vermont. Carnival Village, as it is called, has an outdoor stage with benches, and the perimeter is lined with vendors selling food, drinks, Carnival T-shirts, popcorn, and souvenirs. Cora Lee had a new cotton candy machine, and a swarm of kids was lined up in front of her booth.

When we arrived, four teenagers were performing onstage. Walls of giant speakers blasted out the music, and the crowd swayed and rocked to the beat. The stage was framed by shimmering silver tinsel that was bathed in the colors of a multitude of blinking Christmas lights. One of the musicians played a keyboard, another thumped on a bass guitar, and the other two belted out a song at the top of their lungs. They wailed out something about young love or true love, but I couldn't for the life of me understand the words.

We walked around, checking out the various vendors. “I'm hungry,” Jesse said. “Let's get some ribs.”

We got in line in front of a grill and stood behind a large woman in a very tight red dress who was wiggling to the music. Just like Ozzie in the kitchen, she could move every part of her body and still keep her feet firmly planted on the ground. Her hips moved like liquid as she danced in place—the rhythm penetrated right through her. We bought two orders of ribs and a johnnycake and continued walking around, eating from the tinfoil used to wrap the food. Bob saw Rigby talking with a group of men, and Jesse and I followed as he went over to say hello.

“Happy Carnival,” Rigby said.

“Ready for the race tomorrow?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, man.
De Tree
sailin' sweet. Errol put on the new sail from St. Martin today, so we gonna fly.”

“You sailin'?” one of Rigby's friends asked Bob.

Rigby answered. “Blanchard a sailor, man. He cool.”

“See you tomorrow morning,” Bob said happily.

“Later,” Rigby replied.

We knew that Lowell, Miguel, Ozzie, and Hughes had rented a booth and were selling drinks in the village, so we set out to find them in the crowd. We spotted Miguel playing dominos and found the rest of the gang inside their booth, surrounded by beer, soda, malt, and coolers of ice. Hughes had untied his usual braids and his hair was gathered into a giant puffball on top of his head. I commented on his new look, and he laughed. “Yeah, man,” he said. “I needed a new style for Carnival.” Bug was standing next to the domino table, waiting to get into the game, a Heineken in one hand and a chicken leg in the other.

We watched the dominos for a while and listened to the music. A new band was onstage doing some kind of rap thing. The sound of the dominos slamming on the table was completely drowned out by the band.

I walked over to the benches and looked up and down at the crowd. There were so many people, and for a split second it occurred to me that there wasn't another white person in sight. Just then I saw an arm waving at me from down in the front row. It was Garrilin. When she stood up out of the sea of people to say hi, I noticed that her hair was curled into ringlets and piled on top of her head and she was all dressed up. I wasn't used to seeing her in anything but her Blanchard's chef's coat, and she looked beautiful.

“Where Jesse and Bob?” she asked.

“Over there with the guys.” I pointed to the booth with our staff. “You look gorgeous.” The music was so loud, we had to scream to make each other hear. “What time do you think we need to go to J'ouvert Morning to see everything?” I asked.

“They does tramp from four, but you can reach for six.”

“We won't miss anything if we go at six?”

“No, sweetheart.” Garrilin smiled. “Six, they really movin'.”

“Will you be at the boat race tomorrow?” I asked.

“No, I ain' trouble with no boat races. I gonna sleep tomorrow an' go church. I goin' back to my seat before somebody grab it. You have fun. Later.”

The music was beginning to make my head throb, and I was hoping Bob and Jesse would be ready to go home. I found them leaning against the booth, Heinekens in hand, watching Bug, who had gotten into the domino game.

“I have to get away from this music,” I yelled into Bob's ear. We said goodbye to the boys and made our way back to the car, where the thumping finally started to fade.

“My ears are ringing,” Jesse said.

“Hughes said we should come back for the big calypso night,” Bob said in the car. “There's a guy from Trinidad called the Mighty Bomber who's supposed to be really great. He comes with a saxophone player and a trombone and sings old-time calypso. He wasn't sure what night it was, but it should be in the paper.”

“Do you think we could ask them to turn down the volume?” I said.

Jesse and I stayed home for the Sunday practice race. The boats sailed right past our balcony, and we watched through binoculars as
Light and Peace
came into view at around two o'clock. We could see Lowell among the crew and waved and cheered him on. Next came
De Chan
and then
Bluebird.
I counted eleven boats before
De Tree
came around the cliff from the east. It was dead last.

“Dad's not going to be happy,” Jesse said.

An hour later
Bluebird
came back into view from the other direction, with
Stinger
right behind. They both passed close to shore, only a few hundred feet from our balcony. We spotted a boat far out, taking a completely different route, and through the binoculars I could recognize the pale green paint of
De Tree.

“What are they doing out there?” Jesse asked. “You think the captain knows how to sail?”

“Dad says he does, but I can't imagine why they're so far away from everyone else.” We watched as
De Tree
came about and began a new tack. The rest of the boats passed, some in close and others halfway between
De Tree
and the shore. Pretty soon they were all out of sight again, and we had to wait for the results.

Bob came home at five-thirty, wet, sandy, sore, and tired.

“We got fourth place,” he said. “We moved from last up to fourth. We had a bad start because a big yacht got in our way going out of Sandy Ground. Errol wanted to turn around and demand a restart, but he decided to keep going. Boy, she really sailed on the way back.”

“Why were you almost out at Prickly Pear?” Jesse asked.

“Errol said he wanted to ‘try a little ting,' as he called it. I think it's what put us ahead of all the other boats. He also said we didn't have quite enough ballast for the size of the new sail and we'd fix that tomorrow. I'm ready for bed.” Bob flopped down on the couch and closed his eyes.

“It's only five-thirty,” I said.

“I'll just close my eyes for a minute,” he said. He was sound asleep for the night in no time.

The alarm went off at five A.M., and we piled into the truck for J'ouvert Morning. Bob was sore but didn't want to miss anything. We drove into town and parked alongside the road at the end of a row of cars that stretched half a mile. We could hear the music down the road, and a crowd of people jammed the main street that runs by the post office.

As we walked closer to the music we saw the band. They were playing from a makeshift stage set up on a flatbed trailer that was inching its way along the street. A generator on top provided power for the amplifiers and the ten-foot-high wall of speakers. A tarp was set up to shade the performers as well as a second-story platform for the lead singer. Thousands of people were dancing in front, behind, and all around the truck, following its path around town. It reminded me of the Norwich Fair in Vermont, where the hometown band rides down the Main Street parade on the back of a farm truck.

“So this is tramping,” I said, looking at the crowd moving to the beat. I recognized concierges, taxi drivers, waiters, fishermen, and people from just about every part of the island. Some were wearing costumes, and several younger guys had covered their nearly naked bodies with shiny green paint. Almost everyone in the procession was carrying tall purple-and-green fluorescent cups filled with some concoction—rum, I guessed.

The music was deafening, and we moved down the street to where another truck was creeping along with yet another crowd of people tramping and dancing around it. We spent about an hour greeting friends and getting the feel of the morning but decided that J'ouvert Morning was probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience for us.

Ozzie teased us. “You's jus' old folks,” he said.

We drove Bob to Sandy Ground at nine o'clock so he could help rig
De Tree.
Jesse and I spent the morning talking about college and catching up on each other's lives. He had decided to major in studio art and was no longer considering changing schools. I was relieved to know that he could survive a crisis even if we were thousands of miles apart. We drove back to the race at eleven-thirty, taking the scenic route that overlooks the harbor. I pulled over near a group of people gathering to watch the race from high up on the cliff. Boat race chatter was in full swing, and the Mt. Gay and Heineken were flowing.