A Trip to the Beach (4 page)

“Oh, God!” I said out loud, and started to sob.

Bob pulled off the road, shut off the engine, and put his arm around me. “We can keep looking for a better house.”

“It's not just that!” I wailed. “You have no idea how much it's going to cost to build this restaurant, and even less of an idea how to run it.”

“I'll take some measurements tomorrow,” said Bob, patiently, “and we'll work on a design for the building. We'll get the best prices on materials.”

“You always think you can build everything for less than it actually costs! You're such a goddamned . . .
optimist
!” The word came out like a curse. It certainly shut Bob up.

“I don't want to do this,” I went on, glaring at Bob through tears. “Eight hundred dollars a month for an ugly house on the main road with no view, and three thousand dollars for that stupid little shack. We don't have the money.” I knew I was losing it, but I didn't care. “We know nothing about living in a country with goats and lizards thousands of miles from anywhere. I just want to go home,” I said, then exhaled and resumed crying.

Bob was quiet for a moment. “We'll leave tomorrow,” he said. He started the jeep and headed for the hotel.

At Malliouhana I ran upstairs, hoping no one would see that I'd been crying, and Bob informed the front desk that we'd be checking out in the morning. He asked them to call the airline and get us on the flight to Boston. In the room, I broke down completely. I changed into a long T-shirt, climbed into bed, and pulled the sheets over my head.

My face mashed against the pillow, I heard the big door open and close, then Bob's voice telling me we'd been booked on a 2:05 flight the next afternoon. I heard the door leading to the balcony open, and the light behind my eyelids turned red—it was the setting sun. “How about dinner?” said Bob.

“I'm not hungry.”

I had stopped crying, but my stomach hurt. An odd sense of guilt had swept over me. I felt as if I'd betrayed someone—but who? Mac? Bennie and James? They'd see us as impulsive foreigners who'd come into their lives and made empty promises, but they were businessmen—they'd survive. Joshua? Would he ever call me “daughter” again? Maybe it was Anguilla itself that I'd betrayed—my favorite place on earth, my refuge. Or had I betrayed myself?

“You could just have a salad,” said Bob.

“Go down without me.”

Bob sat on the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. “Let's go back to Vermont,” he said softly. “We'll get jobs like normal people.”

I raised the covers and looked into his eyes, which were bluer than I'd ever seen them. Those eyes could always do it. “Okay,” I said, “you've hypnotized me. Let's have one last great meal before we leave.”

The Restaurant at Malliouhana was presided over by Jacques, the quintessential maître d', and overseen by the great Michel Rostang, who'd fly in from Paris periodically to tweak the menu. We sat at our usual table, which overlooked the rocky cliff and the turquoise water below. The spotlights on the rocks attracted three-foot-long gar fish, whose glowing eyes seemed to meet ours as they drifted lazily past. Bob ordered a bottle of '85 Château Palmer, and as we waited for the salad of haricots verts and marinated scallops and roasted whole chicken from Bresse for two, I began to feel better. Who wouldn't? By the time the chocolate soufflé arrived, we were brainstorming about business possibilities back home.

I fell asleep dreaming of Vermont. I wondered, however, as I drifted in and out of sleep, why barefoot James was grilling burgers back in our barn.

At five A.M. my eyes snapped open. I crept onto the balcony to watch the day come in. The dark sea pounded on the rocks below as the sky turned from black to dusky blue and the stars disappeared. My favorite time; while the world slept, I could bring order to even my unruliest thoughts. I stretched out on the lounge chair and sucked in the strong scent of the sea. Five minutes later I unlocked the heavy mahogany door to our room, trying not to wake Bob, and slipped into the open hallway.

The only way to the beach at Malliouhana is via a long and winding staircase that looks as if it has been chiseled into the cliff. This time of day it bends almost literally from the darkness of the previous night into the blue and red of the dawn.

With each step I felt as if I was coming out of a cloud. I rounded the last curve of the stairs and saw the white beach below, and it seemed suddenly vital to reach its safety. The instant my bare feet landed in the cool, wet sand, I knew I was home. A wave broke around my legs and then receded, eroding the sand under my feet and causing me to sink farther down, as if the beach were claiming me. I was overcome with a sense of belonging.

When I woke Bob, breathing hard from my climb back up the stairs, I told him I wanted to live in Anguilla and open the greatest restaurant in the Caribbean.

“You're a nut case,” he said, and gave me a big hug.

Signing a lease in Anguilla is a casual affair—at least for James. “Meet me at the shop in Long Bay,” he said. And there the three of us signed the life-changing document on the hood of a jeep in a dusty parking lot. James had a Heineken in his hand and was barefoot, and Bob and I marveled at the absence of lawyers and witnesses.

Later we went for a drive, talking of names for the restaurant. Could we somehow combine our names and Jesse's? Bomeljes? Jessmelbo? Meljebob?

“Why don't we just call it Blanchard's?” Bob said.

“Perfect,” I said. “That covers the whole family.”

We rounded a corner and came to a small harbor, where a half-dozen wooden fishing boats were anchored, bobbing like brightly colored toys. The boats bore names such as
Falcon, Rumrunner,
and—our favorite—
It's a Business.

We watched as one made its way to shore, its captain deftly maneuvering around the coral reef that protected the bay. His younger helper, bare feet planted firmly apart, kept his balance by holding a rope tied to the bow. He looked as if he were water-skiing on the deck.

We walked down to the water to see what they had caught. The captain passed a large, bright yellow plastic tub over the side to his assistant, who now stood waist deep in the water alongside the boat, which was called
Blue Runner.
The tub was crawling with lobsters. It was clearly too heavy for the young man, who struggled to keep it from sinking as he towed it out of the water toward the beach.

Bob kicked off his sandals, waded out next to the boat, and grabbed a handle. “Thanks,” said the young man.

“I Thomas Rogers,” said the captain when he got back to shore. “That Glenroy. He my youngest. You come to buy lobsters?”

“We were just passing by,” Bob told him. “But we are starting a restaurant on Meads Bay. Would you be able to supply us with lobsters when we open?”

While they talked, I settled myself on the beach and burrowed my toes into the cooler sand under the surface. The sun was directly overhead, and its magical warmth penetrated my muscles as I adjusted to island time. I felt unaccountably happy.

Thomas didn't notice several giant lobsters that had escaped from the tub and were scrambling down the beach, looking disjointed and prehistoric. Bravely deciding to retrieve the runaways, I tried to corner them using my shoes as a blockade. Since Caribbean lobsters have no claws, I thought they'd be easy to catch. I grabbed one around the middle. Its tail snapped against my hand so hard that I yelped and flung the creature into the air. By that time Thomas and Bob were enjoying the show, and I wasn't sure what to do next. Saving me from further embarrassment, Thomas ambled over, lifted the feisty lobster by the antennae, and returned it and the other escapees to the tub.

Glenroy appeared from behind the sea grape, driving his father's truck onto the beach, and pulled up to the pile of buckets, gas cans, and other paraphernalia they'd unloaded from the boat. He and Bob stowed the lobsters and equipment onto the back of the truck while Thomas went back out, tied the boat to a buoy in the bay, climbed into a dinghy, and paddled for shore.

“Thomas gave me his number,” said Bob as we drove back toward Malliouhana. “He said he can catch as many lobsters as we need. And his cousin catches snapper.” He stopped, victorious. “Our first vendor on the island!”

Grilled lobster with a honey glaze . . . crispy crusted snapper with curried rice . . . I could almost see the menu.

Chapter 2

We had trouble paying attention in Anguilla. Unencumbered by walls, our blue beach umbrella created a delightfully distracting office. We forced ourselves to concentrate—to work in a spot where the rest of the world comes to play. We sketched floor plans, our toes wriggling deeper into the sand as each new idea struck. Fat lizards puttered around us, their tails creating intricate patterns in the sand. They snatched tiny bugs with the tips of their long, long tongues—we were hypnotized.
Concentrate,
we told ourselves,
concentrate.
We moved paper cutouts of tables and chairs around on the plans until we were satisfied we had a workable layout.

The existing restaurant was a disaster—the nautical theme reminded me of a poor imitation of “Pirates of the Caribbean” at Disney World. The bar was a termite-infested boat that crumbled when touched. Telephone poles draped with ropes and fishing nets held up the roof; lobster buoys, rusty anchors, and brass propellers rounded out the seaside memorabilia. The bathrooms were worse—hardly more than outhouses with a subway-corner scent. (I refused to go in.) A few pieces of equipment could be salvaged from the kitchen: a grill, a ten-burner range, and a small walk-in cooler. Serious scrubbing, we hoped, would revive them.

The plans took a week. Frequent dips in the sea to cool off easily turned into an hour of lazy floating. We walked the crescent mile and back again several times a day—the wide, soft beach rarely had footprints other than ours. Solitude, I learned, can be its own distraction. My mind was constantly tricked by the sun into thinking I was on vacation.
Concentrate,
we reminded ourselves,
concentrate.
Despite the diversions, we managed to compile a list of building materials that filled an entire legal pad. Bob detailed every piece of wood, how many pounds of nails and screws, the number of shingles needed for the roof, and how many gallons of paint to finish it off. I added a Cuisinart, KitchenAid mixer, pots and pans, furniture, linens, glasses, dishes, silverware, candles, and on and on and on.

“Where do we find it all?” I asked Bob.

“I think that lumberyard we keep passing is a good place to start,” he said.

We pulled up in front of Anguilla Trading next to a tiny white Daihatsu pickup. Barely more than a toy, this adorable little truck seemed to be the vehicle of choice on the island. They were everywhere—hauling boxes, concrete blocks, even people.

This one was earning its keep. It was loaded with fifty or sixty pieces of lumber protruding up over the cab and dangling precariously out over the tailgate, almost touching the road. The miniature wheelbarrow-sized tires were squooshed down by the weight, and we admired the ingenuity of the loading job before going into the store.

From the outside, Anguilla Trading looked like it had a large selection, with toilets in a rainbow of colors displayed prominently in the window, tempting the passing motorist. Water pumps, rusty shovels, pickaxes, and five-gallon pails of paint adorned the entrance.

Inside, we were in the dark. Not total blackness, but the lights were off and the store appeared closed. I knew from childhood visits to Deer Isle, Maine, that generating electricity on an island is expensive. Understanding this conservative approach made me feel a tiny thread of connection to life in Anguilla; I respected the darkness. The amount of hardware heaped on the shelves (and floor) took us completely by surprise. The inventory was staggering. Anguilla Trading is the Caribbean version of Home Depot. Bob rummaged through nails, which were in worn wooden bins like in the old general stores in Vermont, while I wandered around the corner and found myself in the gift department. Dishes, glasses, and toys sat alongside alarm clocks decorated with eagles and hearts, and an extensive collection of mop buckets overflowed into the Christmas ornament display. The store rambled on forever through rooms with couches, appliances, tools, and paint. I knew we'd be good customers.

“Are you getting bitten in here?” I asked Bob, back by the nails. I balanced on one foot, scratching my ankle with the other.

“Yeah, I think they're sand flies,” he said. “There's so much here, but I can't find what I need. Most of these nails are for concrete. Let's go out and look at the lumber.” I followed him out the back door and down some rickety steps. Squinting to adjust to the bright light outside, we roamed around piles of cement blocks, rolls of rusty wire, and stacks of crooked lumber. I knew what Bob's reaction to the lumber would be. He is not only a good builder but a fussy one. Bob eyed the two-by-fours dubiously, picked up a few, sighted down the length of each, and discarded them in disgust.

“These things look like Twizzlers,” he muttered. “I couldn't build a pigpen out of this stuff.” It was apparent that the preferred material for construction in Anguilla was concrete, not wood.

Bob disappeared into another building, and I sat down on the pile of two-by-fours, tilting my face up to the sun—even in a lumberyard, it felt warm and reassuring. Across the channel, St. Martin's emerald mountains were circled in mist, and for a moment time was suspended.
This is not vacation,
I reminded myself for the billionth time.

“Mel, I found the plywood,” I heard over the roar of a muffler-free dump truck. It was backing up directly toward me in a gray cloud of exhaust.

“Coming,” I yelled back, knowing he probably couldn't hear me over the din of the truck. Jumping over muddy puddles and climbing over mounds of crushed stone, I made my way toward the ramshackle building where Bob had located the plywood.

“Here it is.” He beamed as if he had unearthed a diamond mine. He was ecstatic to locate something on his list. Plywood has never really made me jump up and down, but Bob's excitement was contagious, and I admired the stack of splintery wood with equal enthusiasm.

Crossing the soggy yard, the dump truck splashed past us, splattering our legs with mud. We climbed back into the main building and stood for a minute while our eyes adjusted again from the bright sunshine.

“Good afternoon,” said a good-looking gentleman from behind where we were standing. “Can I help you find something?”

“Good afternoon,” we replied in unison.

Bob said we were looking for the plywood price, and the man was curious about who we were. Once we introduced ourselves, we learned we were speaking with Walton Fleming, an Anguillian entrepreneur who was taking good advantage of the island's growth. Walton owned not only this huge retail emporium, but also the Anguilla Great House Hotel. Unlike the more luxurious properties on the island, the Great House oozed Caribbean charm. Colorful little cottages trimmed with painted shutters and surrounded by palm trees lined the beach. Visitors who chose to stay with Walton were transported to a more low-key Caribbean. A week at the Anguilla Great House could make even the most high-powered executives relax. Life there was as simple as it gets.

Walton asked the young lady behind the sales counter to help us with prices, and she sifted through a giant black notebook searching for the information. I told Bob I'd meet him in the car; the sand flies had rediscovered my ankles, and I was anxious to get outside.

“Okay,” he said absently, not wanting to turn his attention away from the sales clerk. “Do you keep the drill bits out back?” he asked, pointing to a plastic case that had clearly held drill bits at one time.

“Bits finish,” she answered, and resumed her slow, patient search.

“But since the case is still here, you'll be getting in more bits, right?”

She stopped thumbing through the notebook and stared blankly at Bob. “I ain' know,” she said with a shrug, and went back to her task. Like everyone in Anguilla, she was in no hurry. It was this same leisurely pace that had lured us to the island, yet it still took adjustment. Bob forced himself to let the woman look for the price at her own speed without interfering.

Outside, there was that sunshine again; I soaked it up like a sponge. Settled into the open jeep, I watched palm fronds overhead rustle in the breeze and puffy white clouds drift past the roof of the building.

I was better at relaxing when I was a kid. Long, lazy summers of doing nothing—riding a bike through Central Park, eating blue Popsicles, and not really having to be anywhere at any certain time. One of the most enviable Anguillian traits is the innocent ability to relax. No one can take it as easy as an Anguillian.
Limin'
is the term for serious relaxation here. It comes from sitting under a lime tree and doing nothing. I was limin' in my jeep, but I needed more practice. It was difficult to reach this superior level of leisure after a lifetime of goals, deadlines, expectations, and business plans. Not that Anguillians don't work hard and have goals. Quite the opposite; they are just not frantic about it. And there's always tomorrow. The word
stress
is not in their dictionary.

We've seen locals sprawled for hours on end. Be it on a concrete cistern, a porch, or even on a step in front of a shop, they stretch out as comfortably as if surrounded by down pillows and watch the world go by. They might doze on and off, but basically they just lie there, limin'.

As I soaked in the sunshine my instinct was to find my notebook and add “practice limin'” to a list, but I knew that was contradictory. I did, however, promise myself to remove the word
stress
from my vocabulary.

“How much was the plywood?” I asked Bob, emerging from my daydream.

“It doesn't matter. That whole pile was sold, and they had no idea when they would get more in. I didn't bother to ask the price of a twisted two-by-four. They told me to try Albert Lake in The Valley.”

We drove slowly toward town, easing over speed bumps, dodging livestock along the way. We rounded a bend, and stopped in front of us was the little truck from Anguilla Trading. Bob jammed on the brakes just short of the dangling lumber. The load had apparently been too much for the miniature tires, and the driver was changing a flat right smack in the middle of the road.

We were becoming used to this island custom of stopping regardless of cars behind. People lean out the window to chat with passersby about whatever the topic of the day might be. Often cars block one lane while their drivers browse in nearby bakeries or shops. The part of this habit I find most extraordinary is that even if there is ample room to pull off the pavement, it is more acceptable to stop squarely in the road.

On this day there was plenty of room to ease the baby truck off the road and into a church parking lot. The driver chose instead to remain in the flow of traffic. We backed up a little and went around him.

The ride to town is only seven miles but took half an hour. I amused myself by reading signs along the way. “Lighthouse Chinese Bar and Restaurant,” I read aloud.

“I wonder if it's real Chinese food,” Bob said as he turned down the street toward the sign. “Let's go by and we can check it out.” We slowed as we passed, spotting a Chinese family eating in the yard—a sure sign of authenticity—and agreed to give it a try sometime.

At the end of the street a cliff plummeted at least 150 feet straight to the sea, surrounding the quiet harbor below on three sides. We pulled over for a better look. The color blue must have been created right in this bay. The water looked as though it had been tinted by something artificial, something unreal. It was the bluest of blues, with patchy shadows of coral composing a canvas worthy of hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A long pier stretched out from shore, and we watched as bananas were unloaded from a cargo boat.

“I had forgotten about this view,” Bob said. “We came here with Joshua and took pictures the first time we ever came to Anguilla. I love looking out at little Sandy Island with that miniature tuft of palm trees. It reminds me of Robinson Crusoe.” He put his arm around me, and we contemplated the sailboats below; their masts rocked ever so slightly in the waves.

“I can't believe we live here,” I said. “We can see this view every day.”

We stood mesmerized by the serenity until Bob broke the silence. “Let's go find some lumber,” he said, and we jumped back in the jeep.

More signs: highway bar, highway playskool, highway tyre, highway gym. The term
highway
had been redefined. In my old world, highways were straight, boring thoroughfares rushing people from one place to another. This highway was much more my speed. At 30 mph I could see the sights: a roadside stand with coconuts for sale, a woman peddling pomegranates on a table in her yard, an old man getting a haircut on his front porch.

“Excuse me, do you sell lumber?” Bob asked the woman at the checkout in Albert's Department Store.

“See lumber there.” She pointed to a chain-link fence across the road.

Following her directions, we walked past Lake's Home Decor, which connected to Lake's Gas Station. This was Albert Lake's corner, all right. In back of the gas station, we found Albert Lake's Lumberyard, similar in character to Anguilla Trading. We wandered into a large, dark warehouse and were greeted by an eager young man with a surprising Spanish accent. “Chew nee some help?” he asked.