A Trip to the Beach by Melinda Blanchard

Cora Lee said. “They have quite a bit, but I think they’re too expensive and they don’t sell used equipment. I’m looking for a used restaurant stove—maybe six or eight burners. If you bring in a container from Miami, I would like to get a stove up there. I could give you the money before you go.”
    â€œMiami? Is that what people do?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s really where everything comes from. There and Puerto Rico,” Cora Lee said.
    Digesting that new bit of information, Bob offered, “We’d be happy to help you find a stove. We’ll let you know what we end up doing. Thanks for your help.”
    â€œAnd a great lunch,” I added.
    On the way back to the hotel, we met the little truck
still
inching along with its giant load. It hadn’t made much progress.
    â€œThis guy’s really making a day out of his lumber purchase,” Bob said.
    â€œIsland time,” I said.
    At the front desk, we thanked Patricia and Rosalind profusely for sending us to Cora Lee’s. Agatha was at the desk too and joined the discussion, now centered around planning a trip to St. Martin the next day. Her skirt was tight and short, exposing gorgeous legs that stretched to the sky. She reserved a rental car and gave us directions to Cole Bay and Phillipsburg, which, she explained, were on the Dutch side of the island.
    Since our lumber search had been in vain, we opted for an afternoon enjoying the hotel. Once settled in our concrete bunker of a house, the luxury of Malliouhana, its pool, its food, and its service would be a memory. We changed into bathing suits and stretched out on lounge chairs next to the waterfall that pours over rocks from one pool and into another.
    I studied the deep green lawns and swaying palm trees, wondering how much water it must take to keep everything so healthy on an island with so little rainfall. Splashes of red, purple, and orange bougainvillea cascaded over a white semicircular wall surrounding one side of the pool area. A terra-cotta path meandered past the wall and disappeared toward the villas scattered along the cliff. Next to my chair, a pink oleander bloomed happily, exploding with flowers in the relentless sunshine.
    Where do they get all these plants?
I wondered.
They must have their own nursery, and probably an army of gardeners too.
I let the sun work its magic while the sound of the water lulled me to sleep.
    The next morning we were at the ferry terminal at seven-forty-five to make the eight o’clock boat. After paying our $2 departure tax, we sat down in the plastic chairs and waited. We watched the clock on the wall as eight o’clock came and went.
    Island time lesson, number one: Anguilla schedules are about as dependable as the weather in New England. Bob asked the woman collecting the tax what time we would leave.
    â€œEight o’clock boat broke,” she said. “Nex’ boat, eight-thirty.”
    By eight-thirty, the ferry terminal was jammed with people. A few tourists were going over to explore St. Martin for the day, but mostly we were surrounded by locals chattering a mile a minute. I tried to understand some of the conversations around me, but when Anguillians talk amongst themselves, the English language takes on a new rhythm and sound. Every now and then I caught a recognizable word or phrase, but it took more concentration than I was willing to give it. Instead I sat patiently, surrounded by people who might as well have been speaking Swahili.
Living in Anguilla is going to be an experience,
I thought.
    At eight-forty-five two full boatloads of people piled onto one boat. We stood in the aisle and tried to keep our balance as the miserable ferry churned its way across the channel. Women were holding children in their laps, most of them blissfully content as the boat ride rocked them to sleep. Several older women looked frightened and grasped the seat backs in front of them for security.
    Tabitha,
a