Read Online A Trip to the Beach by Melinda Blanchard - Free Book Online Page B

myself staring out the window of their old farmhouse at the herd of Black Angus cattle and realized it was the end of an era.
    â€œI may ask you to ship me one of those cows if I can’t find a source for beef down there,” I said to Gary.
    â€œNo problem,” he said through a mouthful of noodles. “I’ll deliver it.”
    We parted tearfully, and I drove to my friend Pat’s house to spend the night. It was almost midnight by the time I pulled into the yard, and Pat was waiting up for me. I had so much to tell her about Anguilla, but I was falling asleep. We would talk in the morning.
    â€œCan you believe I’m doing this?” I said the next day as we drove south to Logan Airport.
    â€œNo, but you do a lot of things I can’t believe.”
    â€œI hope you can visit soon. It really is beautiful. Our house is a little odd, but there is an extra bedroom. I can’t wait to show you the beaches. They’re pure white powder, and there’s never anyone on them. The ocean is the most amazing shade of turquoise, and the water is so warm, it’s like swimming in a bathtub. There’s this one beach that not too many people know about called Captain’s Bay—it’s way up at the eastern tip of the island, far away from any of the hotels. You drive on this bumpy dirt road, which is really more like a goat path, and when you get there, it’s totally deserted—no houses, not a building in sight. Only this perfect beach. The waves are a little rougher, and on either side are these craggy rocks that look like craters on the moon. They go right down to the water. The waves crash against the rocks and roll up onto the beach, and you feel like you’re a million miles from anywhere.”
    We drove in silence for a while, and I remembered Bob was getting the bed that afternoon from St. Martin. I pictured him unloading it from the funny green freight boat, the
Lady Odessa.
I wondered how many goats were napping on my bed.

Chapter 3

    The
Lady Odessa
was tied up alongside the dock in Blowing Point, and Bob spotted the bed leaning against a sizeable wall of Heineken boxes that had apparently been unloaded from the boat. Mac was standing among a group of taxi drivers who congregate, while waiting for a fare, in the shade of a loblolly tree just outside the ferry terminal.
    â€œYou goin’ south?” Mac asked.
    â€œNo, I’m here to get that bed.” Bob pointed toward the dock. “Do I have to pay duty on a bed?”
    Several of the taxi drivers chuckled, and one said, “You gotta pay duty on everything in Anguilla.”
    â€œCustoms is right there,” Mac said. “Go see those boys. They’ll take your money.”
    â€œBed has to go in the warehouse,” said the customs officer.
    â€œBut I need to sleep on it tonight,” Bob explained. “I’ve checked out of my hotel. I thought I could just pay the duty and get the bed.”
    â€œNo, man,” the officer said sternly. “You gotta put the bed in the warehouse and do an entry. It’ll take two or three days to process the paperwork.”
    â€œLook.” Bob was trying to remain calm. “If I don’t get the bed now, I’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
    â€œGive the man he bed,” said a voice from behind. It was Bennie, and after several minutes of playful arguing and idle threats, he convinced the customs officer to release the bed to Bob.
    â€œNex’ time it go in the warehouse,” said the officer as he completed the necessary forms, rubber-stamping every page. Then he told Bob that the duty was $537.64.
    â€œThat’s over half the cost of the bed,” Bob said, shocked at the amount.
    â€œNo, man. That E.C. dollars. You wanna pay in U.S., it two hundred dollars.”
    Two hundred dollars was certainly better than $537.64, but it still seemed like a lot. Bob was nonetheless grateful for something to sleep on.
    The