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

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.
    â€œHow much was the plywood?” I asked Bob, emerging from my daydream.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œI 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