Swimming With the Dead by Kathy Brandt Read Free Book Online

ma’am?” asked a man in a yellow, green, and red Rasta beret, from which a tangle of matted hair protruded. 
    He took my bag and I climbed into his beat-up brown station wagon.  It reeked of marijuana.  I considered finding another cab.  Funny, back in college I’d have paid extra for a marijuana-saturated taxi.  But it ruins a law officer’s image.  People tend to question a cop who smells like a character from Reefer Madness . 
    I was about to seek out other transportation when the driver held out his hand and with the most disarming smile introduced himself, “Name’s Robert.  Welcome to our beautiful islands!  Where ya wantin’ ta go?”
    Oh, what the hell.  “Treasure Chest,” I said.
    “No problem, mon,” he said as he ground into first gear and screeched out of the airport, somehow managing to miss every chicken and goat in his path.
    “Next time you comes down, you be coming into our new, modern airport.”  He pointed to a huge cement structure nearby.
    “I kind of like the one you’ve got,” I said. 
    “Lots a folks say dat.  Called progress, though. You be comin’ here ta sail?”
    He was surprised to find that I wasn’t.  According to Robert, I was the only person he’d picked up today who was not getting on a boat.  “This be a sailin’ paradise,” he said. “You be needin’ ta try it out while you be here.”      
    “Do you sail?” I asked.
    “Sure, I be sailin’ since I be walkin’.  Gots myself a little boat.  Can’t afford any of dem big boats.  I sails in all da small boat regattas.  I wins mosta dem too!”
    Robert’s long hair hung in tangled ropes over the back of the seat and almost touched my knees. 
    “Nice hair,” I said, hoping to illicit some sort of explanation for why a young male would sport hair no woman could run her fingers through.  Hey, cops want to know stuff like that.  Could be important.
    “Dreadlocks,” he said.  “I be Rastifarian.  You be hearing of dat?”
    “Just the name,” I said.
    “Well, Rastas be worshiping Haile Selassie as da African redeemer.  Ya know dat Marley song, ‘Africa Unite.’  He be talkin’ bout dat.  Lotsa Rastas smoke the ganja weed, don’t eat no animals, got dreads.  Dread means God-fearers,” he said.
    And I’d thought it was just a fashion statement.  Instead it was politics, religion, marijuana, and hair all mixed into a life philosophy.
    Our conversation turned into a monologue, Robert doing all the talking as he sped up hillsides to incredible vistas of the ocean, meeting quiet turquoise harbors, and then coasted down into little enclaves of homes, roadside stands, and shops.  I was too busy trying to stay upright in the seat to enjoy the views, much less carry on a conversation with Robert.  Every time he came up to a slow-moving vehicle or a cluster of livestock, he would honk and swerve around.  Whoever was coming the other way had better watch out.  Thing was, Robert was just keeping up with everyone else on the road, where the speed limit seemed to be defined as “go as fast as you can without running into anything.”
    “Too bad you not be sailing,” Robert said.  “This be perfect sailing weather.  Wind been steady all week.”
    “What about rain?” I wasn’t really interested in the wind, for chrissake.
    “No rain for a month,” he said.  “It be dry.  Cisterns  almost empty.  But no worry.  God be providin’ when da time comes. No problem.”
    Robert seemed to be a true advocate of the “nothing to worry about” principle.  I guess that accounted for his driving.
    “Dis here be da place,” he said.  The Treasure Chest was unassuming—none of the fountains or canopied doorways that I associated with Caribbean resorts. 
    “You be needin’ a taxi, I be out front here mos’ da time,” Robert said.  “I’m da best tour guide on da island.”
    Robert honked and waved as he pulled away.  I walked into the lobby, where I was greeted by