Marcia Talley - Without a Grave

The Zodiac gobbled up the distance between Bonefish and Hawksbill Cays in half the time it would have taken me to single-hand the plywood over in Pro Bono . We delivered the wood to the government dock where, with Gator’s help, we carried it down to the Pink Store and propped it against the bag ice machine. I popped into the store to let Winnie know where to find the plywood, then purchased sodas and chips to go along with the lunch Molly had thrown together. A few minutes later, leaving a rooster tail of water in our wake, we zoomed off in the Zodiac heading for Molly’s secret sand dollar beach.

Wasn’t so secret, as it turns out.

‘Well, hel-lo,’ I said as we neared the shore. ‘Poinciana Cove, if I’m not mistaken. The very view from my porch, except up close and personal.’

Molly let the Zodiac drift to a stop about fifty yards off the beach in eight feet of water. I tied a fisherman’s bend around the anchor rode, then, using the same knot, secured the other end of the rope to a cleat on the Zodiac, tying a couple of half hitches for good measure. When we had drifted well clear of the reef, I tossed the anchor overboard, and watched until it settled to the bottom and bit securely into the sand.

Molly peeled off her T-shirt, revealing the top of a dark-blue, racing-back Speedo. ‘Back in the old days, twice a week sometimes three, Island Fantasy Tours would pack tourists into these honking big cigarette boats and haul ass over here from Treasure Cay. Put a lei around their necks and a beer in their hands and let them hang out barefoot all day. Dumb clucks thought they’d died and gone to Fantasy Island, for Christ’s sake, with Tattoo running out of the jungle shouting, “De plane, de plane.”’

I smiled, remembering that old TV show. Come to think of it, if you put Rudy Mueller in a white suit, he’d look a lot like Ricardo Montalban.

‘Speaking of planes,’ Molly said, pointing. ‘There’s the beginning of a landing strip.’

‘Yeah. I can see it from our porch. You probably can, too. The silting is pretty bad, but so far, it seems to be flushing away from the reef and out through the cut into the Atlantic.’ I picked up a pair of binoculars and squinted through them at the runway. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I noticed that Mueller’s already using the airstrip. From here, it looks like it’d be a pretty bumpy ride.’

Molly snorted. ‘He flies a Cessna 185 taildragger. Could land that thing on the back of a turtle, if he wanted to.’

We bobbed in companionable silence for a while, sharing a bag of potato chips. After a bit Molly said, ‘Island Fantasy built tiki huts all along the beach. Set Porta-Potties out in the woods.’ She paused for a moment to take another swig of her Pepsi. ‘And a shark pen.’

‘A shark pen?’

Molly nodded. ‘For sixty-five dollars and change, you got to go down and feed lunch to the sharks.’

‘What kind of sharks?’

‘Tiger. Hammerhead. Lemon.’

What kind of crazy fool would think it was a good idea to swim with sharks? Dolphins, maybe, but sharks ? I must have had skeptic written all over my forehead.

‘I can see you don’t believe me,’ my friend said. ‘But it’s true. And there’d be somebody there to take underwater pictures of you while you’re doing it.’

‘Sounds dangerous,’ I said.

‘It is. You’d suit up in diving gear. Go down. Then they chum the water. You wouldn’t have to wait very long for the sharks to show up.’

I shuddered. ‘I think I’d rather walk barefoot through a nest of fire ants.’

‘Me, too. There’s a big distinction between feeding lunch to a shark and becoming lunch for one.’ She rummaged through her canvas bag and came up with a Tupperware container. Using her fingernails, she pried off the top and stuck the container practically under my nose.

I inhaled deeply. Ginger cookies. ‘It would be rude to refuse, wouldn’t it?’ I said, reaching for one.

‘Naturally.’

‘The tiki huts are gone now, of course,’ Molly said, crunching into a ginger cookie of her own. ‘Hurricane Ivan took care of that. Or maybe it was Jeanne. You have to admit it’s an improvement.’

‘It’s what they haven’t gotten around to doing yet that concerns me,’ I said, not really expecting an answer.

Molly had finished her lunch and was relaxing against the sides of the rubber dinghy with her hands folded behind her neck. ‘This place used to be a popular spot for cruising sailors.’

‘I can see why. The beach is spectacular.’

Molly laughed. ‘It is, but that’s not what I meant. When Daddy was alive, he used to dinghy out to sailors and share his Big Secret with them.’ With her fingers she drew quotation marks in the air to capitalize the words. ‘He’d advise them to come ashore on the Atlantic side. Then he’d explain how to find the path that went over the hill and down to the Island Fantasy property on the Sea of Abaco side. As long as you were wearing a Hawaiian shirt and had a camera dangling from a strap around your neck, you could enjoy the luau. Who’s to know you didn’t come over with the powerboat crowd? You could blend, pig out all day on free food and booze, then waddle off into the sunset, fat and happy. Daddy did it all the time. Dragged me along with him, too. I thought I’d die of embarrassment.’

I laughed out loud. ‘I think I would have liked your dad.’

‘What happened to Island Fantasy Tours?’ I asked after a while.

Molly shrugged. ‘I guess they got tired of rebuilding after every hurricane. Sold out to El Mirador in 2006.’ She waved an arm, taking in the expanse of beach from east to west. ‘All that natural beauty under private ownership. There oughta be a law.’

Molly busied herself putting away the remains of our picnic lunch. That done, she said, ‘Tide’s out as far as it’s going to go. Are you up for collecting sand dollars?’

I picked up the canvas bucket that held our flip-flops and snorkel gear and held it aloft. ‘Ready, willing and able.’

Leaving the Zodiac bobbing quietly at anchor, we stripped to our bathing suits, clapped the snorkel gear to our faces, and slipped over the side with me carrying the bucket.

‘Drift along in the shallows,’ Molly instructed when we reached the beach a few minutes later. ‘Reach down and comb through the sand with your fingers as you go along.’ While I stood in crystal-clear water that reached halfway up my thighs, she demonstrated, coming up a few seconds later holding a sand dollar in each hand.

I waded over for a closer look. One sand dollar seemed to be outfitted in a maroon-colored suit, like a fuzzy cookie. ‘This one’s alive,’ Molly said, pointing out the tiny spines that covered the creature, obscuring its characteristic five-pointed star design. ‘We’re looking for ones that are already dead, like this whitish one here.’

Before long, we’d collected several dozen of the shells, some as large as saucers, others as small as a quarter. After each find, we’d wade ashore and deposit our haul in the bucket.

‘That’s so much fun!’ I giggled as we sat resting on the beach with waves gently licking at our toes. ‘I can’t wait to bring my grandchildren here.’

Molly lay back, half reclining on her elbows, eyes closed and face to the sun. ‘When you get the shells home, soak them in bleach overnight. Not too strong, or you’ll weaken the shells. That’ll brighten them up, get rid of any algae.’

I’d closed my eyes and was soaking up the sun, too, so the next voice I heard was so incongruous with a deserted beach in paradise that I nearly jumped out of my flip-flops.

‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave now. This is private property.’

When I could breathe again, I turned in the direction of the voice.