Bequia: Christine on the Belmont Walkway

Along with my guidebook to Bequia, which I will never finish, I’ve been working on a series (OK, one so far and it is far from done) short stories set on the island. I finished a very long first draft of the first, which was to be titled “Island Girl,” after the Elton John song. I was tremendously pleased with it and ready to ship it off to the New Yorker who I was sure would take it despite its great length and first draft status, because obviously I am a prodigy, or whatever the prodigy moniker is for an old women.

Then I read it again and realized that (1) there were a lot of words and not a whole hell of a lot of story (though that is not usually a disqualifier for a New Yorker piece); (2) the characters were not that compelling or even necessary, and I couldn’t imagine anyone really caring what happened to them (as long as they just shut up and got off the page); and (3) these dull characters were actually in the wrong story.  They may have a story some other time or place, but not here.

Which left me with several pieces of shrapnel from my original piece – some descriptive writing that I still quite like and think captures the feel of the island well, and a decent ending in search of the correct characters to play it out. The latter is my problem and I am working on it. The former is, if you are still reading, your problem, because I think I will pull a couple of the descriptions I liked out and put them here. Below is the first one and introduces Christine, the now furloughed main character of Island Girl.

Christine on the Belmont Walkway

Christine made her way to the hotel’s outside restaurant and lowered herself onto a brown-lacquered picnic bench under a wooden awning. She stretched her legs away from the table, pushing ridges into the sand floor, and contemplated her mosquito bites, sunburn, and chipped pedicure.

            Just a few feet beyond her legs ran the Belmont Walkway, an uneven path that separated a line of small guest houses and outdoor bars from Admiralty Bay – certainly the most stunning natural anchorage in Bequia, and probably in the entire Grenadine chain. The car ferry from St. Vincent cut a path toward the port at the bay’s mouth, the hulking steel rectangle creating surprisingly little wake to disturb the private sailing yachts, gleaming white and flying vaguely familiar European flags, and local fishing skiffs, painted carnival hues of purple, yellow, and orange, emblazoned with names like “Fat Man,” “Muscle Flex,” and “No Complaints.”

Resting her back on the table edge, she watched two older Bequian women standing waist deep in the mottled turquoise water past the walkway, modest one-piece swimsuits and bathing caps. They laughed at a friendly remark from a shirtless, sculpted young black man on the shore. Christine wondered what it would be like to live in a place where you could step off the sidewalk of what was essentially the main commercial drag into a bathwater warm, crazy clean sea, and bob companionably as neighbors passed by on their way to work.

            Christine wondered what it would be like to live in a place where being fat was an asset, or at least no big deal. The two women, one with jiggling arms raised high, joined a debate that had sprung up between three young men on the sidewalk arguing about the best way for a befuddled German tourist to maneuver his dingy into the small dock.

            “They are fat,” thought Christine, practicing using the word, because the women were her size, and she was not used to calling herself “fat.” She contemplated why the island women’s fat looked so much better on them than on her. Was it because they were so very black and, especially in the water, looked sleek, like sea lions? Her own pale white skin was mottled – with uneven sunburn, scabby bug bites, weird, teeny bruises that appeared in new spots each morning -- like she spent the night being beaten by an enraged elf -- and shadows in various places where her skin bulged, folded, or puckered.

            “Good morning, love, have they brought the coffee round yet?” A heavy (not fat, thought Christine, like me) woman, doughy face surrounded by a halo of graying brown hair, groaned as she maneuvered in the picnic bench. “Wouldn’t you prefer a proper table for your breakfast, love? I am afraid I will rip my shorts getting in here.”

            “Good morning Sybil,” Christine didn’t turn to face the older English woman, not ready yet to leave her imaginary participation in the saga of the German guy’s boat, which now involved a lot of rope, three more people in the water, one a fully dressed, possibly drunk or, more likely, high, Rastafarian complete with machete and knit cap, and several school children massed on the sidewalk, white, button-down shirts untucked from black pants and skirts, alternatively offering incomprehensible advice and shouting “Squid! Squid!” at what must have been a squid hovering around the small craft. The German, who, if he understood English at all, certainly did not understand the patois spoken on this particular island, sat in his boat, nervously scanning the water where the children pointed (what did he think they were saying?) and limply holding one end of a rope that the Rastafarian was inexplicitly wrapping around the engine.

A loud splash and excited chatter and laughter from the dock heralded the tableau’s inevitable conclusion and attracted a young waitress close enough to their table for Phyllis to snag her.

“Do you think we could order breakfast, dear?”

The waitress, “Stacey” according to her nametag, stared at the couple with the languid, slightly amused detachment that seemed to come standard issue to the young women on the island.  Phyllis then began her morning ritual of describing in great deal how their meal should be cooked (“coddled, dear, then you must let it drain in a slotted spoon – you’ve have those here don’t you – for a least a minute, then slip it next to, but not on, one buttered piece of wheat toast…”).

“Did you get that dear?” Phyllis pressed. Stacey smiled slightly and widened her eyes with a look that said both “Do you really think I am that much of an idiot?” and “Nope.” The eggs would come, as they always did, over easy, yolks cooked solid, toast in a basket on the side, butter for the asking, if Stacey could be found.