The Plunge John R. Murray
U
nlike the previous drivers they’d had since arriving on the island, this one kept to himself after a perfunctory greeting. Nothing to complain about, just not as effusive as the others, with their big smiles and barrage of friendly questions that punctuated their improvised scripts as each one assumed the role of self-appointed tour guide. Daniel was relieved right now, because it freed him from feeling obliged to make chitchat in an effort not to seem like some rich American tourist who didn’t respect the natives. He could just sit in silence and watch the scenery as the van bumped along the narrow roadway, the ocean to the right, jungle-covered hills to the left. A few miles past the resort, the oceanfront charm dissipated with the roadside trash and corrugated tin structures that looked to be abandoned or on the verge of collapsing, even when they were occasionally occupied by random little businesses like a car mechanic, a dry goods market, or a tackle store, none of which seemed to have any customers. The drive made Daniel think of his family’s summer sojourns to their cottage on Cape Cod. His parents were in the front seat, kids in the back, spying an occasional glimpse of ocean, but more often looking at all of the
roadside businesses that reflected the culture of seashore towns—lobster roll stands, sail repair services, ice cream shops, seashell stores, and the occasional Irish pub. It was only about 150 miles from home but seemed like another world to someone who’d only been out of New England twice on family vacations to New York and Montreal, neither of which he could clearly remember. Even their cottage had a totally different look from their Connecticut house. A fraction of the size, with bleached wood shingles instead of white-painted clapboard, it had a lobster pot coffee table in the center of the living room, captain’s chairs around the kitchen table, and a reproduction of Winslow Homer’s “The Fog Warning” hanging above the couch. By the standards of his life now, the place was a cramped, mildew-infested shack, but back then, he felt that his family was on par with the Kennedys. “Shit,” he said, still looking out the front window of the van so as to avoid the motion sickness to which he was so prone. “What?” Anna wasn’t especially interested, just obliged to ask. “I forgot sunscreen. I’ll get totally burned.”
35.
