A Trip to the Beach

by Melinda Blanchard

  Inside, the terminal was complete mayhem. The hot breeze brought no relief as more than a thousand people desperately tried to get a ticket for the last departing plane out—which held only three hundred passengers. The airport was about to be shut down. Tickets and boarding passes were being sold auction style by a large local woman standing on a chair surrounded by a jostling, clamoring crowd, and the bidding was up to $2,000 per ticket. As Bob pushed his way through the mob, dragging his bag behind him, he wished he had stayed up north.

  Outside the terminal, the wind was unrelenting. He leaned into the gale and headed across the road, where he had arranged to meet Frankie’s boat to take him over to Anguilla. Rays of sun streaked down between the dark clouds and sparkled on the water. This is so strange, Bob thought. The worst hurricane in thirty-five years is about to hit us head-on, and the water is the most incredible shade of green I have ever seen. How can it be so beautiful in the middle of such a disaster?

  The small wooden dock where Frankie’s boat tied up belonged to a grocery store and restaurant that serviced the sailing crowd. The owners of the little complex were busy boarding up their windows. Bob heard hammers pounding from all directions and remembered how peaceful it had been in that same spot so many times before. Rounding the corner, he saw two teenage boys wrestling with a piece of plywood. They were trying to nail it over a window in the store, and the wind kept wrenching it away from them.

  Bob’s heart sank as he looked up and down the dock and realized Frankie’s boat was not there.

  “You guys seen Frankie Connor?” he asked, hoping they would say he’d be right back.

  “Frankie gone,” one of them replied. “Ports all close.”

  “Does that mean the regular ferries aren’t running either?”

  “No, man. Everything close. See ferries out there.” The young man stopped fighting with the plywood for a minute and pointed toward the harbor, where a group of Anguilla ferryboats was anchored, preparing to ride out the storm. Okay, Bob thought, I’ll just go back to the airport and call Frankie. He’ll come get me.

  The line for the two telephones in the terminal was at least fifty people long, so Bob quickly returned to the store, hoping to use the phone there. He went inside to ask for the phone and waited patiently in the checkout line behind an angry man who was cursing at the owner. The customer was stocking up on supplies, and prices had doubled with the impending hurricane.

  “You a wicked son of a bitch, Mitchell. These prices ain’ right,” the customer protested.

  “James, you gonna buy this stuff or not?” the storekeeper asked with his arms crossed.

  James reluctantly threw some money on the counter, muttering, “Greedy son of a bitch.”

  Mitchell didn’t seem to mind being called names, and as he turned to Bob it was obvious he would not let him use the phone without some form of remuneration.

  “I have a little problem,” Bob began as Mitchell turned and headed for the door to check on the progress of his two young assistants.

  “Yeah. Wha’?” he said over his shoulder.

  “I have a restaurant in Anguilla, and Frankie Connor was supposed to pick me up, but he’s not here. I was hoping to use your phone to see if he—”

  “Phone ain’ work,” he interrupted.

  Bob was not so easily put off. “Would twenty dollars make the phone work?” he asked.

  “Fifty dollars the phone could work.” He glanced at Bob. Truly a greedy son of a bitch, Bob thought.

  He gave the storekeeper a $50 bill and was shown into a grimy cubicle. The phone sat on a desk on a pile of papers with an overflowing ashtray and assorted candy wrappers alongside it. Empty beer cans covered whatever surface of the desk was left. Bob pulled out his address book for Frankie’s number.

  “Hi, Sylvanie, it’s Bob Blanchard.”

  “Hi. Where are you?” Sylvanie was Frankie’s wife, and she sounded surprised.

  “I’m here in St. Martin. The plane came in an hour late. Where’s Frankie?”

  American Airlines was taking off across the street, and the sound was thunderous. Bob was miserably hot, could hardly hear what Sylvanie was saying, and really wished now that he hadn’t come down.

  “He tie the boat up in the harbor. He waited for you but you ain’ reach.”

  “Well, I’ve reached now. Do you think he could come back and get me?” Bob asked hopefully.

  “No, man. Sea already runnin’ fifteen feet. He lucky he reach home. All the boats tie up.”

  “Do you know anybody who would come get me?” Bob asked desperately.

  “No. Sorry, Bob. This a bad storm, you know. Everybody home barrin’ up.”

  Bob sat alone in the grubby office. Suddenly the seven-mile passage to Anguilla could have been the width of the Atlantic Ocean. Picturing himself lashed to a post in the airport by his luggage straps, Bob searched through the debris on the desk for a St. Martin phone book. He spotted one under the ashtray, which he then accidentally knocked over, and the smell of old cigarettes made him feel sick. Beginning with A, he held his breath and called the hotels listed in the yellow pages.

  The few that answered said, “We’re closed. Don’t you know there’s a hurricane coming?” Most of the numbers just rang and rang. Finally someone at Port de Plaisance answered in a surprisingly civilized manner. “May I help you?” the man said calmly with a British accent.

  “Please don’t hang up,” Bob began. “I have a restaurant in Anguilla, I’ve just landed here in St. Martin, and I can’t get across. I really need a room for the night.”

  “Which restaurant?” the man asked.

  Bob wondered why it would matter but answered, “Blanchard’s.”

  “And are you Mr. Blanchard?” the British gentleman on the phone asked.

  “Yes, I am,” said Bob, happy to have at last struck up a normal conversation with someone.

  Hesitantly the man said, “Come on over. We’ve spent the whole day trying to empty the hotel, but we’ll find a place for you. We still have about forty guests who couldn’t get a flight. Just ask for me, Mr. Spittle. I’m the manager here.” Bob wondered what would have happened had he owned the wrong restaurant.

  The hotel was a few miles away, and Bob was thrilled to find an available taxi at the airport. After check-in, Mr. Spittle drove Bob on a golf cart to his room, a job usually reserved for a bellman, but all the employees at Port de Plaisance had gone home to board up their houses. He was given a suite on the third and top floor, with a living room and a separate bedroom, both with sliding glass doors opening onto a patio facing the marina. Bob dropped his luggage, thanked Mr. Spittle, and went back outside to survey the construction of the building he was about to entrust his life to. Hurricane Luis was inching closer.

  The buildings at Port de Plaisance Hotel were arranged in a circle on a small peninsula protruding into the Pond, as the locals called it. The Pond is actually an inland harbor accessible from the sea by two drawbridges—one on the French side in Marigot, and the other on the Dutch side near the airport. Bob had never seen so many boats there before, and Mr. Spittle had explained they’d come from surrounding islands to ride out the storm in a safe harbor. There were small sailboats, giant yachts, steel barges, work boats, ferryboats, and dredging equipment, all battening down and anchoring in preparation for Hurricane Luis. Mr. Spittle had heard on the radio that the coast guard estimated there were 2,500 boats in the Pond.

  Bob walked around the manicured grounds, assessing the building and its stormworthiness. He spotted a man barking orders into a two-way radio and hoped he might be someone who could shed light on the soundness of the structure—specifically, whether being on the top floor with two unprotected glass doors in a hurricane was a good idea.

  The man turned out to be the hotel’s engineer. Jimso, as his name tag indicated, weighed about three hundred pounds and was not in the mood to speak with a hotel guest. He continued yelling into his radio. “No, man, I toll you, move the things from the
lobby into the storeroom. I tellin’ you, that side gonna get hit hard. Move it all now.

  “Wut chu wan’?” he asked Bob as he headed off toward the main building.

  “Do you know how this building is constructed?” Bob asked, running to keep up with Jimso’s quickening pace.

  “You from the insurance company?” Jimso responded with disdain.

  “No, I’m just a guest here. I live in Anguilla and I can’t get home, so I’ll be here for the storm. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Jus’ stay in your room when the storm hits.” And with that, he disappeared into a maintenance shed, slamming the door behind him.

  Bob decided to try to find Mr. Spittle again. Perhaps he would be more helpful. His main concern was how the roof of the building was attached to the rest of the structure. If it was simply wooden rafters sitting on top of concrete walls, the chances of its being blown off were pretty good. Bob had seen pictures of Hurricane Andrew in Florida and how it had ripped entire wooden roofs right off the buildings.

  Mr. Spittle, in his golf cart, was going across the little bridge that connected the main part of the resort, where the rooms were, to the front desk and dining room area. Bob flagged him down and waited while he finished his conversation with someone on the other end of his radio.

  “Mr. Spittle, do you happen to know how the roof is attached to the main building? Is it poured concrete or wooden rafters?”

  Mr. Spittle stared at Bob. Clearly he did not know the answer and had probably never before been asked that particular question. “Jimso will know,” he said. “Jimso, come in, Jimso,” he repeated into the radio.

  “Jimso here,” crackled the reply.

  “Jimso, do you know how the roof is attached?”

  “Roof hook down good. Glass doors gonna be the problem,” Jimso warned. “All the floors and ceilings be concrete. Rafters poured into the ring beam.”

  That was music to Bob’s ears. It apparently meant nothing to Mr. Spittle, since he started to ask what a ring beam was, but Jimso had to go, and shut off his radio.

  “That’s very good news,” Bob said to Mr. Spittle. “It means that the ceiling in my room is poured concrete and the rafters were set right into it. The roof should be okay; even if the wind were to rip off the metal roofing and plywood, the concrete slab over our heads wouldn’t get damaged. He’s right, though—the sliding glass doors are going to be the problem.”

  “Well, I’m glad that answered your question,” said Mr. Spittle, and away he went on his golf cart.

  Bob felt much more confident about the building. Even if the sliding doors broke, he could always hide in the bathroom. He went back upstairs to call home and let us know where he was.

  Pat answered the phone on the first ring. “It’s him,” she said, and handed me the phone.

  “Hi. Are you in Anguilla?”

  “No. I’m stuck in St. Martin. The sea is too rough and Frankie couldn’t wait for me, so I was lucky to get a room at Port de Plaisance.”

  For a second I relaxed. Bob and I had been to Port de Plaisance for lunch several times, and I could picture him surrounded by the acres of lush gardens, rows of palm trees, and winding brick paths along the sea. It was an elaborately landscaped new hotel and didn’t seem like such a bad place to be stranded.

  “Did they board up your windows?” I asked.

  “They have about half the place boarded, but they haven’t gotten to my section yet. Don’t worry, though. I’ve checked out the construction and I’ll be fine. The whole building is concrete. It’s eerie outside now. The air is perfectly still. It’s the calm before the storm—even the birds have stopped flying. There were three yellow bananaquits on my balcony, but they’re gone now. They know what’s coming.”

  I chimed in with helpful words of advice. “I heard on the Weather Channel that the safest place to be is in the bathtub with a mattress over you. I know that doesn’t sound like something you would do, but keep it in mind if things get scary.”

  “Okay,” Bob answered compliantly.

  I continued with my Weather Channel report. “The winds are steady now at a hundred and forty miles per hour, and it’s headed right for you. I mean exactly where you are. They keep drawing a big white line showing the hurricane’s projected path, and it couldn’t be a more direct hit. It should be there tomorrow around noon. I wish you hadn’t gone down there. I don’t like this at all.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Bob was trying to calm me down, but I could tell he might be regretting his decision to be there. “I was really lucky to find a room,” he said again. “I have the Weather Channel on too. The hotel is setting up a buffet for us tonight. Wouldn’t you love to be here for that?” Bob knew how much I loathed hotel buffets.

  “The electricity is being shut off on the whole island at midnight,” he went on, “so the phones won’t work after that. We’ll be out of touch for a little while. Oh, also, while I was wandering around the hotel, I found an ice cream freezer loaded with three-gallon tubs of Häagen-Dazs. Since they’ll melt once the power is off anyway, I don’t think anyone would mind if I brought a chocolate one up to my room. It would be a shame to waste it.”

  Suddenly the absurdity of the situation hit me, and I started to laugh. I pictured Bob sitting in the bathtub with no lights, eating a giant tub of chocolate Häagen-Dazs ice cream, with a category 4 hurricane raging outside his door.

  “They brought me bottles of water and candles a little while ago too. Oh, and cheese curls,” Bob said. “So you don’t have to worry. I won’t go hungry. Hold on, somebody is at my door.” He put down the phone, and I could hear the conversation in the background. “Oh, great,” I heard him say. “My favorite. Thanks a lot.”

  He picked up the phone again. “I’m really okay now. They brought me a case of warm diet Coke.” We both laughed hard, knowing full well he wouldn’t drink a sip.

  “Listen, I’m going to get off the phone now, because I think they’re starting the buffet and I don’t want to miss that. I have the camera and the zoom lens, and I’m going to take pictures of everything for you. I’ll call you later before the power gets shut off.”

  “Okay, but Pat and I are too restless just sitting here, so we’re going over to Maine to keep ourselves occupied. We’ll be at the Anchorage Hotel in Ogunquit. They’ve already assured me they get the Weather Channel, so we’ll be following everything that happens. We should be there in two hours.”

  “I love you,” Bob said.

  “Take care of yourself. I know you think you’re invincible, but try to take this seriously.”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Talk to you later.”

  “Let’s go,” I said to Pat.

  We quickly packed our bags and headed for the coast of Maine. It had always been a favorite refuge for Bob and me. The Anchorage Hotel lobby was filled with tourists reading brochures about area attractions and local restaurants. They had no idea we were in the middle of a crisis. Pat and I wanted to confirm again that we could get the Weather Channel, but the young girl at the desk couldn’t have cared less about a hurricane in the Caribbean. She handed us the key to our room.

  We left the happy tourists downstairs and went to our room to turn on the TV. John Hope was our lifeline to Bob. His authoritative voice spoke right to us: “In about three minutes we will have new coordinates and updated information on Hurricane Luis.” Pat and I sat side by side on the edge of the bed waiting for the latest report. It was eight o’clock, and the last data we had was already three hours old.

  SEPTEMBER 4—8 p.m. TROPICAL UPDATE

  Location: 60.20 W 17.10 N

  Sustained winds 140 mph

  Gusts up to 170 mph

  Category 4 hurricane

  Moving 10 mph W

  200 miles from Anguilla/St. Martin

  Predicted landfall: 20 hours

  The familiar map of the Caribbean appeared on the screen—a sea of blue with a giant mass of swirling orange and red representing the s
torm. With every new report the mass had moved closer and closer to the islands, and John would take his marker and draw a bold arrow showing its predicted track. His arrow went right from the eye of the storm to Anguilla and St. Martin, around which he would draw a circle.

  The meteorologist’s words were serious. “This is a dangerous hurricane with sustained winds that are now a hundred and forty miles per hour, with gusts up to one-seventy. It is moving westward and has slowed to ten miles per hour. This could cause further intensification. Luis is currently two hundred miles from Anguilla and St. Martin, and we expect severe damage on those islands. If you are in the warning area, you should be doing your final preparation right now. All windows and doors should be boarded shut, and you should have a good supply of flashlights, extra batteries, a battery-operated radio, bottled water, and nonperishable food. Those of you in low-lying areas should seek shelter on higher ground, as this storm is almost certain to cause serious flooding as well. The storm surge is expected to be as high as twenty feet.”

  Pat and I listened intently and wondered what Bob was doing. Luis sounded more serious with each update. It was still three hours before he was scheduled to call us again, so we took a break from the TV and went out for lobster rolls and chowder at Barnacle Billy’s, our favorite Maine hangout. We sat outside looking at the quiet harbor filled with boats and tried to imagine what it would be like in a hurricane. There wasn’t even a breeze and the water was as calm as a lake.

  We stopped at a candy store on the way back to the hotel and filled little bags with old-fashioned penny candy. Watching John Hope repeat the last tropical update information, we ate our bags of caramels and red licorice, waiting for Bob’s call. We listened endlessly to statistics about how many storms pass through the Caribbean each year, and predictions that Luis could be the worst in decades. We were becoming hurricane experts.

  The phone rang at eleven o’clock, as promised, and Bob gave us a full report. The buffet at Port de Plaisance was comical, he said. All the kitchen help had gone home, so Mr. Spittle and his assistant were in charge. They put out whatever food they could find, and the guests could do what they wanted with it. Bob had made a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, grabbed some potato chips, and sat down on the steps to eat. All the furniture had been moved out of sight.