A Trip to the Beach Read Online Free PDF Page A

afford to pay, we could find a stunning location.
    We began at the very western tip of the island and explored every little dusty road we came to. We eased the jeep between two white pillars where a small sign discreetly marked the entrance to Covecastles. The eight contemporary buildings sat on a dune and had steps leading through the sea grape and down to the water in a private cove. Their smooth, curved rooflines were snow white against the blue sky.
    â€œWhat a location,” I said. “Let’s see if we can rent one.”
    â€œOh, no,” the woman inside the office said. “These are not long-term rentals. Covecastles is a private condominium complex and the units are booked through the season. Besides, they rent for twelve hundred dollars per night. You wouldn’t want to pay that kind of rent, would you?”
    â€œNo,” said Bob. “That’s a little high. Are there really that many people who can pay that much for a room per night?”
    â€œOur guests are looking for a quiet hideaway. We get a lot of celebrities who don’t want to be recognized; it’s almost like renting a private home.”
    â€œDo you think they might go out if there was a good restaurant nearby?” I asked.
    â€œThey might,” she said. “But these people travel all over the world and are accustomed to the very finest dining. It would have to be up to the highest standard for them to leave the property.”
    â€œThanks for your help,” Bob said. “Have a good day.”
    We got back in the car wondering if we were out of our league. No, we decided, but running this restaurant would certainly be a challenge.
    Driving on the left took some getting used to, and pulling out onto the main road sometimes called for a sudden swerve to correct our position. Anguillian traffic circles, called roundabouts, were a challenge. The signs said GIVE WAY, which we were more than willing to do—if we only knew which way to give. Stopping seemed a sensible choice but induced a chorus of horns tooting for us to move along. A lot of the side roads went only a few hundred feet before dead-ending at yet another deserted beach, and most of the houses were on the main road, facing inland—as if turning their backs on paradise. By the end of the day we’d found six possibilities; only one was anywhere near the water.
    In front of Bennie’s Grocery, Bennie stood talking to his son, who sat in the car with the motor running. When he saw us, he patted the roof, signaling that the young man was free to go, and asked if we’d had the lease typed. We said we’d spent the day looking for a place to live, and queried him on the house he’d mentioned.
    â€œThe one I own needs some work,” Bennie said. “Let’s see what you found.”
    We spread our map on the hood of the jeep, and Bennie studied intently the places we’d marked.
    Bob pointed to the one with a view of the water. “This would be our first choice,” he said, “even though it’s a drive from the restaurant.”
    Bennie shook his head. “That one’s not owned by an Anguillian.”
    â€œDoes that matter?” I asked.
    â€œWhen you get your work permits—which I can help you with, by the way—there is a stipulation that requires you rent from an Anguillian. It’s one of the ways we protect our economy.”
    We were happy to rent from an Anguillian, said Bob, but it was
essential
to our well-being that we have a view of the water.
    â€œAll the beachfront land is set aside for resort development,” Bennie explained. “If we were to sell beachfront land to foreigners for private homes, we would have nothing left to provide jobs and income.”
    Bob and I stared at each other, dismayed, realizing this made perfect sense for Anguilla.
    â€œBesides,” said Bennie, “building on the beach is risky when we get a bad storm. Most locals prefer to