Page 48 of Beach Bodies

I booked a ticket to the Riovan for what I thought was my final visit, to scatter the metaphorical ashes, to face the place that had taken Jessica from me. I wanted closure, a way forward.

And though I certainly didn’t find closure, a way forward did open.

A final moped buzzes past, its engine wheezing as though it’s on its last legs. The young woman riding it waves at me, and I wave back. Then, as if that was rush hour and now it’s over, the road gets really quiet, except for the protesting rattle of my own bike, my breathing, and the birdsong in the trees– so bright and clear it almost sounds artificial.

Even this early in the morning, it feels hotter in the rainforest– humid and close, cloying.

There’s the distant roar of a waterfall, and if I didn’t have to get shit done today, I’d be tempted to park my bike and see if I could find it.

That would have been a fun adventure to have with Jess.

I press on.

*

When I taste salt in the air again and a cool breeze licks my face, I know I’m almost there. The edge of the rainforest comes suddenly, and I’m shooting out of the green back into open air, going down a little incline. Ahead is Brisebleue, a scattering of buildings on a flat area that, when it rains, becomes a mud-fest. Beyond, the ocean, huge, gleaming, bigger and bolder on the northern side of the island than it looks from the Riovan, as if we only get the diluted version down there. This isn’t a place of gentle bathing and lounging; here, the ocean challenges the shore, lashing it with determined violence.

Soon, my bike is hopping over the rutted dirt road that becomes Brisebleue’s main street. I have to swerve to avoida pair of wild chickens, and a fruit vendor throws a half-hearted ‘Mangoes, good price,’ at me as I bump past, bike rattling like a jar of teeth.

The town is mostly shacks, as if someone dumped the leftovers of a construction project in a pile and everyone grabbed what they could. There’s the salt-bleached motel, called simply ‘Motel’, with a reputation for bed bugs, a grocery store that seems more of a convenience store, and a handful of open-front operations selling clothing, incense, auto parts and pharmaceuticals, each with a rotating postcard rack out front.

Brisebleue may not be traditionally touristy, but it does get its share of backpackers and surfers. Back in the early 2000s, a surfer named Dino set a Guinness World Record on a wave nicknamed La Mort Bleue– the Blue Death– and surfers have been coming ever since, looking for that killer, once-in-a-lifetime wave… and willing to stay in questionable accommodation for the chance.

I dismount my bike in front of Island Vibes. The bar-restaurant features a weary tiki theme, but I respect the attempt to bring some charm. The owner, Randy, is an American expat who worked for Microsoft, cashed out big on stock options, and retired early. His wife passed away from ovarian cancer– we connected years ago over our mutual losses– so he figured, what the hell. He moved to the Caribbean and fulfilled his longtime dream of owning a restaurant in paradise. That was fifteen years ago, so now at almost seventy, Randy spends most of his time on the beach while Sean from New Zealand runs the day-to-day.

I lean my bike up against the side of the building. The frontof the restaurant is open to the elements, with a grass roof awning that provides shade over the outdoor seating. Inside, ceiling fans are running and it’s marginally cooler.

My eyes take a minute to adjust to the dim interior. A table of men are drinking iced coffees. A woman eating eggs on toast is speaking earnestly in French into her phone. I check my watch as I approach the bar– ten o’clock. Too early for lunch, but that’s OK. I’ll do some research first and order one of their ridiculously sugary Thai iced coffees to tide me over.

‘Lily?’ comes a voice from the shadows behind the bar, and I turn to find Sean standing up with his tousled blond surfer’s hair and permanent case of sunburn. He’s wearing a tank top that displays muscled arms, and a hemp necklace with a charm dangles from his throat. He wipes his hands on a dish rag and graces me with a wide, pleased smile that highlights his dimples.

‘Sean!’ I greet him, slipping on to a bar stool. ‘Long time no see.’

‘You’re back, huh?’

‘Every year.’

‘What can I get you?’

‘Iced coffee. I’ll be here for a while, though, so I hope you have something good for lunch.’

The menu is tacked above the bar, but it’s never current.

‘We’ve got a poké bowl you’ll love. The fish is primo. Caught this morning.’

‘Looking forward to it.’ As long as it’s not too chunky and pink.

I lean on the counter as he prepares my iced coffee.

‘How’s business?’ I ask. When you’re in the food trade, you know how up and down it can be.

‘Solid.’ He turns around and hands me the chilly plastic cup, rattly with ice floating through a milky brown-sugar coloured liquid. Damn, my mouth is watering. ‘Actually, I’m buying Randy out.’

‘What? Randy is officially retiring?’

Sean’s forehead furrows. ‘He has prostate cancer.’

I exhale. ‘Is he seeking treatment, or…’

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