Tropical Snowfall

The pile of plastic toys in the faded stroller was out of place on the empty beach. I had quite literally stumbled upon this tiny stretch of paradise by chance, and I am not proud: I’d snuck down the narrow alley way to pee after having an early brunch of two titanic Bloody Marys. As I squatted there, trying to maintain my balance, I turned my head and was almost blinded by the brilliant blue of the morning sky against the white sand at the other end of the passage.

I stood quickly, wrestling my shorts back up around my waist and turned to walk the dozen or so steps to the edge of the concrete path. I slid out of my flip flops and stepped into the powder-fine sand to enjoy my last bits of Caribbean sun before heading back to the remains of a long northern winter.

Somehow, even in my mild haze, I’d managed to hang onto my bleached white hotel towel, the only thing I’d really brought along for a beach outing. I just wanted to lay for a few more hours with the sun on my face before I headed home. I unrolled the towel and shook it out, allowing it to drift down any which way. The embroidered logo was scratchy on top of the scuffed terry cloth, but it would do. I sat down and stared through relaxed, half-closed eyes, envisioning a life here.

As a native New Englander, I’d evolved to withstand long bouts of dark days and frigid nights, sometimes stretching from November until the middle of April. The changing of seasons, something I really appreciate, had forever been a consideration, but I was beginning to enjoy the snow less and less.

This island had beckoned me since I first visited three years ago, and for the past six months, I’d been pondering hard. Could I really just pack up and move my life here? Quit my well-established career in exchange for internet tutoring? My art and my writing would have to continue to evolve, but there was income potential, for sure. I’d been saving some money here and there, but a move like this would be a big nut to crack. This entire trip was to serve the purpose of answering this question, and yet I was leaving at early dawn, no closer to my decision.

The ruby-throat of a male magnificent frigate bird flashed and caught my eye as it monitored the skies from a mangrove tree, calling to a female soaring above. I had brought along a bird identification book and, to my surprise, had learned a lot in one week. As I daydreamed, I contemplated opening an island bird-excursion company as an option.

I was staring blankly into the turquoise sea when a shimmer at the crest of a large wave caught my eye. At first I thought it was a seal or dolphin, but it bobbed there in the same place for so long, it became clear that it wasn’t. Curious, I stood up and walked down to the water’s edge, my hand over my eyes as a blinder. The shiny spot bumped up and down, slowly coming in on waves, but definitely not alive. Because my thoughts always delve to the most morbid explanation, I imagined a suitcase washing up from some travel disaster- or a black box! - and even worse things. A fan of intrigue, though, my fears rarely outweigh my tenacity, and I became resolute in solving this mystery.

Still in my clothes, I waded out until the water touched my ribs, willing the bundle to float my way. As it dipped and surfed, I corrected my own course to catch up with it. When at last it came to me, I clutched it hard, relieved to make my way out of the deeper warm water. Who knew how many sharks could be watching me, waiting for their own first meal of the day?

I pushed and steered the shopping-bag sized parcel over the water. Once in the shallows, I struggled to lift the saturated weight of it, so I dragged it the last few feet. I scanned the beach to see if anyone else had arrived, but I was still alone.

I plunked down on the wet sand to examine this seemingly hermetically-sealed find. Although the layers of clear plastic were thickly reinforced, there was a small pocket of air that was a bit more transparent. I didn’t have my glasses and my buzz didn’t make things easy to decipher, but through the muddled wrapping, I could make out the forms of money and a little black book of some kind. The bottom was a thick band of white and looked like a pillow stuffed into a case. Considering where I was, I thought, cocaine was the likely culprit, and things got real in an instant.

Of course, the fantasy of taking that money and running popped into my mind, but karma is a bitch and I was still paying off a few things. Anyway, I had no way to get into the sturdy wrapping job here on the beach, even if I wanted to. Besides, what if someone was watching me, or this was a set-up of some kind? A range of thoughts spun past for my review, none of them reassuring.

My dad and my brother are both cops, and so is my cousin, so there wasn’t much more to consider before I informed the police. The tiny station was only two blocks away; in fact, that was why I had a bit more courage to explore this area solo, breakfast menus included. The station’s quiet presence had been a comfort to me all week. Even though I knew of a lot of dirty cops around my hometown, the majority of them are caring enough people, and hopefully clean on the job.

My mind was uneasy as I wondered how to get this package to the police without being accused that it was mine along the way. I did not feel comfortable leaving it on the beach, either. Should I be concerned that it may be obvious that I was a little buzzed fairly early in the day? Even if none of those posed an issue, the challenge of transporting this pirate booty would be. Why was I always alone when weird stuff happened?

I glanced across the sand to the end of the path, immediately noting again the stroller propped there near the fence. Perfect! With all of my might, I hoisted the awkward parcel up onto my hip, and started toward it. I felt as though I was grappling with a large toddler who wasn’t quite ready to end a beach day, resisting and complaining all the way.

I was winded when I got there! The slipping sand had offered a good workout with only booze and a bit of tomato juice in my system; even with the celery stalk, my breakfast was not nearly fuel enough for such a beach tromp. I bent my knees, balancing the package there against my stomach with one hand. With the other hand, I tilted the stroller forward, dumping the toys onto the sand. I lowered the bundle into the seat and, after a quick stretch of my back, squatted to clip the buckle around it. I ran to grab my towel, dashing back and tossing it over as if to protect my precious little one from the sun. As I pulled the stroller handles to lift it up onto the path, I could see that one of the front wheels was missing. I would have to push it on a tilt.

I shuffled through the tight alley way, stopping finally at the street end to get my bearings. To my right, I could make out the sign for the police station. I headed that way, cooing to the baby stroller as I pretended to entertain my child with wheelies.

As I approached the station, an officer coming out held the door for me to enter. I stepped in and dragged the cloaked stroller up to a small plexi-glass window where a plain-clothed man was sitting.

“Um, hi,” I said. “I need to speak with an officer about something I found on the beach.”

“What kind of thing,” he asked?

“I found a package that seems suspicious.”

“Have a seat on the bench.”

The air conditioning gave me a chill as I waited, the ticking of the clock amplified in my ears. A door opened and the man came out to get a glimpse of my stroller before going back to report this.

Finally, a uniformed officer came out and signaled me to come through the door to the offices. I tilted my stroller and followed him in, the towel sliding down as I bumped over the threshold.

“So what do we have here?” he asked, leaning on the edge of the desk.

I gave him the short version of my story and pulled back the rest of the towel. “I can see there is money, and it looks like a little black book, don’t you think? And, is that cocaine?”

He looked awestruck, disbelief in his eyes. I know now I was not wrong in thinking I detected the tiniest hint of a smile crawling across his mouth.

“Jorge!” the officer called, and the man from out front came back. “Take her information and file a report.” We walked back out front and I gave Jorge my cell number and home address, as well as the name of my hotel.

Within two minutes, the officer came and called me out back again. He gestured to a seat and I sat down on the cool, orange vinyl.

“You found a very important thing today, and I am grateful.”

“No problem,” I said.

He held out two fat bundles of one hundred dollar bills. “This is $20,000,” he said. “For you.”

My mouth dropped and I started to speak. $20,000 makes moving – or anything! - much more manageable!

“Shhh!” he interrupted. “Listen and listen good. Today is the last day you will tell this tale. You will keep this money and you will never say a word. You will move on with your life; leave in the morning and do not return until we have all long forgotten. Pretend this never happened and never breathe a word of it. Safe travels to you, Señorita. Adiós!” He stood up and motioned with his arm, waving me out.

Speechless, I wrapped the banded stacks of bills in my towel, and turned to let myself out through the door to the lobby, and then outside. The heat stifled my breath as I wandered back to my hotel, my buzz worn off and a headache setting in. I felt out of my body as I walked through the lobby and up to my room, collapsing on the bed, incredulous of it all.

Through the wee hours of the next morning, my flight home, and all of the days until I moved, I never did breathe a word of it. As I recount this for you today from a painted desert far from that island, I assure you: I never did. Until now.