Memories of a Tourist

It was a beautifully warm, Caribbean morning, golden fingers of sunlight piercing through the dissipating cloud cover. I was driving around on the French side of St. Maarten, enjoying the open countryside in my rented jeep, my shoulder length auburn hair blowing with the exhilarating breeze about my bare neck.

Since this was the last day of my weeklong vacation, I had decided to go exploring around the island, soaking up some long-lasting memories to take back with me to the States. The sandy beaches I had driven past were shell-strewn and inviting. I had stopped to visit a couple, picking up a few choice shells to bring back with me as souvenirs of my trip, lingering a bit to record in my mind the sounds of the lapping salt water as it played about the smoothed rocks.

I was enjoying the drive, noting some of the quaint little houses dotting the roadside when I spotted it. Stopping just in front of a small red shack, I got out of my vehicle and walked up the short rocky path to the front entrance. There, next to the hinged, sun-bleached door, was the most beautiful conch shell I had ever seen. I bent down and ran my index finger along its smooth, open interior, marveling at its coolness as it baked in the sunlight. It was a fairly large conch, eggshell white with rounded, brown-flecked points on the outside, the inviting insides blushing ever pinker as it wound into its secret depths.

I fought with my conscience. As much as I would have loved to bring back that large shell with me, I knew it belonged to another owner. I looked around. The grounds seemed deserted. No one would see me. But it was wrong! I couldn’t take what wasn’t mine to have. Could I? I glanced back at the lovely prize in my hands. There were probably many others like this, I reasoned, assuring myself that it was okay, this time – only once.

As I turned around, with the shell in my hands, my tentative legs starting back down the walkway, I noticed the wind shifting behind my polka-dot sundress. A large, brown hand reached over, grabbing my shoulder firmly.

“Where do ya tink yaw goin’?” asked the very tall, muscular, owner of the property. He had to have been close to seven feet high, towering over my five-foot meekness.

I was at a loss for words. “Umm . . . I was just, I . . .” I felt so guilty I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there. I looked up into a pair of steely, dark brown eyes, knowing I was caught. I offered up the shell to the man, realizing how useless it was.

“Yoo peeple, tinking yoo can come here an’ jus’ take wat yoo want.” He stood, looking me up and down, shaking his head. He gave my petite body a shove, causing me to drop the conch into the dirt. “Such a good-lookin’ woman, too,” he said, shaking his dark curls from side to side. “Yoo peeple jus’ don’ learn.”

Grabbing my wrists, he pulled me forcefully to a rough-barked tree near the side of his house. I had no choice but to stumble along beside him, his pull was so strong. He picked up a piece of weather-worn rope with one hand, tying my hands behind me to the tree trunk.