ProcessionTODAY WE TAKE MANUEL’S BEAT-UP VAN AND HEAD FOR THAT OLD hotel near the airport. From there, the island is a short pumpboat ride away. The sea between is calm, flecked with foam and flying fish. The island sand is soft and cream-colored, cool and forgiving to the soles of the feet, even in the heat of day. We shed our clothes as soon as we reach the white beach face and we bare ourselves to the sun in shorts, bikinis, halters and cut-offs, occasionally swimming out into the sea in gentle arcs, skimming the line where the shallow cup of green borders the blue of deeper water.
After our swim, we run across the sand, laughing, pale, lean and happy. The six of us cram ourselves into the hazy mottled shape of a shady refuge, arms and legs lightly touching, and easily slip into an aft
