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It was not a good job, but it was a job, and it paid just well enough that I could afford the rent on my dreary little room in a ramshackle building three blocks from the beach. Down the hall from my room, across the creaky uneven wood plank floor, was the toilet that I flushed with a bucket kept full by rain that ran off the roof. I had a hot plate that served to heat up the canned beans and beef stew that I purchased in the little store overlooking the harbor, and that poached the fish I speared while snorkeling, at least when the power was on. The bed was musty and saggy and creaky, and it filled much of the room. I wished I had a fan, but I didn't. A fan might have made enough noise to drown out the squeals and groans from the fat whore next door, who it seemed, really gave her clients their money's worth. The breeze through the window was warm and damp and smelled of the sea and the garbage cans behind the house.

The island was not much more than a big rock sticking out of the azure water of the Caribbean. White sand beaches lined the east and south shores, with the hotel and condos mostly stacked along the south side. The gravel landing strip backed up the beach to the east. It wasn't long enough to handle jets, so only the twice-daily landing and take-off of the sixteen-passenger turbo prop, and the occasional private or corporate plane shattered the quiet.

The harbor in front of the hotel was too small to accommodate cruise ships, so they passed it by. The harbor did shelter charter fishing ...

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