NOT ENDED

What a perfect day. The sun lords itself over the sky. To be nice, it allows a few fluffy white clouds to puff across its face. Beach sunbrellas make the hot sand bearable. Sammy and I have a cooler full of ice, beer and foil wrapped sandwiches. The crash and crack of the waves lull us to relax, cover each other with another layer of sun screen. I growl at a teen as he runs past us, sand flying from his awkward feet, peppering my back. Sammy gently wipes it off. We share a beer. Doing nothing is easy, talking unnecessary .

There are no small children on this private wide white beach in St. Maarten. Hotel guests seldom bring toddlers. I was born on the French side of the island. We natives were, are, a bit snooty, aloof, sell the tourists their perfumes, wines and stuff them with fabulous meals.

The Dutch side is lighter. Casinos are everywhere. Local talent and many American stars entertain. Clothes are more casual than on the French side. Pets, dogs, cats, parrots can eat in our restaurants. My Uncle Hans and his wife, Hilda, have a little house here and invited me for a few weeks in April, when the tourists have left. Each morning as the sun rises I take a long walk along the beach. The solitude echos. The salted air is tangy. I am alone except for the little sand crabs and the white gulls sweeping down on their breakfast.

Looking to the east, feeling like a tiny speck of nothing, I step on a large, sharp spike of a shell. It starts to bleed heavily. Fear overcomes me. Noone is around. I can’t hop to my uncles and survive. All I can do is scream ‘help’ to thin air. I knew there was a god in that beautiful sky. He heard me and sent Sammy. I lower my eyes from heaven and see a man running towards me. ‘Don’t fight me. Try to breathe easy.,’ he says in a calm voice. He turns his back on me and I think he is leaving. Instead he leans over, shows me what to do, put my arms over his shoulders, put my hands in his and off we go. Piggy back he gets me to the closest hotel. We are both bloody and I feel woozy. The man near the hotel door sees us coming, has a wheel chair ready and I am almost flown to the first aid room. My hero knows what has to be done and dowa it. Once he had stopped the major bleeding, the hotel manager puts us both in his car and drives us to the hospital. An hour later with six stitches in my foot and a shot in my arm, my gratitude to Sammy flows out like rain from a summer cloudburst. I hug him, kiss his neck, his shoulders, his face. My offer to pay him is laughed at.

I have never liked being beholden to anyone but I am to Sammy. I insist on paying him. I give him my all-me. We are lovers, and we are married.