My meditation is interrupted by a blast of reguetón. I take a stroke towards the shore and see what looks like an aerobics class on the pedestrian street. I get out of the water, skirting the masses of seaweed. When I was little, my parents would carry me over them – it’s not that they were dirty, but bugs hide there and they bite. I can see that the seaweed has morphed into a morass of plastic lids, straws, shreds of packaging, cigarette butts, stuff and more stuff. I let it go. I stretch out to receive the sun. To one side, a seagull rummages in an abandoned coco loco, still capped with a little plastic parasol but no cherry; to the other, a white crab startles in solidarity. White clouds hide behind squat hotels that have clearly seen better days. Looking for shapes, I think about how the world is equally indifferent everywhere; in any corner of all the cities I’ve ever known, it lashes out with sordid scenes and urban vanities. It’s an irrepressible current that has filled me with anxiety and noise. Am I a city girl? I failed. But the world is also like this sewage pipe spilling onto the beach, right where I learned to swim, to speak, to kiss and drink and smoke.

‘He’ll stop by just before ten’. Juleen wrote me back. She said her boyfriend could get me weed; he’d drop it off on his way to work at a hardware store. He’s got two different kinds.

VB: I want both! You know, since I’m back in the Caribbean, which is always two-faced…

JF: You know it! More than two… Gyal, I’m swamped with work this week, but let’s hang out soon, hey…

VM: More than two, huh? I want to see them all!

JF: Go easy on it! (Lots of laughing emojis.) Let me know how it goes, gyal…

The sun isn’t too intense yet, but I know I’ll turn bright pink as I wait if I don’t properly slather myself: I spread sunblock on my face, neck and chest and lie down again on my back, staring out towards the cay. I turn my face towards the hotel area, and from the corner of my eye I see a tall guy heading in my direction. He’s easily over six feet tall. I’d forgotten how people don’t walk here: they dance. A melody sounds in my head over the merengue of the aerobics class. It’s him, I’m sure of it. He smiles more broadly as he approaches; I use the towel to wipe my hands clean of sand and lotion. He greets me with a formal handshake, his palm double the size of my own.

‘Hey, wa happ’n!’ he says, addressing me in Creole. ‘I’m Samuel, la negra’s boyfriend.’ His teeth are perfect pearls.