Island that Dared

Island that Dared by Dervla Murphy Page B

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Authors: Dervla Murphy
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yards long and sixty wide, separated from the sea by the causeway. On either side sandy beaches were visible but mangrove swamps intervened. I glanced at the sun: not enough daylight remained for us to retrace our steps to a grassy campsite by the bridge. And being put to bed on a muddy path might overtax the Trio’s adaptability. They of course could swim across the lagoon to one of the beaches – but what about the laden adults? Luckily my stick was long. I waded in, having first prudently undone my rucksack’s waistband, and before each step tested the depth. The bed was unnervingly uneven, yet Rachel and I were able to wade through, circuitously, while the Trio swam to the eastern beach, Rose pulling Zea on to the six-foot-high causeway. From there they watched us slowly zig-zagging across, rarely more than crotch-deep though two waist-deep spots saturated my moneybelt. ‘You are silly!’ chided Rachel. ‘You should’ve put it in your rucksack.’ As she helped me on to the causeway we heard the Trio rejoicing about another swim.
    ‘No!’ I shouted – they were already scampering towards the waves and this sloping beach had an undertow threatening even to adults. Rachel however looked sceptical about my diktat and I recognised the dawn of her ‘I’m on the girls’ side’ expression. She hates to disappoint her offspring and also has strong views (possibly inherited) against over-protectionism. When planning for Cuba I had stipulated that she must be the sole leader and decisionmaker but on this one occasion I went into reverse gear and ordered – ‘No child is to go near those waves until Mummy has tested them!’
    At once Mummy dumped her rucksack and approached the high water mark, a ridge of sand and stones now being washed over by this full moon tide. Momentarily she viewed the breakers as they advanced, crashed, seethed – then withdrew, dragging the shale with them, making a rasping rumble. Happily she felt no need to immerse herself before supporting my embargo.
    I sat down, opened a Buccanero and drank to this momentous initiation ceremony, the Trio’s first night camping without a tent, under the stars. We had chanced upon a magnificent site, overlooked by the Sierra Maestra’s intricate arrangement of wooded spurs and peaks, never far from this coast. No dwellings were visible. Dense groves of sea-grapes and dwarf palms hid the swamp and bleached tree skeletons, carried here by who knows which hurricane, decorated the long shore, its eastern extremity marked by a grassy promontory. Nearby, to the west, three-hundred-foot limestone cliffs jutted ruggedly into the sea, now tinted by a flaring sunset.
    ‘This is blissful!’ I exulted. ‘Clever Mummy, leading us down the river-bed !’
    The Trio, however, had practical concerns. ‘Where are we sleeping?’ asked Clodagh.
    ‘Right here,’ I replied, patting the coarse sand beside me.
    ‘But there’s stones everywhere!’ protested Zea.
    ‘There are stones everywhere,’ said I with Pavlovian pedantry.
    ‘We can clear them away,’ said Rose, looking consciously virtuous as she set about that task.
    Clodagh followed suit and observed – resignedly, not complaining – ‘They’re heavy.’
    Zea moved closer to her mother – busily unpacking – and said craftily, ‘I’m too small for heavy stones.’
    ‘They’re not that heavy,’ I argued. (Zea, being abnormally muscular for her age, can cope with huge weights when it suits her.) I added, ‘Poor Mummy! All afternoon she’s been carrying a really heavy load!’ But of course Mummy cleared Zea’s space. You can’t lose if you’re the youngest.
    We decided to save the ship’s biscuits for breakfast and while the Trio dined off emergency ration organic raisins, imported from California via Ireland (shameful food miles!), the adults drew sustenance from Buccaneros. Only then did we notice that we were not alone on the beach. A distant bonfire glowed through the dusk and a figure

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