May 29th, 1990
Ramada Renaissance, Royal Antigua Resort
Deep Bay, Antigua
William’s friend, Scotty, invited us to a barbeque on the naval base, where he works. Scotty is lovely but I swear instead of a voice box, he has a built-in megaphone. Whenever he opens his mouth, Millie shudders and covers her ears!
No sooner had I said hello to William, when he asked if I wanted to go to his room.
“Steady on there, mate,” I joked, more from embarrassment than anything else.
“You don’t wanna come with me?”
“Ehm, for what reason?”
“I have a headache from the sun, if I don’t take a pill, I’ll get a migraine.”
“Oh, ok, I’ll come with you then.”
In his room, he said he wanted to ask me a few questions.
“What is this? An interview?”
“Is that a joke?”
I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or, well, I have no idea what, so I just nodded my head.
“So, you’re in the Navy?”
“No, the Coast Guard.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You don’t know?”
If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I? Of course that’s not what I said.
He gave me a detailed description of the purpose of the Coast Guard, which really, from the name I should’ve been able to figure out.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I travel all the time, it’s difficult,” I blurted, without any forethought. Shit, I thought, I almost gave myself away.
“So you’re a travel writer for the magazine?”
“Ehm, well I did some travelling before but not now.”
His gaze was intense so I stood up and walked around the room he shares with another guy, or Coastie, as he called him.
“You have some really nice beach pictures,” I said, pointing to a cork board on the wall, next to a map of the island.
“They say there’s three hundred sixty-five beaches.”
“One for every day,” I laughed. “Do you like living here?”
“I’m here for another year then I’ll be back Stateside, hopefully the East Coast.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
He nodded his head. “I grew up in mass.”
“I take it that’s Massachusetts?”
“Well this is certainly a jammie place to be stationed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jammie, means lucky, like you lucked out.”
“I’ll say that about meeting you.”
I suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable, not in a way I’d ever felt before, I just wasn’t sure of his intention.
“Let’s go back to the barbeque, I’m starving.”
“It’s called a cook out.”
“Whatever,” I groaned.
“Will you write me?”
He laughed. “I think you will.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I said, heading for the door.
What a weirdo!