Late at night, whenever I can’t hear myself think over the hum of the refrigerator, or the sounds of the cars and the odd siren rushing up and down Saint Joseph, I think about hurricane season. Helping the grown-ups in the village moving boats around. Pleasure boats, fishing boats, all the boats — and all lent a hand.
We would beach all the dinghies on the northern sides of the island — the storm would rush up from the south, maybe even the southwest if parts of it came inland. It would take a dozen men (and me) to carry even the smallest boat, de-masted or otherwise empty, and gingerly flip it over into the sandy earth. All in a row of giant turtles sticking out of the grass. They slowly vanished from sight as I sat at the back of the inflatable motorboat carrying all of us away. The waves choppy. The turtled-boats surprisingly well-hidden.