Marsh Harbor and The New World

emilys

“Marsh Harbor will take you in his runabout, sir.”

The skinny boy looked no more than twelve, and made younger by the eagerness of expression.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” I said.

“I am an excellent driver, sir,” said the boy. “The best on the Cay.”

The car was a right-hand drive Austin Moke of considerable antiquity. I wedged myself into the passenger seat. The boy gunned it, spraying a fantail of sand behind us.

“Your name is Marsh Harbor?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.  “Like the town?”

“I was named after it, sir. You are from Miami?”

“No. I’ve been there, though”

He grinned. “All my life, I have longed to go to Miami.  I have never left Green Turtle Cay.”

“Not even to Nassau?”

“No sir. My grandmother forbids it. She says Nassau is a place of sin.”

“But not Miami.”

“No sir. Miami is the New World.”

 


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