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I took my guests ashore, nosing the dinghy up on the beach. Bill grimaced and looked for the shortest path to the swaying palms. His feet gingerly touched the sand as if he was stepping through a kennel from hell. His wife sighed.
I laughed and asked what the problem was.
He smiled and said that he had been in the Air Force, stationed in the Moroccan desert. For two years his shoes, his clothes, his teeth, his bed, his hair, his desk were always full of breeze-blown sand. 'I can't stand the stuff,' he said. 'Let's either find a bar or go back to the boat.'
So much for the allure of Caribbean beaches...
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