Taking a road from town which led through Quartier 

 Marin, a tiny farming village, we crossed a bridge over a 

 wide river bed and tm^ned north along a narrow dirt road 

 leading along the river. It was known locally as the Parois, 

 the Becks told me in their halting English, but it was really 

 the Grande Riviere, What luck that I would have an op- 

 portunity to inspect this stream, in which the Columbus 

 anchor had been found, as well as the lay of the land behind 

 Limonade Bord de Mer. 



Although there was not much water flowing over the 

 rocky bottom at that time of year, I could see from the 

 height of the banks on either side that the wide bed was 

 used to carrying quantities of mountain water. It was lined 

 on either side by great shade trees, some as much as five 

 feet in diameter, the silvery-gray, thorny trunks of the 

 sablier and the rich shining green of the mango mingling 

 with the coarse-patterned leaves of the breadfruit. Clumps 

 of yellow-green bamboo and stubby palms grew at their 

 feet. 



Wherever the river made a turn, creating dry, rocky 

 spaces on the inside of each curve, small groups of women 

 from the countryside were on their knees at the water's 

 edge, doing their laundry. None of them wore clothes 

 above the waist. They splashed and chatted happily as they 

 scrubbed, festooning the shrubbery along the shore with 

 the freshly washed clothes. 



The road became rougher and narrower, and M. Beck 

 was forced to shift into low in order to negotiate many of 

 the rutty places. Branches slapped against the car as we 

 passed. Soon we left the river and drove tlirough woods 

 and fields until we came to a clearing. Here were a few 

 small houses, the ruins of a very old French Colonial brick- 

 and-stone wall, and at a distance from the road in the di- 

 rection of the river, the moldering walls of an old sugar 

 mill. 



200 Sea Diver 



