The Beach - By Ian Duncan
The door to the hut has no lock on the inside or outside. A small metal hook on the outer side gives us a place to use a padlock when we leave but if we are inside we have to tie the door knob to the bed post to keep anyone from entering during the night while we're asleep.

A person could easily open the door though with a little effort, even after our crude lock made of thin yellow travel rope has been put in place. There's still a chance we could be robbed and killed on this dangerous beach where desperate prowling locals attack careless travellers at night.


On the front of our hut outside is a narrow white deck with a small white bench. We can sit out there, resting on the bench with our arms on the railing; the deck is that narrow. The dried cracking paint of the railing scratches our elbows as we rest on it. We watch the fishermen pass.


Two boys walk by us. They drag two thick long oars in the sand. We assume they must be fishermen because of their oars; because most men seem to be fishermen around here. Fishing is the main industry on this coast.

Both appear to be near eighteen years old.


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