"Bzzzzzzz, bzzzzzzzzzzz," the noise of an outboard motor flew to my ears. Lifting my heavily tinted sunglasses, I open sleepy eyes and look up, bum digging into the luxuriously padded beach chairs. A tiny little motorised raft — it barely even seems like it should float — carrying eight people screams toward the beach.
This is a most welcome surprise. My day has consisted of seven packets of chips and a lot of suntan lotion.
My kids, James and Meg are out swimming in the next bay.
This motorised box of wood is screaming towards the wharf, and I jump up, eager to find out what is happening, and get a bit of drama in my life. I run up the beach and grab my phone from my handbag. I ring James and Meg to see if they are OK.
They are only metres away now. Two black men in white short-sleeved uniforms run to the edge of the pier, but not before a small throng of about 10 tourists gets there. I start to walk to the wooden panelled wharf but a third officer blocks my path.
By now they have cut their engine and are parking up sideways to the wood. I see there are two children, an older couple, two young adults wearing police uniforms, and a heavily pregnant woman with a cloth draped over her face.
The officers tell them that they will be deported if they step on to Bahamian soil. We cry out in outrage, this just won’t do. I run to the little shop at the top of the beach and buy a gallon of water. I push past the officer and pass over the water. Soon there is a flood of people handing water, food, and into the boat!
