Fish is what my mother craves after the day’s radiation treatment, and from the passenger seat, she directs me to a roadside shop on the outer edge of Discovery Bay where fishermen sometimes sell the day’s catch—parrot, snapper and goat fish tied together in small bundles.
The shop is near a bauxite company port and red dirt from the company’s production plant coats everything—the port, the outsides of the facility’s domes, the stretch of the North Coast Highway that runs between the port and the domes.
The fisherman who comes up to us points to the water behind him, the white, frothy waves of the Caribbean Sea pounding the shore. “Sea too rough,” he says. “Nobody going out there.”