Float Plan(17)

“Christ,” Keane finally mutters. “Aren’t we a gloomy pair? You, missing your Ben, and me, all maudlin over the shite hand I’ve been dealt. Then this sky happens, and I think it must be God asking me how I dare wallow in self-pity when he’s giving me this gift.”

“You still believe in God?”

He shrugs. “Of course. Don’t you?”

“He hasn’t done me any favors lately.”

“I can see how you might feel that way,” Keane says. “But moments like these remind me how much worse my life could have turned out.”

“Worse than losing your leg?”

“Aye,” he says. “I could have been the guy who did this to me.”

I want to know what happened, but I don’t want to pry, and Keane doesn’t elaborate. Instead he stands. “Think I’ll go fry that fish. Hungry?”

“I told you I would make dinner.”

“I’m feeling restless.”

He leaves me on deck as night settles and stars populate the sky. Pans rattle and Keane whistles a nameless tune while he cooks. Ben and I never got comfortable using the stove when we were underway. The pitch and yaw of the boat made conditions too unpredictable. We almost always brought picnic foods so we could avoid cooking. But Keane seems unbothered by the wind and waves. It’s maybe an hour later when he brings up a citronella candle and what’s left of the bottle of wine I opened in Bimini, then returns with plates of flying fish with steamed potatoes and cabbage.

He takes the helm and I fork off a bit of fish. The outside is crisp, while the inside is delicate, not fishy at all. “This is better than anything I could have made,” I say. “I’m feeling pretty spoiled.”

“Remember it with fondness,” he says. “Because when we’re making the passage from the Turks and Caicos to San Juan with no land in sight and the possibility of eight-to-ten-foot swells, you’ll be wishing for something other than instant soup and noodles.”

“Seriously?”

“It can get ugly.”

“God, I would never have been able to do that by myself,” I say. “I barely made it from Miami to Bimini.”

“But you made it.” Keane takes a drink from the wine bottle and offers it to me. Putting my lips where his have been seems too personal, but I push the thought aside. It’s only wine. “Even I wouldn’t want to do a solo passage to San Juan, though.”

“Do you think I’ll be able to sail the Caribbean by myself?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “You’ll be island hopping again, so you’ll make good time unless you run into bad weather. Since it’s nearly winter, there’s always a chance of that.”

“What should I do if there’s bad weather?”

“If you’re sailing, keep going,” he says. “But if you can wait it out, stay where you are and drink a little more rum until the weather improves. It always does.”

We polish off the fish and as I’m finishing the dishes, Keane calls down that it’s time to make the tack that will take us to Pig Beach. It’s dark, so I won’t be able to visit the beach until morning, but a rush of excitement bubbles up inside me as I think about fulfilling one of Ben’s goals—and seeing the pigs for myself. I go out on deck and we make the tack.

With the boat on course, we finish the bottle of wine, passing it back and forth. By the time we reach the island, the alcohol has banked a small fire in my belly that’s warm and content. In Bimini, I was drunk and out of control, but tonight I enjoy the peace.

We are not the only boat in the anchorage. More than a dozen others dot the crescent-shaped bay when I scramble up to the bow to lower the anchor. It’s late, so most of the boats are dark, their anchor lights like extra stars.

“Do you want to go for a swim?” I strip down to my bikini and step over the stern rail.

“From one to Bimini, how drunk are you?” Keane asks.

I laugh. “About a three.”

“I’ll be right in.”

I dive off the boat into the water, where I float on my back, looking up at comets streaking across the night sky and trying not to wish for Ben. From the corner of my eye, I can see Keane, floating beside me. We stay that way for a long time, not speaking. Not even when a tear trickles from the corner of my eye into the ocean.

My fingers are pruned when we climb back onto the boat. I go below and fill the bucket with water for Keane’s residual limb, then change into my pajamas. I’m already in bed when he comes down into the cabin.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” I say. “Especially when you’re not thrilled with the plan.”

“I’m fine with the plan,” he says. “I just hope it lives up to your expectations.”



* * *



Ben was wildly excited about the pigs. Some stories say they were left by sailors intending to return to eat them. Others say the pigs swam ashore after a shipwreck. Either way, they escaped domestication, and I think that’s what appealed most to Ben. He went to Princeton, studied business, and went to work at his family’s logistics company to live up to his parents’ expectations. I was an aberration. His mother hated that he fell in love with a girl who worked in a tits-and-ass restaurant. I was too blond, too pretty, and too common for a wealthy young man with a Future. Sometimes I wonder if our relationship would have survived his family’s expectations. Sometimes I wonder if he killed himself to be free.