Float Plan(19)

Keane tosses up a line to a large man with a broad neck and hair the same color as moonlight. His skin is tan, his face wide. Everything about him is big. And when he smiles, there’s a gap between his front teeth. He looks much older than I am, older than Keane, and he welcomes us aboard Chemineau with vigorous, crushing handshakes and an accent that is flat and unfamiliar when he tells us his name is Rohan.

“These are my friends,” he says, leading us to the center cockpit, where a woman sits with her arm draped like a cat over the second man’s shoulder. Smoke curls from a cigarette between his fingers. Both have dark hair, but his skin is white while hers is dark. “James.” Rohan gestures toward the man. “And Sara.”

Keane introduces us and presents the Guinness as though it’s an expensive bottle of wine. “A modest gift, I know. But I brought it from Ireland on my last visit home, so you can be sure it’s the genuine article.”

Rohan invites us to sit then disappears inside the cabin. Keane takes a seat opposite James and Sara. I move to sit beside him, but Sara pats the empty space next to her.

“Anna.” The neckline of her white peasant top slithers down her arm. Her lips are red, and her black eyeliner is perfect. She looks cool and sophisticated, while I feel like a sweaty milkmaid. I don’t look to see if Keane is staring at her, but I’d be surprised if he’s not. She’s so beautiful that I can barely keep my eyes off her. “Do you dive?”

Ben bought us scuba lessons last year for Christmas, but we hadn’t redeemed the gift certificates before he died. “I’ve snorkeled.”

“We’ll have to remedy that,” she says, as if we’re old friends instead of brand-new acquaintances. Her accent is British, which raises her glamour factor by a million. “It’s what we do. We dive.”

James—all dark eyes and brooding mouth—explains they’ve spent the past six months exploring the bays and reefs of the Bahamas. Diving caves, swimming with whales, and fishing for lobster. Like Sara, his accent is British. “On paper, Rohan runs dive charters out of Nassau, and we are his crew,” James says. “But he takes only enough business to keep us in beer and nitrox.”

Rohan returns with icy bottles of Heineken while I’m explaining that Keane and I are sailing from Florida to Puerto Rico, and how I’ll be continuing on alone to the Caribbean. It makes me sound far more experienced than I am. I leave Ben out of the story in the same way Keane conceals his prosthesis. I don’t want their first reaction to be pity.

As we talk—and James chain-smokes cigarettes—I learn that Rohan’s accent is Afrikaans by way of his South African homeland. James is a former professional surfer from Cornwall. And Sara is a British-French-Algerian influencer on Instagram who gets paid to take pictures of herself. Like Keane, all of them are widely traveled, and the deeper they delve into their adventures, the more provincial I feel. Sara reminisces about a dive vacation she took with friends to Pulau Perhentian Kecil, an island I would never be able to locate on a map. James talks about the year he spent teaching English in Japan. And Keane shares a story of doing the Sydney to Hobart regatta aboard a seventy-foot racing yacht. They step on one another’s stories where they find common ground, and I’m embarrassed that I’ve only ever been to the Grand Canyon.

“I’ve always wanted to see the canyon,” Sara offers, and I’m grateful for her kindness. “But that’s the thing about America, isn’t it? It’s so big that it’s impossible for Americans to see all of their own country, let alone visit others.”

Ben would fit in so much better than I do. His family was wealthy enough to travel the world, and Ben went solo backpacking through Central and South America when he was in college. He would have adventures to share, while I have squabbles with my sister in the back seat of the family car.

After a couple of beers, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. Compared to the Alberg, Chemineau is huge and, despite a mess of dive gear and discarded clothing, very well equipped. The V-berth has a bed big enough for someone Rohan’s size, and the galley is like a proper kitchen, with a microwave and a washer/dryer combination. When I come out of the bathroom, Sara is waiting beside the door.

“So, Keane,” she says. “Is he yours?”

“What?” The question catches me off guard.

“I’ve been trying to work out whether the two of you are in a relationship.”

“Oh. No,” I say. “We’re just traveling together.”

Sara smiles. “He’s a bit of a dish I’d like to sample.”

In my head, Keane is the man who saved my ass in the most literal sense, but seeing him through her lens brings him into sharper focus. God, how did I not see him? “Yeah, I guess he … is.”

Her laugh is low and smoky. “Did you only now realize?”

“No. I mean … maybe?”

Her perfect eyebrows arch. “Does this change your answer?”

I don’t want to lay claim to Keane Sullivan, but suddenly I feel a fierce protectiveness when I think about his leg. Will Sara feel the same when she finds out? Or will she see him as flawed? “No. He’s not mine.”

Back on deck, it’s as though Keane has been amplified and I notice everything. How his smile always looks like he’s on the brink of laughter. The expansiveness of his gestures when he talks, as if the whole world is invited to his personal party. And his shoulders are … perfect. Looking at him is like looking at a bare light bulb and when I close my eyes, I can still see his outline.