Float Plan(24)

I attempt to do what everyone else does. I sit when they sit, stand when they stand. I even kneel when they kneel, but I’m half a beat behind, and I feel like an imposter. My family only attends church on Christmas and Easter, and I’m not exactly on the best terms with God right now anyway. Beside me, Keane is solemn. He knows the proper responses and doesn’t mumble his way through the songs. His voice is clear and strong.

I zone out during the deacon’s sermon, watching the clouds slide past the windows and thinking about Ben. His family is Presbyterian, but he considered himself an atheist and didn’t believe in heaven or hell. As I sit in this beautiful place, with a man whose faith is big enough to ferry him across the bay and up a bumpy road to be here, I wonder if Ben might have been wrong. If he’d been a believer, would God have saved him?

Ben’s absence cuts clean through me and a tear slips from the corner of my eye. I catch it with the flutter sleeve of my dress. I take in a deep breath, and Keane reaches over, threading his fingers through mine. His hand feels big and safe, and he doesn’t let go until he has to walk up the aisle to receive communion.

The deacon stands at the back of the church after services, bidding the parishioners farewell and saying hello to visitors. Keane lags behind until we’re the only two remaining and, after we introduce ourselves, he asks the deacon for a private word. They step out of earshot and I watch Keane talk, his eyes worried and his hands busy. The deacon nods as he listens, then says something as he makes a cross in the air above Keane’s forehead, a blessing.

“Confessing your sins?” I tease as Keane rejoins me.

He grins. “I doubt the good deacon has that much time to spare. Not to mention that, since he’s not a priest, it wouldn’t be official.”

Despite the casual way he throws off the question, I suspect he really did make a confession, unofficial or otherwise, but I don’t press the subject. It’s none of my business.

“Thanks for…” I lift my upturned palm to indicate the way he held my hand during the liturgy. “I was thinking about Ben.”

“I figured as much,” he says as we walk from the church to the taxi van.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about him.”

“Don’t know why you would,” Keane says. “Eventually—and I say this from experience—you’ll start building a new house beside the ruins of the old. When you’re ready, you’ll know.”

Back aboard the boat, we change into sailing clothes. Keane pulls the dinghy out of the water and lashes it to the deck for the next leg of the trip, while I close all the hatches and put on some music. There’s a lightness to our movements and moods. Maybe it’s because Eulalia gave me a healthy dose of home and Keane got laid, but as we motor out of the harbor into deep water, we look at each other and smile.





more than you think (12)





It was Ben’s idea to go to Rum Cay. He’d seen YouTube videos of some guys kiteboarding and cliff jumping, and he wanted to do that. And while he would never have admitted it, he liked the idea of visiting an island reputed to be named for a West Indian rumrunner that wrecked off the coast. It was one of the few stops on his route where he planned to rent a cottage so we could have a romantic night off the boat.

The seas have swelled since Chemineau snuck out of the bay this morning. What was likely a pleasant sail for them has become a battle for us. The late-afternoon sun is shining, but we are pummeled by the wind, and my hands—even wearing a pair of Keane’s old sailing gloves—are sore from fighting the tiller.

“Is it absolutely necessary for us to go there?” He eats cold chili from a can with a fork. “Bite?”

I take the offered lump of meat and beans, wondering if he thinks it’s weird that we’re sharing a fork. And wondering if he wants to avoid running into Sara. The island is not very big. “Ben really wanted to go there.”

“Okay,” Keane says. “Do you have any specific plans?”

I’ve always been a little faint of heart about cliff jumping and I don’t have the money to rent a kite board, so I’m not sure what to do on Rum Cay. “Not really.”

“Maybe this is where you pitch a tent the way you’d hoped to do on Pig Beach,” he suggests. “Flamingo Bay looks secluded. No pigs. No people. Good reefs. I’ll even stay on the boat, if you want to be alone.”

It’s not exactly what Ben would do, but it’s a good idea. I love camping. “I’d like that. Thanks.”

After Keane has scraped the last of the chili from the can, he takes over at the helm and I go down into the cabin. From below, I toss him a bottle of water before crawling into bed. The rise and fall of the boat through the waves lulls me to sleep.

The sun has gone down when I wake, and the travel clock tells me Keane’s turn on watch should have been long over.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask when I’m on deck.

“This boat is a joy to sail.”

“She’s been the perfect accomplice to all my bad decisions.” I tilt my head back and look up at the white sail against a dark sky. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“If you weren’t here right now, what would you be doing instead?”

“Going whole days without showering. Slinging beers. Existing,” I say. “Barely.”