Float Plan(25)

“In a matter of days, you’ve solo sailed across the Gulf Stream, dodged a one-nighter with a married man, eaten flying fish, and scaled a mountain. Granted, it was a wee hillock of a mountain, but how many mountains would you have scaled otherwise?”

“None.”

“So maybe you know more than you think.”

“God, you’re like an Irish Mary Poppins with facial hair,” I say. “Are you ever pessimistic?”

Keane laughs, shrugging. “Not often, but when I am, I tend to get drunk and fall down. Like in Nassau.”

“What happened that night?”

“Prior to the accident, I was quite literally one of the best sailors in the world. Now I’m considered a tragedy and a liability to owners who once tripped over themselves to have me crew aboard their boats.” There’s a note of bitterness in his voice that I can’t miss. “They worry I will fall overboard or hurt myself, something that never crossed their minds when I had two intact legs. Every single time, their perception of my disabilities eclipses my capabilities. In Nassau, I was stinging from another rejection.”

“Why do you keep trying?”

“I don’t want to prove them right,” he says. “And … I don’t know what else to do.”

“Is that why you’re going to Puerto Rico?”

“Yeah. Heard from a guy who knows a guy who knows another guy who said there might be someone looking for crew.”

I’m about to apologize when I remember he hates that. “That fucking sucks.”

Keane smiles. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I pick up Ben’s chart book and open to Rum Cay, shining the flashlight along our route. He wanted to sail into Port Nelson, the last remaining settlement on the island, but Keane is heading for Flamingo Bay.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “I know you had your heart set on Rum Cay, but we can’t navigate the bay in the dark. There are coral heads that make it hazardous to try until daylight. We can change course and do some open-water sailing until sunrise, or we could sail on to Samana. I reckon we’d get there midafternoon and gain back a day on our timeline.”

It bothers me that we’ve deviated so much from Ben’s route, but I don’t want to risk damaging the boat and the reefs in the dark. Keane’s logic is sound.

“Samana is uninhabited,” Keane says. “You can snorkel an uncrowded reef, camp under the stars on your very own beach—everything you were going to do on Rum Cay—and be one hop closer to the Turks and Caicos.”

As Keane adjusts course, I feel a small pang of regret over not getting to see a place Ben wanted to visit, but I swallow it down. He hands over the tiller and returns with cold sandwiches and a bag of Doritos.

“Even though I can, cooking on a rolling sea is not high on my list of favorite things,” he says. “When we reach Samana, maybe we can catch a couple of lobsters and have a proper meal.”

The rest of the night we stay faithful to our four-hour schedule and every time I come off watch, I sleep so that when we reach our destination, I won’t crash. By morning the wind has subsided and the boat glides easily through the water. Keane comes up on deck, yawning and scratching the back of his head. Rum Cay sinks on the horizon in our wake while Samana rises up in front of us.

“Are you doing okay?” I ask. “You’ve had your leg on for a long time.”

“I took it off a bit while I was sleeping,” he says. “So I’m good, but I look forward to having a swim.”

The anchorage at Samana is on the south end of the island and inside a formidable reef. We have to approach from the west and navigate our way through a break only forty feet wide, following a coral-riddled path to clear water.

“We’ve got the incoming tide.” Keane consults the chart book. “If we shoot for the middle of the break, we should have enough water below the keel.”

“It looks scary.”

“Indeed. Ready to drive her in?”

“Me? No. I can’t.”

He rakes his hand up through his hair. “Look, you’re a fine fair-weather sailor, Anna, and you’re quite brave for striking out alone. But I’m not always going to be with you. The only way you’re going to learn is by doing it.”

“What happens if I hit the reef?”

“The same thing that happens if I hit the reef,” Keane says. “It’s pointless to speculate what might happen. What we need at present is to not let fear rule the day. So I’ll go up to the foredeck, where I’ll spot for coral heads and guide you in.”





a universe that is not listening (13)





The water through the cut is a sloppy crisscross chop and I hold the boat to a painfully slow speed as we motor through a minefield of coral. I don’t want to do this. I have an iron grip on the tiller to keep my hand from shaking. My heart is like a wild bird in my chest, slamming against the cage of my ribs. My eyes are everywhere at once. On the depth sounder, which indicates the water is ten feet deep. On Keane’s back as he stands in the bow pulpit. On the dark forest of coral on either side of the boat.

“We’re nearly through,” he calls down to me. “Nearly clear.”

The stillness is cut by the muted underwater scratch of coral against the gelcoat, like tree branches dragged across a window. The boat stutters, and the vibration travels up through my feet, into my body.