Float Plan(37)

“Okay.” The word falls heavy from Keane’s mouth and I hear his disappointment. “But we’re far beyond making landfall in the Dominican Republic and we can’t turn back. We have to press on to San Juan.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice.”

We are still two and a half days from Puerto Rico, but the silver lining is that they have good hospitals and cheap nonstop flights to Fort Lauderdale.

“We have a bit of a problem,” Keane says. “My knees are aching, and if I don’t keep my limb clean, I run the risk of skin breakdown. If that happens, we’re fucked. So I’ll stand watch in ten-hour shifts if you’ll do two, but I can’t do this alone.”

I wish we could pick up the VHF radio and make a distress call. Abandon this ship. But a dislocated shoulder is not life threatening. I will have to manage. “I know.”

“Okay,” Keane says. “Get some sleep.”

I’m awake, with Queenie snuggled up against me on the bed, as he dons his prosthesis and pulls on his weather gear. I’m awake when he climbs out into the cockpit and puts the boat back on course. After that, I’m asleep.

We sail this way for two watch rotations. Before he goes to sleep each time, Keane prepares meals for me and mixes a gallon of Gatorade that he ties to the deck beside the tiller. I want to return the favor and prepare fresh water for him to wash his residual limb, but my shoulder is so swollen and stiff that I can’t move my arm. I almost wish he’d risked the damage and reset the dislocation himself. The rest of my body adapts to the waves, but I stick to a regimen of seasickness pills and painkillers, and after twenty-four hours, my head stops thumping, and I feel good enough to suggest I take longer watches so Keane can get more sleep.

“Are you sure?”

The pain in my shoulder is at the bottom end of terrible and I’ve finally been able to keep down food. The long stretches of sleep have helped. “I’ll be okay.”

The front passes during the next thirty-six hours. The sea subsides and three-foot waves feel effortless by comparison. We shed our weather gear as the rain stops for good, and by the time the green mountains of Puerto Rico come into view, the sky has cleared and the sun dries us out. We are dead on our feet. And the dog hasn’t shit in three days, but we made it.

We made it.



* * *



I turn on my cell phone for the first time since we left Bimini as we motor past old town San Juan and turn into the cruise ship–lined San Antonio Channel. The phone pings almost nonstop with texts and voicemails, but I ignore the messages to call for a dock at one of the local marinas and arrange for customs check-in.

“I know the customs office is busy,” I tell the dockmaster. “But I have a dislocated shoulder and need to get to a hospital, so if there is any way to expedite the process, can we please make that happen?”

The customs officer arrives as Keane and I are securing the spring lines to the dock. We are wedged between a couple of huge fishing boats and the guys aboard them remind me of ChrisDougMike. Three and a half weeks seems like such a very long time ago, especially after the four days we’ve just had.

The officer inspects our passports and boat documentation and verifies that Keane’s green card is valid. He issues a cruising sticker and collects the user fee. He even offers to drop me off at a nearby clinic.

“Do you want me to come?” Keane asks.

“Queenie needs a run.”

“Shall I book you a flight back to Fort Lauderdale?”

“Not yet.”

He smiles. “Does this mean—”

“I might like to spend Christmas in the Caribbean.”

“I can make that happen.”

I throw a grin at him over my good shoulder as I follow the customs officer down the dock. “I’m sure you can.”

The clinic is about five minutes from the marina, but I fall asleep with my head against the cool window of the air-conditioned car. The officer wakes me up and helps me into the building. Once inside, I fill out the paperwork and call my mom from the waiting room.

“Oh, thank God,” she says before I even have a chance to say hello. “Where are you?”

“I just arrived in San Juan. Listen, Mom, I’m at a clinic—”

“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

“Only a little,” I say. “I dislocated my shoulder on the crossing, but I’m okay.”

“Dislocated?” Her voice goes up an octave, alarmed. “What happened?”

“I—we—hit a wave and I got swept overboard and slammed into the boat a couple of times.”

“You could have drowned.”

“I could have, but I didn’t.”

“Anna, I still don’t know how I feel about all of this.”

“I know, Mom, but I’m fine. Better than fine.” And, despite everything, I’m not lying to her. I spent the first part of this trip thinking about what Ben would want. Now I know I have to start thinking about what I want—both here at sea and when I return to my regularly scheduled life. The only thing I know for sure is that making it this far is an accomplishment—my accomplishment—and I’m not ready to go home yet. “I’m happy.”

“Will you be back in time for Christmas?”