Float Plan(42)

“That’s not the takeaway here, Anna,” Keane says as Eamon pays the cabdriver. “My brother is my family, so I’m sorted. The goal is for you to have a happy Christmas, so whatever you want to do, we’ll do.”

It’s too soon for my body to head back out to sea. My arm is still cradled in a sling and I’ve only just stopped swaying when standing on dry land. But the longer we stay, the harder it will be to leave. San Juan lulls me, makes me feel at home. “We should go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Eamon walks with Queenie and me to the marina office to settle the bill. At the counter, he opens his wallet and plunks down a credit card. He has paid for nearly everything in San Juan and I don’t feel comfortable with that.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I say.

“It’s nearly Christmas,” he says. “And I’d have spent far more on a hotel room.”

“You brought me an autopilot.”

He waves me off. “It’s been a very good year for me, Anna, and you have a long way to go. Please let me do this.”

“I don’t understand how you and your brother can be so kind.”

“It’s uncomplicated, really,” Eamon says. “Our mother expected us to be good and our father put the fear of the Lord in us if we failed to meet her expectations. That doesn’t mean we don’t act the maggot sometimes, but kind is one of the easiest things to be.”

“Thank you.”

He slides his credit card back into his wallet, signs the receipt, and kisses my forehead the same way Keane does, making me think it’s another Sullivan family habit. “Let’s call ourselves square.”



* * *



The sail from Puerto Rico to Jost Van Dyke is long, but nothing like the big crossing. The air is the perfect mix of warm and cool, the sea is calm, and with the autopilot doing most of the work, we have little to do but trim the sails. Keane estimates it will take around twelve hours, but having a crew of three means we don’t have to break the time into shifts. We can sleep whenever we like, but mostly we sit on deck, pass around a bottle of wine, and talk.

Around midnight I walk up to the foredeck to sit with my back against the cabin. Queenie follows and climbs into my lap. The sea and sky are deep velvet blue, melting together at the horizon, and I lose count of the shooting stars. The distance is dotted by the red and green running lights of boats heading toward the Virgin Islands.

Keane comes up, leaving Eamon alone in the cockpit. “Mind if I join you?”

I shift, making space for him to lean. “Doing okay?”

“I was about to ask you the same.”

“How are your knees?”

“Fit,” he says. “I’ve had a chance to rest, so I’m set to rights. How’s the shoulder?”

“The swelling has gone down and regular pain reliever seems to be doing the trick, but it’s stiff and I have this irrational fear that if I move too much, it will pop back out of the socket.”

“Highly unlikely,” Keane says. “But it’s not a bad idea to ginger it until it heals.”

“True. So, tell me about Christmas on Jost Van Dyke.”

“Foxy’s Bar serves a special holiday menu. Fancy stuff like tenderloin, swordfish, and even lobster. If you consider lobster fancy.”

I laugh, remembering the conversation about the fanciness of lobster. It seems like a lifetime ago.

“They’ll have a musician to play Christmas music, both traditional carols and Caribbean songs,” he continues. “Most folks cruising the islands during the holidays don’t have a place to go, so Foxy provides.”

“I miss my family more than I expected,” I say. “My mom was hurt when I left, but now that we’ve had a chance to talk … Well, I won’t get to see my niece open her presents this year.”

“Maybe you could pick out some gifts for your family along the way and have a second Christmas when you get home.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Every now and again I have one,” he says. “The other thing I wanted to tell you is that I have friends on Jost Van Dyke who have opened their home to us, so we won’t have to sleep on the boat. Unless, of course, you’d rather.”

“If you think I’m going to turn down a real bed, you are so wrong.”

We sit in companionable silence, and Queenie steals from my lap into his, nuzzling his hand for attention. Once in a while the boat cuts through a wave that sends a fine mist over us, but it dries almost as quickly as it lands.

“The foredeck was once my domain,” Keane says finally. “Calling the start, sails up and down, setting the spinnaker. I was fast, Anna. I was so fucking fast, but now…” When he trails off, I don’t have the right words to snap him out of his melancholy.

“What boat owner wants a has-been with a prosthetic leg when he can have an able up-and-comer?” The bitterness in his voice makes me want to cry, especially when I’ve seen what he can do. “They’re all very kind about it, but the writing’s on the wall in huge fucking letters. You’re done, Sullivan. But I can’t stop wanting it.”

“Maybe—”

“After the accident I set a deadline for myself,” he continues. “If I wasn’t working as a professional sailor again by the time I turned thirty, I’d give up the pursuit. For what? I have no idea, but my birthday is in one week and here we are.”