Float Plan(43)
I’m grateful he interrupted me, because offering unhelpful suggestions isn’t what he needs any more than I needed them after Ben died. I know how it feels to want something you can no longer have.
“The thing is,” Keane says, “if I am completely truthful, the last three weeks have been the happiest I’ve had in a good long while—your brush with death notwithstanding—but this is not how I imagined my life.”
“Me either.”
“Perhaps our paths were meant to cross.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
He laces his fingers through mine and I let him. Keane doesn’t ask for anything more and we fall into a silence that lasts until pale light gathers along the horizon. In the night we sailed above Isla Culebra—one of the Spanish Virgins. To the south is St. Thomas in the US Virgins. Ahead, the hills of Jost Van Dyke rise black out of the water.
“I should probably go spell my brother.” Keane releases my hand and puts Queenie back in my lap.
“I’ll come with.”
Eamon is wide-awake and wired, an insulated mug of coffee in his hand and a broad grin across his face. “I haven’t sailed like this since we were kids. This is fucking fantastic.”
“You ready for a nap?”
“Not yet,” he says. “But I wouldn’t say no to breakfast.”
I offer to cook, but Keane goes below and soon I hear him whistling his breakfast-making tune. I bring out Queenie’s carpet so she can do her morning business, then feed her a bowl of kibble. After having scrounged for leftovers, she still devours the food as though it’s her last meal. She’s tearing the fuzz off one of her tennis balls when Keane hands up plates heaping with eggs, fried salami, toast, potatoes, and beans.
“Nearest I could come to a proper Irish fry without rashers, sausage, and puddings,” he says, but Eamon devours his food nearly as fast as Queenie.
The sun rises behind the island, turning the sky gold behind the hills. I wash up the dishes, while Keane takes over the tiller and Eamon naps in the cockpit. We sail until we reach the mouth of Great Harbour, then motor into the anchorage. Keane and Eamon go below to nap while I take the dinghy ashore with our passports and Queenie’s health certificate to clear customs. After I’ve paid the fees, I return to the boat, raise the British Virgin Islands courtesy flag, and crash-land in my bed.
a patchwork house (21)
Jost Van Dyke is a small, sparsely populated island that slopes from beach to hills without stopping, yet the harbor is filled with boats and the beachfront bars are busy with people as we lock the dinghy and carry our bags up the road to wait for our ride.
“Felix and Agda live right up on Man O’ War Hill,” Keane says, pointing to a house on the ridge. “Wait until you see it up close. You’ll never want to leave.”
Two minutes later an old blue Toyota Land Cruiser comes to a stop in front of us, its driver a shirtless man about Eamon’s age with a shock of white-blond hair and a raccoon mask of untanned skin around his eyes. The door flings open and he bounds out, his feet bare, to hug Keane.
“Welcome! Welcome to Jost Van Dyke.” Felix has yet another new accent for me to figure out. It’s not Caribbean, but it’s also not Irish or American. He opens the back of the Land Cruiser for us to throw in our gear. “Sullivan, Agda said to come straight back to the house instead of stopping for a drink because she is eager to see you.”
Once we’re all inside, the Land Cruiser bumps up the unfinished road and Felix gives us a rundown on the island since Hurricanes Irma and Maria devastated the British Virgin Islands. “Great Harbour lost a lot of vegetation and the Methodist church was ruined. But most of the bars and shops have been rebuilt, and new palm trees have been planted. We lost some of our roof, but life goes on, you know?”
Felix explains that he and his wife run a dive charter business. Unlike the crew on Chemineau, they have a waiting list of clients. “We just returned from Belize, so your timing is very good.” He laughs. “Our home is still clean.”
The house at the top of Man O’ War Hill looks as if it was built in sections, tacked on over time and painted whatever color they happened to favor at the moment, which Felix explains is exactly what happened. “It’s a strange house, I know,” he says. “When we first moved here from Sweden, we could not afford to build more than a one-room shack.”
As goofy as the place looks on the outside, the inside is beyond inviting. The floors are planked with dark, soft wood, and every single room has a balcony overlooking Great Harbour and the surrounding forested hills. “This is amazing.”
“See what I mean?” Keane says.
The furniture looks like it was acquired piecemeal, and from different places around the world. The threadbare gold velvet couch is draped with a multicolored Peruvian blanket, similar to the cushions on my boat. Diving magazines are piled on an African drum. And a huge aboriginal artwork takes up most of one wall. Another wall is covered with photos of Felix and Agda—usually wearing scuba gear—in various oceans.
“Agda!” Felix calls out. “Sullivan has arrived.”
The sound of bare feet slapping on the wood floor greets us, then a flash of red dress and white-blond hair as she flings herself into Keane’s arms. “It is so wonderful to see you,” she squeals as he spins her around. She is bony and wholesome and has the same Scandinavian features as Felix. I’m in awe of the whiteness of their hair, until I catch my own reflection in a mirror. The color has been leached from my braids by the sun while my skin is darker than it’s ever been.