Float Plan(5)

“Fuck.”

I burrow around the lazarette for my phone to look up the tide table, but there’s no signal. Likely for the best—I don’t want to know how many texts and calls I’ve missed. I drop the useless phone back into the locker and pray the tide is incoming. Otherwise, this will be a long, long night.

Since the boat isn’t going anywhere for a while, I climb down into the galley and make a turkey sandwich—the closest I’m going to get to Thanksgiving dinner. My mom is probably hurt that I won’t be there, and I think again about giving up this impulsive plan. Once I come unstuck, I could return to Florida. Beg for my job back. Live on the boat. Fake it till I make it. That would be fine, wouldn’t it? Except Ben wasn’t content with fine; he wanted extraordinary. Shouldn’t I want the same?

If he were here, he would laugh at my embarrassment over running aground and say, “If no one saw you do it, did it really happen?” He’d hang a solar lamp from the boom, crack open a cold beer, and cue up a playlist of his favorite sailing music. He’d turn the moment into a party. When I finish eating my sandwich, I do all of those things, performing them like a summoning ritual that might bring him back.

They never do.

Without Ben, it’s too much. I switch off the music after a handful of songs and listen to the quiet, rhythmic shh-shh-shh of waves lapping against the shore. Except thinking about him makes me restless. I stand up and move from one side of the cockpit to the other, rocking the boat, hoping the seafloor will loosen its grip. I feel ridiculous, but suddenly the boat shifts. It begins to drift, pushed forward on the current. I quickly start the engine and steer back into the deeper part of the channel, where I stay until I reach the anchorage.

There aren’t many boats as I stand on the bow to throw the anchor into the water, a relief because I don’t know how much line to let out, and even when it feels secure, I don’t have the expertise to tell when the anchor is holding fast. I turn on the anchor light at the top of the mast and hoist the yellow quarantine flag so customs officials will know I haven’t cleared into the Bahamas yet.

The last thing I do as I crawl into the V-berth—still wearing my clothes—is say a prayer to God, Ben, and the universe that the anchor won’t drag in the night, that when I wake tomorrow morning, the boat won’t be smashed against the shore.





drunken kaleidoscope (3)





The sky is a faded blue when I wake, one that could mean dawn or dusk. The travel clock on the shelf beside my head reads 6:09. No help at all. It seems impossible that I could have slept all night and through most of another day, but when I climb out into the cockpit, the leading edge of the sun has met the horizon. The sunset sky is slashed with red and purple, like the work of a painter with an angry brush. Except, the saying goes “red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” so this is promising. Tomorrow should be a good weather day.

The boat did not drift while I slept. It didn’t swing in the current and hit any other boats, either. A minor miracle. I walk up to the bow to double-check last night’s half-assed handiwork. Whenever we anchored somewhere together, Ben would wake every couple of hours to make sure the anchor was holding. Too much swing and he’d bolt out of bed, sure we were drifting. My relief leaches out of me, replaced by guilt. I should have been paying attention. Ben would have.

But the anchor is doing its thing, and I feel more rested than I have in months.

And hungry.

Rowing the dinghy to shore for dinner on a tropical island sounds appealing. Reggae music from one of the waterfront bars floats across the water, but I’ve missed office hours for customs. Maybe no one would notice, but I’m not prepared to break any laws that might come with a hefty fine. Instead I pour a glass of red wine and make no-meat spaghetti that I eat straight from the pan.

Tomorrow I’ll go to the customs and immigration office, and I’ll find a way to call my mom. She’s probably going out of her mind with worry, but my cell phone still has no signal and there’s no free Wi-Fi floating on the breeze with Bob Marley.

Tomorrow I’ll decide what I’m going to do about the day after tomorrow. Crossing from Miami was the easiest part and I fucked it up. Do I gamble that my accidental good fortune will hold through an entire archipelago?

Tonight I wash the dishes and lie on the foredeck, looking up at the night sky and remembering the time Ben and I did this together. He pointed at a constellation. I don’t remember which one, only that we were anchored in a mangrove-filled bay in Key Largo where the sky was so exploded with stars, it felt like the whole universe was at our fingertips.

“There,” he said. “That little star at the bottom. That one is yours, Anna. Forever and always.”

I didn’t remind him that sometimes the light we see is left over from dead stars. It couldn’t be mine if it was already gone. Had I paid better attention to where he was pointing, I might be able to find that star tonight. But it doesn’t matter. I already know how it feels to try holding on to the light of a dead star.



* * *



My second morning in Bimini dawns so bright, I have no idea how I could have slept through yesterday, but today I’m wide-awake. I inflate the dinghy and row to the marina, where there is a customs office. I bring along my passport, boat registration, customs paperwork, and cash for the cruising fee. Ben and I read horror stories about officials in the Caribbean expecting bribes or adding on “taxes” because no one has the authority to stop them, but the Bahamian officers are all business as they stamp my passport and accept my cash.