Float Plan(59)

Another day we drive to Saint-Pierre, a town destroyed in 1902 by the eruption of Mount Pelée. A portion of the ruins remain, foundations of buildings dragged into the sea. Sainte-Pierre is a much smaller town now, having never fully recovered, many of the buildings boarded shut and a Catholic cathedral standing empty. I am reminded of Montserrat. Of how inconsequential my problems are in comparison. I’m a visitor who gets the best of paradise instead of the worst.

We are into our twelfth day on the island before we bring up the subject of leaving.

“Let’s not,” Keane says over breakfast in the cockpit. “We can squat in the dive shack. Fix it up. Raise some chickens and goats and grow our own vegetables.”

I smear guava jelly on a slice of baguette. “Okay.”

“You’re an easier sell than I thought.”

“I love Martinique,” I say. “And not just because of the sex.”

“No, but I’m always going to have the best memories of this island now.”

Being with Keane is effortless. There’s no guesswork involved with his moods, and I love how often his heart comes out of his mouth. I smile. Tell him to shut up, even though I love every word. He turns on the VHF and we listen to the weather forecast on a station broadcasting from St. Lucia.

“Our window is now,” he says. “Otherwise, we’ll get the front and have stay two or three more days.”

“I want to stay anchored here in this harbor forever.”

“What about Trinidad?”

At some point, Trinidad fell so far off my radar that I almost forgot about it. Following Ben’s course doesn’t matter so much anymore, but I need to see this trip through to the end. I need the closure. The only way to free ourselves from the tractor beam of this island is to go. I sigh. “Let’s leave in the morning.”

We take a long afternoon nap in the hammock. We buy a fat lobster for dinner from one of the local fishermen, and after the dishes are washed, I play with Queenie on deck while Keane checks his email.

“Anna.” There’s gravity in his voice, but light in his eyes when he looks at me. “I’ve been offered a spot aboard a sixty-five-footer during Barbados Sailing Week with an eye toward becoming permanent crew.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, wanting to smile, and as Queenie drops the ball into my lap, I consider how to respond in a way that won’t reveal the tiny fissures in my heart. Keane and I have talked so much about doing something new, something together, but this is his dream. He’s trying not to let it show, but he wants it. “That’s excellent.”

“And yet I’m not really getting a happy vibe.”

“I am happy.” Except there’s a catch in my chest at the thought of him leaving. “This might be the break you’ve been waiting for.”

He nods. “The owner wants me to join them for the round-the-buoys portion of the regatta, then do the Barbados to Antigua distance race.”

His excitement is too big to be contained, and his smile makes me wonder if this is the last smile his other girlfriends saw before the wind gods carried him away. I blink, trying to hold back tears. I feel foolish for thinking he belonged to me.

His smile falters. “You’re crying.”

“Yes, because I’m selfish.” I scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I let myself believe we were going to build something together. I hoped that maybe I was enough to make you want to stay.”

“You are, but—”

“The worst part is that you don’t have to explain. I understand.”

“Come with me,” he says. “We’ll sail to Barbados together and you can explore the island while I’m racing.”

“What happens when you leave for Antigua? Or when the owner wants you to stay on for Key West or Tasmania or Dubai? Barbados was not part of Ben’s plan, and it’s certainly not part of mine.”

“This doesn’t have to be the end, Anna,” Keane says. “I’ll come back.”

“When?”

“I … I don’t know.”

“I can’t be your contingency plan,” I say. “I have a victory lap to do on a beach in Trinidad, and even though I love you more than I could have ever imagined, I can do this without you.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“That we both have somewhere we need to go. If we’re meant to be together … we’ll find our way back.”

When he kisses me, I sink into it because kissing him has become as natural as breathing. When he is inside me, my body begs him to stay when my words don’t. Later, when he is asleep, and I am on deck alone in the dark—his scent lingering on my skin and the echo of his fingers in my hair—I cry myself to sleep.



* * *



We’re pretending that everything is okay as we walk the length of the town jetty to the open doors of Saint-Henri for Sunday Mass. I tell Keane I want him to be happy. That I don’t want him to live with regret. That we’ll never be more than a phone call or email away. But the lie in the middle is that I want him to change his mind. I kneel in the pew beside him, listening to him recite the prayers he knows by heart, and I pray for a miracle.

Again and again I stop myself from asking him to stay. It would be selfish. He is selfish. I am selfish. To the point where we cancel each other out, and we’re just humans, bumping along the dark walls of our lives, feeling for the switch that will give us light. Hoping we don’t fuck everything up.