Float Plan(62)

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Alexander from Daffodil’s place shows up at dawn, bearing a bag of clean laundry and a replacement shackle for my halyard. I’m still trying to fully awaken when he scrambles up the mast and pulls the errant halyard back down to the deck. Within minutes the new shackle is installed. Alexander takes away my trash. I listen to the weather to make sure I have a window.

Joyce comes out on deck wearing her droopy bathing suit and holding a huge travel mug of coffee as I’m pulling up the anchor.

“You’re leaving?”

“I need to swim with those turtles.”

Her laugh drifts over to me. “Have fun. Be safe.”

“You too. And thank you for dinner.”

Before I’m out of range of the island’s cell service, I check my phone to see if Keane texted back while I was sleeping, but there are no new messages.

The mainsail at full capacity, the boat powers through the water. I sail past Canouan and into the passage above Mayreau. I consider sailing to Salt Whistle Bay to see why Joyce loves it, but I want to swim with the turtles more. The ocean winds strengthen, so I put a reef in the mainsail until I get into the lee of the Tobago Cays. I lower the sails early and motor carefully, watching for the navigational markers that guide me through the reefs. There are about a dozen boats of all sizes and power sources moored off the beach of a tiny uninhabited island, and I’m tying the boat to a mooring ball when a park ranger comes to collect the fee.

When I slip into the clear, shallow water and see my first sea turtle—almost close enough to touch, hanging in the water like a bird mid-flight—everything I did to get here was worth the effort. The turtle stares at me, and swims away. Underwater, time loses meaning as I follow my new friend, watching it dip toward the bottom and swoop to the surface, poking its head out into the dry world. I swim until my limbs are noodles and my stomach is ready to be filled.

Queenie brings me the ball to throw while I drink soup and eat a sandwich on the foredeck. I secure her in the V-berth for the night and fall asleep in the hammock, stretched under stars flung across the sky like confetti.

In my dreams, I am back in Fort Lauderdale, in my old apartment, with Ben’s face hovering over me, his hips moving slowly against mine. His hair is soft between my fingers and I can feel him inside me. I’m startled out of the dream by my own voice, a moan, and I lie with my heartbeat racing. My body pulsing from a sleep orgasm. Tears of disappointment and guilt, happiness and confusion, fill my eyes. Especially when I realize that the way his body moved against mine was not Ben at all. It was Keane.

I give up trying to sleep when the first light appears on the horizon. It isn’t bright enough to even call it sunrise when I raise the anchor and head south. I stop briefly at Union Island to clear out of the Grenadines and take Queenie for a walk. While she snuffles in a scrubby palm, looking for lizards, I text Keane: I hate that every part of me misses every part of you. As soon as I hit send, I regret it. Texting him isn’t helping me move forward.

An hour later I am back under sail, aiming for Grenada, the last stop before Trinidad.

Dolphins accompany me for the first couple of hours, and with the autopilot engaged, I stand on the foredeck and watch them race the boat. These are common dolphins—a species I’ve never seen before—darker gray on their backs than the bottlenose variety, with light-colored sides. When they’ve had their fun, they disappear, and I’m left to fill the hours myself. I think a lot about my dream and second-guess whether I put Ben away too soon, fell too fast for Keane.

In Victorian times, rules of society dictated that widows wear black for a year and a day, then transition to half mourning, when they were allowed to lighten up their colors. Even if the widows’ actual feelings were muddled, the rules were pretty clear. But my year and a day is coming up fast and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, let alone how I’m supposed to feel. There’s no wrong way to grieve, but I’ve taken a step backward. I’m angry that Keane left, and angry Ben came back.

I put on dance music and push them both away. Sing at the top of my lungs. Pause to marvel that five miles away an active underwater volcano called Kick ’em Jenny is building an island. Thousands of years from now, a different woman might sail past alone; another people might settle there and make it a home. And, once more, Mother Nature puts my small life into perspective.

Sunset is imminent when I roll up the jib and lower the main to motor into the shelter harbor of Hog Island. Grenada resembles the other islands—green hills and golden beaches—and I’m nearing the mouth of the harbor when the engine alarm shrills. Queenie begins to howl, and I don’t know what to do except turn off the motor. Down in the cabin, I pull up the companionway stairs and open the engine box. Heat blasts out at me, smelling like burnt paint. There’s no fire, no smoke, but the engine definitely overheated.

“Shit.”

This problem is more difficult than the halyard. I’m not capable of sailing into a harbor filled with boats, coming to a stop, and anchoring without a motor. And, unlike St. Vincent, where I’d have my pick of boat boys, there are none in Grenada. I consider calling for help on the radio, but pride pulls me back. Not knowing what has gone wrong on my own boat is embarrassing. On top of everything, it’s starting to get dark.

“If I could take the dinghy ashore—oh my God! I know what to do! I know what to do!”