Float Plan(64)

“I’m Dave.” He reaches across to shake my hand.

“Anna.”

“Where you from?”

“Technically Florida,” I say. “But I belong to that boat there.”

He laughs. “I like how you put it that way. So true. And get this … I belong to that boat over there.”

I follow the line of his finger to a smaller, battle-scarred version of my boat with the name Four Gulls painted on the transom.

“Yours is the only other Alberg I’ve seen since I left Florida.”

Dave explains that he spends most of his year in the Caribbean but works as a bartender back home in Cleveland every summer to feed his sailing habit. I tell him I ran away from home, and he laughs. After the dinghy concert, we give each other Alberg tours.

“Damn,” he says. “Yours is so much cleaner than mine.”

“Maybe. But I bet yours runs.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Pretty sure it’s the water pump,” I say. “The marine supply says they should be back in stock Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“There are worse fates than being stranded in paradise,” he says. “If you need a hand installing it, I’d be happy to help.”

Dave admires my pirate doodle and when he sees the Polaroid from the patchwork house, he asks if Keane is my old man. I pretend to shake and turn over a Magic 8-Ball. “Cannot predict now.”

He laughs. “Long distance can be a killer.”

We go from my boat to his, cutting a slalom course through the anchorage and doing doughnut circles in the empty spaces between boats. We’re laughing like little kids when an old guy comes out of his cabin to yell at us.

Four Gulls is crammed with stuff—power tools, extra sails, clothes everywhere, a broken fan clipped to the handrail—like a storage closet exploded. I have no idea how Dave fits himself and a dog in such a crowded space.

“I’d blame it on a rogue wave,” he says. “But yeah. It’s kind of a mess.”

Taped to his bulkhead is a picture of him with a pretty blonde.

“Long distance?” I ask.

“Yup.” He lifts a fist to bump and I tap my knuckles against his. “She’ll be down in a couple of weeks. I’m going to have to start cleaning soon.”

“You should probably throw everything overboard and start fresh.”

He laughs. “Or set fire to the whole boat and use the insurance money to buy a new one.”

Dave breaks out some Bud Light he brought from Ohio. We drink and play dominoes until sunset. He delivers me to my boat as anchor lights are going on all over the harbor. “Just like curfew,” he says. “Give me a holler when you get your water pump.”

I consider texting Keane as I crawl into my bed, but there doesn’t seem to be much point. Even if the fault lies with the satellites, I’ve stopped hoping for a reply.

Monday, Queenie and I take a minibus to Grand Etang National Park, where we go for a long hike in the rain forest. Tuesday, I jump off a ledge into the pool at the bottom of the Annandale waterfall. Wednesday, the service manager from the marine repair shop calls to let me know my pump has arrived.



* * *



Dave comes over the following morning and talks me through each step of removing the broken pump and installing the new one. It doesn’t take long at all.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve assembled IKEA furniture more complicated than this,” I say.

“Exactly,” he says. “Which is why it’s ridiculous to pay for labor.”

He double-checks to make sure all the bolts are as tight as they should be and gives me a thumbs-up. “You done good, kid.”

With the engine repaired, the boat is ready for Trinidad.

I spend the rest of the day preparing meals for the crossing, so I won’t have to cook if the weather gets rough. I clean the cabin. Stow my gear. Rig up a makeshift kennel for Queenie in case she needs to be confined at sea. Dave comes by at dinnertime and takes me to his boat for a farewell burger. He grills them rare and dripping with cheese.

“Oh my God.” I talk with my mouth full. “I can’t remember the last time I had a cheeseburger.”

“Right? I love seafood as much as the next guy,” he says. “But I’ll take an artery-clogging burger over fish any day of the week.”

We tune into the weather report as we eat, and celebrate the prediction of calm seas with glasses of strong rum punch. Dave runs me back to my boat at dusk and gives me a farewell hug.

“We could exchange emails,” he says. “But I don’t really check my email that much.”

“That’s okay. I’m starting to understand that some people come into your life when you need them, and go when it’s time,” I say. “And, you know, if I ever have to replace the water pump again, I’ll think of you.”

He laughs and hugs me once more. “Have a safe trip.”

I thank him. And it’s time to go.





a million shimmering pieces (31)





Every so often the universe doles out rewards. Maybe for something as small as flossing every day or choosing paper over plastic. Or perhaps loving someone so much that it helps them stay alive a little while longer than they might have. For whatever reason the universe chose for me, I am rewarded with the most perfect night. A sky so clear that every star must surely be visible, and the moonlight is bright as it hits the water, shattering into a million shimmering pieces. It was daunting to cross the Gulf Stream two months ago, but tonight I’m not afraid of the sea. Not afraid of my future. Even if the wind kicks up and the waves build, I’m here for it.