Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,12

feel like a moldy unidentifiable lump in the back of someone’s refrigerator. I feel seen.

“When were you thinking of leaving Bimini?” Keane asks.

“As soon as possible.”

* * *

Taking a shower makes me feel human again, and while Keane takes the dinghy to get his things from the yacht he delivered yesterday from Key West, I catch up on the phone messages I’ve been ignoring.

My mom’s voicemails are alternately angry and weepy, demanding that I call her back, then begging me to come home. Listening makes me heartsore. Her life hasn’t been easy. Dad dragged her to the States as a military bride and then walked out when my sister and I were kids. I’ve tried so hard to not give her reason to worry, but I don’t possess her German stoicism. I can’t pretend my grief doesn’t exist.

There’s a missed call from my boss, informing me I’ve officially been fired. And a second call to remind me that if I don’t return my uniforms, I’ll be charged for them.

Finally, there’s a voicemail from Ben’s mother. She barely spoke to me when her son was alive, and after his death, she gave me one week’s notice to move out of his apartment. Swept me away like trash. She’s left several voicemails in the past few weeks, but I’ve deleted them all, just like I delete this one.

Instead of calling my mom, I send her an email, explaining that I’ve hired a reputable guide to travel with me to Puerto Rico. Try not to worry too much, I write. I’ll call when I get to San Juan. Ich liebe dich.

The dishes are washed and stowed, and my bed is made, when I hear my name. I climb out of the cabin as Keane maneuvers the dinghy alongside the sailboat. With one hand he passes up an enormous yellow duffel bag that’s so heavy, I stagger backward.

“Jesus,” I say. “Is this thing filled with rocks?”

He laughs. “No, just all my worldly possessions.”

“Really?”

“Aye.” He hands me the oars, and climbs onto the boat, hauling the dinghy up behind him. I’ve seen people with prosthetic legs who need canes or crutches, but Keane moves with the fluid grace of someone who knows his way around boats—prosthesis or otherwise. “And lately I’ve been thinking it’s time to downsize.”

As I pull the plug to deflate the dinghy, I don’t tell him my entire wardrobe is crammed into this boat, including a pair of strappy sandals in the hanging locker and a bronze sequined skirt folded into a drawer. He doesn’t need to know that I’m a messed-up girl flying by the seat of her pants. He’ll find out soon enough.

so fucking unfair (5)

Sailing with someone to spell you when you’re tired or need to pee is a vastly different experience from sailing alone. Keane and I create a four-hour watch rotation, giving each of us time to eat or nap or read a book. On his first watch, Keane sends a fishing line out from the stern, trolling for whatever might take a bite. Bimini is fading into the horizon.

I am down in the cabin, trying to decide what to make for dinner, when the line starts whizzing off the reel and Keane’s fishing rod bends in an arc.

“Anna,” he calls. “A little help, please?”

I take over the tiller while he picks up the pole to do battle with the fish on the other end of the line.

“Could be a barracuda or perhaps a small shark.” His biceps strain as he cranks on the reel, pulling the fish closer and closer. When it reaches the boat, the fish is a silver blur beneath the surface, thrashing wildly, fighting its fate. As Keane lands it on the cockpit floor, it writhes and flops, gills gaping in the air.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Mackerel.” He reaches for the winch handle and I wince as he gives the fish a sharp smack on the head to kill it. Keane trades the handle for a fillet knife and slices the mackerel from top to tail. Inside, the heart is still pulsing, unaware that the fish is dead. “Want a bite?”

“What? Now?”

“Sashimi doesn’t get any fresher,” he says, offering me a ragged sliver of raw fish.

The flesh is warm and minerally on my tongue, nothing like the cool, tidy rolls at my favorite sushi bar. Here we have no little bowls of soy sauce or decorative mounds of wasabi, just a cockpit that looks like a crime scene. I eat a second piece,