Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,21
winter, there’s always a chance of that.”
“What should I do if there’s bad weather?”
“If you’re sailing, keep going,” he says. “But if you can wait it out, stay where you are and drink a little more rum until the weather improves. It always does.”
We polish off the fish and as I’m finishing the dishes, Keane calls down that it’s time to make the tack that will take us to Pig Beach. It’s dark, so I won’t be able to visit the beach until morning, but a rush of excitement bubbles up inside me as I think about fulfilling one of Ben’s goals—and seeing the pigs for myself. I go out on deck and we make the tack.
With the boat on course, we finish the bottle of wine, passing it back and forth. By the time we reach the island, the alcohol has banked a small fire in my belly that’s warm and content. In Bimini, I was drunk and out of control, but tonight I enjoy the peace.
We are not the only boat in the anchorage. More than a dozen others dot the crescent-shaped bay when I scramble up to the bow to lower the anchor. It’s late, so most of the boats are dark, their anchor lights like extra stars.
“Do you want to go for a swim?” I strip down to my bikini and step over the stern rail.
“From one to Bimini, how drunk are you?” Keane asks.
I laugh. “About a three.”
“I’ll be right in.”
I dive off the boat into the water, where I float on my back, looking up at comets streaking across the night sky and trying not to wish for Ben. From the corner of my eye, I can see Keane, floating beside me. We stay that way for a long time, not speaking. Not even when a tear trickles from the corner of my eye into the ocean.
My fingers are pruned when we climb back onto the boat. I go below and fill the bucket with water for Keane’s residual limb, then change into my pajamas. I’m already in bed when he comes down into the cabin.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I say. “Especially when you’re not thrilled with the plan.”
“I’m fine with the plan,” he says. “I just hope it lives up to your expectations.”
* * *
Ben was wildly excited about the pigs. Some stories say they were left by sailors intending to return to eat them. Others say the pigs swam ashore after a shipwreck. Either way, they escaped domestication, and I think that’s what appealed most to Ben. He went to Princeton, studied business, and went to work at his family’s logistics company to live up to his parents’ expectations. I was an aberration. His mother hated that he fell in love with a girl who worked in a tits-and-ass restaurant. I was too blond, too pretty, and too common for a wealthy young man with a Future. Sometimes I wonder if our relationship would have survived his family’s expectations. Sometimes I wonder if he killed himself to be free.
As I row to shore with my five-pound bag of potatoes, there are already people on the beach. Some came by powerboat this morning, anchoring in the shallows. Others came by dinghy from boats in the harbor. A small tour boat arrived about fifteen minutes ago with some people from a resort on a nearby island. People seem to be having fun, taking selfies and shooting videos of the pigs. Maybe Keane is wrong.
I reach shallow water and a large brown-spotted sow places a hoof on the side of the dinghy, bellowing at me as she tries to scramble up. Overwhelmed and a little frightened, I toss a potato and she retreats to gobble it down, crunching through the skin and the raw white flesh. Some of the other pigs see this new source of food, paddle over, and swarm me. It takes no time at all to empty the bag.
The food exhausted, the pigs abandon me, swimming off in search of someone else to feed them, the way Keane predicted. I want to cry. Not because he was right. Not because the pigs aren’t adorable. But because Ben was wrong. There is no real freedom here. Only an illusion built with rotting fruit, bits of bread, and five-pound bags of potatoes.
I left Keane sitting in the cockpit, clanking and swearing over the outboard motor, adding and subtracting parts in an effort to get it running. I’m not ready to go back