had your heart set on Rum Cay, but we can’t navigate the bay in the dark. There are coral heads that make it hazardous to try until daylight. We can change course and do some open-water sailing until sunrise, or we could sail on to Samana. I reckon we’d get there midafternoon and gain back a day on our timeline.”
It bothers me that we’ve deviated so much from Ben’s route, but I don’t want to risk damaging the boat and the reefs in the dark. Keane’s logic is sound.
“Samana is uninhabited,” Keane says. “You can snorkel an uncrowded reef, camp under the stars on your very own beach—everything you were going to do on Rum Cay—and be one hop closer to the Turks and Caicos.”
As Keane adjusts course, I feel a small pang of regret over not getting to see a place Ben wanted to visit, but I swallow it down. He hands over the tiller and returns with cold sandwiches and a bag of Doritos.
“Even though I can, cooking on a rolling sea is not high on my list of favorite things,” he says. “When we reach Samana, maybe we can catch a couple of lobsters and have a proper meal.”
The rest of the night we stay faithful to our four-hour schedule and every time I come off watch, I sleep so that when we reach our destination, I won’t crash. By morning the wind has subsided and the boat glides easily through the water. Keane comes up on deck, yawning and scratching the back of his head. Rum Cay sinks on the horizon in our wake while Samana rises up in front of us.
“Are you doing okay?” I ask. “You’ve had your leg on for a long time.”
“I took it off a bit while I was sleeping,” he says. “So I’m good, but I look forward to having a swim.”
The anchorage at Samana is on the south end of the island and inside a formidable reef. We have to approach from the west and navigate our way through a break only forty feet wide, following a coral-riddled path to clear water.
“We’ve got the incoming tide.” Keane consults the chart book. “If we shoot for the middle of the break, we should have enough water below the keel.”
“It looks scary.”
“Indeed. Ready to drive her in?”
“Me? No. I can’t.”
He rakes his hand up through his hair. “Look, you’re a fine fair-weather sailor, Anna, and you’re quite brave for striking out alone. But I’m not always going to be with you. The only way you’re going to learn is by doing it.”
“What happens if I hit the reef?”
“The same thing that happens if I hit the reef,” Keane says. “It’s pointless to speculate what might happen. What we need at present is to not let fear rule the day. So I’ll go up to the foredeck, where I’ll spot for coral heads and guide you in.”
a universe that is not listening (13)
The water through the cut is a sloppy crisscross chop and I hold the boat to a painfully slow speed as we motor through a minefield of coral. I don’t want to do this. I have an iron grip on the tiller to keep my hand from shaking. My heart is like a wild bird in my chest, slamming against the cage of my ribs. My eyes are everywhere at once. On the depth sounder, which indicates the water is ten feet deep. On Keane’s back as he stands in the bow pulpit. On the dark forest of coral on either side of the boat.
“We’re nearly through,” he calls down to me. “Nearly clear.”
The stillness is cut by the muted underwater scratch of coral against the gelcoat, like tree branches dragged across a window. The boat stutters, and the vibration travels up through my feet, into my body.
“Keep going.” Keane’s voice is calm, but I’m burning with anger and fear. Every instinct I have tells me to stop the boat to keep it from happening again. From making it worse.
“I told you this was going to happen,” I say, pushing the words between gritted teeth. “I told you.”
“Easy, Anna,” he says. “It’s going to be okay. Keep going.”
My eyes are blurred with tears as we motor the last few yards into a broad sandy-bottomed clearing. The only reason I know we are in the clear is because Keane tells me. He lowers the anchor, and when he calls back to put the engine in reverse, I do. The anchor catches