Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,37
the passage from Samana, we’re worn out from two straight days at sea. Keane falls asleep stretched out in the cockpit and we eat ham sandwiches for dinner because neither of us feels like cooking.
The next morning Keane sweeps a small beach’s worth of sand from the cabin as I gather our laundry. His clothes feel different, smell different than mine, but I try not to let my brain make an issue out of it when I wash our clothes together.
“Did you just get to Provo?” The other person in the laundry room is an older white woman with frizzy graying red hair and sport sandals. She gives me a friendly smile.
“Yesterday. How can you tell?”
“The big bag of laundry gave it away,” she says. “That’s the first thing we do when we reach a new port. I’m Corrine.”
“Anna.”
“My husband, Gordon, and I are on the Island Packet down the way,” she says. “It’s called Patience.” I’m constantly surprised by how quickly cruisers invite you into their personal lives, as if having a sailboat makes you part of a secret society. Or maybe days at sea leave them hungry for human contact. Either way, I’m half-expecting Corrine to hand over her email password before long. “We’re from Ontario, Canada.”
“I have the Alberg,” I tell her, which launches her into a story about her husband’s first boat being an Alberg before she wanders off on a tangent about how they were high school sweethearts who married other people but reconnected after their spouses died.
“We married, retired, bought the boat, and now we live aboard full-time,” she says as Keane enters the laundry room, his hair damp and spiky, the two days’ worth of scruffy beard now shaved back to stubble.
He offers to stay with the wash so I can take a shower. I introduce him to Corrine, who begins her introductory spiel all over. Keane is so much better at this than I. He doesn’t just have impeccable manners, he has a genuine interest in other people. Keane is a bonder. The next time Corrine meets someone new, she’ll likely have a story about the nice young Irishman she met in Provo.
I slip away unnoticed and head for the shower, where I strip the salt from my body. Samana cracked me open. I left a girl-shaped skin on that midnight beach and as I wipe the fog from the mirror, I see the next Anna revealed. Limbs darkened. Hair streaked white by the sun. Unfamiliar and recognizable at the same time. She looks healthier and, maybe, happier.
I dress in a dusty-pink skirt scattered with white polka dots and a navy-blue tank top. Put on makeup. Rub half of it away. By the time I return to the laundry room, Keane is folding our dry clothes and Corrine is gone.
“Win another member for the Keane Sullivan fan club?” I pick through the pile for my underwear. I can’t let him fold the holes and period stains and hanging threads.
He laughs. “We’ve been invited to dinner tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“You look very pretty.” He tosses the compliment out, his eyes on the shirt he’s folding, but the back of his neck has turned pink. My face gets warm. The whole thing feels like a scene out of a high school dance. His sincerity is so much more potent than his casual charm.
“Thank you.”
He clears his throat. “We’ll need to hire a taxi to get to town. I’ll make the call.”
Our marina is on the rocky southern shore of the island, very different from the northern beaches that stretch out like a wide golden welcome to the Atlantic. The resorts and villas are upscale. Places where celebrities are caught canoodling in the ocean.
Keane and I aren’t heading anywhere so glamorous. No infinity pools or private balconies for us. Our destination is the IGA to stock up on foods that will be easy to prepare on the big crossing if the weather is bad. Cup Noodles and pop-top cans of Chef Boyardee. Cold cuts and canned tuna. Cheese and crackers.
On our way back to the marina, the taxi is stalled in slow-moving traffic when we pass a tiny shop with a couple of Jeeps for rent. Keane flings open his door. “I’m going to hire a Jeep.”
Before I can say anything, he bolts from the taxi and traffic moves forward, leaving him behind. I’m unloading the groceries from the trunk when Keane rolls up in a bright yellow topless Jeep. He pays the taxi driver, and hands