Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,6
brush. Except, the saying goes “red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” so this is promising. Tomorrow should be a good weather day.
The boat did not drift while I slept. It didn’t swing in the current and hit any other boats, either. A minor miracle. I walk up to the bow to double-check last night’s half-assed handiwork. Whenever we anchored somewhere together, Ben would wake every couple of hours to make sure the anchor was holding. Too much swing and he’d bolt out of bed, sure we were drifting. My relief leaches out of me, replaced by guilt. I should have been paying attention. Ben would have.
But the anchor is doing its thing, and I feel more rested than I have in months.
And hungry.
Rowing the dinghy to shore for dinner on a tropical island sounds appealing. Reggae music from one of the waterfront bars floats across the water, but I’ve missed office hours for customs. Maybe no one would notice, but I’m not prepared to break any laws that might come with a hefty fine. Instead I pour a glass of red wine and make no-meat spaghetti that I eat straight from the pan.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the customs and immigration office, and I’ll find a way to call my mom. She’s probably going out of her mind with worry, but my cell phone still has no signal and there’s no free Wi-Fi floating on the breeze with Bob Marley.
Tomorrow I’ll decide what I’m going to do about the day after tomorrow. Crossing from Miami was the easiest part and I fucked it up. Do I gamble that my accidental good fortune will hold through an entire archipelago?
Tonight I wash the dishes and lie on the foredeck, looking up at the night sky and remembering the time Ben and I did this together. He pointed at a constellation. I don’t remember which one, only that we were anchored in a mangrove-filled bay in Key Largo where the sky was so exploded with stars, it felt like the whole universe was at our fingertips.
“There,” he said. “That little star at the bottom. That one is yours, Anna. Forever and always.”
I didn’t remind him that sometimes the light we see is left over from dead stars. It couldn’t be mine if it was already gone. Had I paid better attention to where he was pointing, I might be able to find that star tonight. But it doesn’t matter. I already know how it feels to try holding on to the light of a dead star.
* * *
My second morning in Bimini dawns so bright, I have no idea how I could have slept through yesterday, but today I’m wide-awake. I inflate the dinghy and row to the marina, where there is a customs office. I bring along my passport, boat registration, customs paperwork, and cash for the cruising fee. Ben and I read horror stories about officials in the Caribbean expecting bribes or adding on “taxes” because no one has the authority to stop them, but the Bahamian officers are all business as they stamp my passport and accept my cash.
Officially cleared, I go back to the boat, where I take a fast shower. After I’m dried and dressed, my hair braided, I lock up the cabin and go ashore.
The island’s main road is lined with sherbet-hued shops, bars, restaurants, and homes, and there are more cars than I expected for an island that’s only seven miles long and several hundred feet wide. Bimini reminds me of a favorite toy, shabby and worn, but well loved. I step into a tiny blue grocery store, where I buy a SIM card so my phone will work in the Bahamas. My first call is home.
“Oh, thank God.” Relief floods my mother’s voice, but I hear Rachel muttering in the background. Sometimes it’s like having two mothers, like I’m five instead of twenty-five. “I called the coast guard to report you missing, but they said there was nothing they could do if you’d left the country.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” I say. “I arrived really late the night before last and slept about fifteen hours straight. I only just came ashore and got my cell phone sorted out.”
“I don’t understand this, Anna. What you are doing is foolish.”
I didn’t call to fight with her, but my defenses go up. “You’re the one who keeps telling me it’s time to move on.”
“But that is not what’s happening,” my mother says. “You are sailing Ben’s boat, living