Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,80
the Annandale waterfall. Wednesday, the service manager from the marine repair shop calls to let me know my pump has arrived.
* * *
Dave comes over the following morning and talks me through each step of removing the broken pump and installing the new one. It doesn’t take long at all.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve assembled IKEA furniture more complicated than this,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “Which is why it’s ridiculous to pay for labor.”
He double-checks to make sure all the bolts are as tight as they should be and gives me a thumbs-up. “You done good, kid.”
With the engine repaired, the boat is ready for Trinidad.
I spend the rest of the day preparing meals for the crossing, so I won’t have to cook if the weather gets rough. I clean the cabin. Stow my gear. Rig up a makeshift kennel for Queenie in case she needs to be confined at sea. Dave comes by at dinnertime and takes me to his boat for a farewell burger. He grills them rare and dripping with cheese.
“Oh my God.” I talk with my mouth full. “I can’t remember the last time I had a cheeseburger.”
“Right? I love seafood as much as the next guy,” he says. “But I’ll take an artery-clogging burger over fish any day of the week.”
We tune into the weather report as we eat, and celebrate the prediction of calm seas with glasses of strong rum punch. Dave runs me back to my boat at dusk and gives me a farewell hug.
“We could exchange emails,” he says. “But I don’t really check my email that much.”
“That’s okay. I’m starting to understand that some people come into your life when you need them, and go when it’s time,” I say. “And, you know, if I ever have to replace the water pump again, I’ll think of you.”
He laughs and hugs me once more. “Have a safe trip.”
I thank him. And it’s time to go.
a million shimmering pieces (31)
Every so often the universe doles out rewards. Maybe for something as small as flossing every day or choosing paper over plastic. Or perhaps loving someone so much that it helps them stay alive a little while longer than they might have. For whatever reason the universe chose for me, I am rewarded with the most perfect night. A sky so clear that every star must surely be visible, and the moonlight is bright as it hits the water, shattering into a million shimmering pieces. It was daunting to cross the Gulf Stream two months ago, but tonight I’m not afraid of the sea. Not afraid of my future. Even if the wind kicks up and the waves build, I’m here for it.
The breeze remains constant and steady, and the night passes at the only pace it knows how. I use the autopilot to eat or go to the bathroom, but mostly I’m awake, one hand on the tiller. Somewhere between Friday and Saturday, I pass to the east of the oil rig platforms—two small bright cities in the middle of nowhere. The halfway mark. On the horizon, between the swells of waves, the lights of Trinidad begin to appear.
Traveling almost 1,700 miles might not have made an impact on mankind, but the crack in my own small world is patched. My happiness is too big to be contained. Queenie gives a contented sigh, her fuzzy chin resting on my thigh, and I’m suspended in a perfect state of grace.
Saturday arrives with golden light, rays of sun fanning out across the sky like a proclamation. The island looms bigger and greener the closer I get. Anticipation builds inside me. Trinidad is larger than most of the islands I’ve visited. It’s more urban and developed, so I don’t know what to expect here. About a mile offshore, I furl the sails, turn on the engine, and radio the coast guard on the VHF with my estimated time of arrival.
Venezuela and Trinidad reach toward each other with long, narrow arms of land, and the island-speckled strip of water separating them—the Boca del Dragón straits—is only about twelve miles wide. I motor between two small islands, Huevos and Monos, and into the harbor at Chaguaramas, a small industrial port on the northwestern end of Trinidad. Piers jut out into the harbor for oil tankers and dredges, and the marinas are forests of masts, filled with sailboats bearing flags from all over the world. The fishing fleet is clustered at the deepest part of the harbor, near dry-storage racks