Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,81

filled with powerboats. It’s unlikely I’ll hear back from Keane, but as I skirt the anchorage on my way to the customs dock, I text him anyway. Despite everything, he is the first person I want to tell.

I made it.

I spend a good portion of the afternoon cutting through the red tape of immigration, customs, and arranging a vet check for Queenie. The process is anticlimactic. I should be sipping champagne. Instead, once our papers are in order, I move the boat to a slip at a marina. I call my mom as I walk Queenie around the boatyard.

“I am so proud of you,” she says, and I hear the smile in her voice. “Your identity was so wrapped up in Ben, I was afraid that this trip … Well, I thought you were going in the wrong direction.”

“I probably was when I started, but not now.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I still have to decide what to do with the boat.”

“You could sell it,” Mom suggests. “Use the money to go to college or tide you over until you find a new job.”

“Maybe,” I say, but selling this boat is not even a consideration. It’s my home. “Tell Rachel and Maisie hello and that I love them. Hopefully I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up and consider champagne or maybe having a fancy meal somewhere, but after twenty hours at sea, I’m tired. I lie down for a nap and don’t wake up until the next day.

* * *

Sunday dawns with work to be done. Small things come first. I take a long, hot shower in an actual bathroom. I clean the boat. Do laundry. Stop at the grocery store, where I stock up on milk, eggs, cheese, and yogurt. I pick up an overdue bottle of champagne, a box of dog treats for Queenie, and a personal-size bag of M&M’s—a luxury I haven’t had since I left Florida—that I eat sitting in the grass of the boatyard while Queenie runs her legs to rubber. She flops down beside me, panting and dusty, and I tilt my face toward the sun. I wish Ben could see me. I wish Keane were here. But I’m starting to understand how sadness and happiness can live side by side within a heart. And how that heart can keep on beating.

While I sit, I watch a group of boatyard workers buying lunch from a bicycle vendor with HOT DOUBLES painted on the side of his cart. Curious, I brush the dirt from my hands and get in line, with no idea what I’m buying.

“Doubles is the national Trini food,” one of the workers explains, spreading open his paper-wrapped lunch for me to see. “It’s like a sandwich with two pieces of bara—that’s the bread—and channa in the middle. Then you add sweet chutney or hot pepper or both.”

I listen as the next guy orders a doubles with mango chutney, cucumber, and medium pepper. When it’s my turn, I order the same and discover it’s a bit like the West Indies version of a taco, but with fried bread that’s filled with chickpeas. The mango is sweet, the cucumber cool, and even the small amount of hot pepper has more bite than I expected.

“Oh my God, that’s so spicy!” My eyes water and my nose runs, making the locals laugh. I wash it down fast with a Red Solo soda.

“Maybe slight pepper next time,” the first worker says.

“Definitely,” I say. “Thanks for helping me order.”

My lips burn and my hands smell like curry when I stop at the marine supply store in the harbor for the next thing on my list. The bigger thing. I buy a can of gold leaf paint and a small brush. Back on the boat, I spend some time on the internet, finding the right font.

I know so much more about my boat now.

Including the name.

With a damp towel draped over my head to keep the Caribbean sun from scorching the back of my neck, I balance in the dinghy, roughing out the letters—first with pencil, then painting them in. It takes a long time and my fingers start to cramp, but when I’m finished, the transom shines.

I change into a dress and wear the rough diamonds from Keane and stand on the dock beside the boat for my own private christening ceremony. Queenie sits at my feet, looking properly solemn, which makes me laugh as I pop the cork on the champagne bottle. I don’t