On our bed. Frozen. We were back safely on the boat. But I had been frightened. Michael didn’t understand. For him, fear was a charge. A confirmation that he was alive. But for me, fear was intolerable. To feel unsafe—intolerable. Familiar. Suddenly I realized how insane it was that a woman who felt this way agreed to move onto a sailboat.
The father & son come back in the evening. They spent the day in a hut on Corgidup. I watched them through my binoculars. After they emptied their nets, they disappeared somewhere w/in the island in the p.m. to rest. Maybe they own these islands. But they don’t seem to mind us being here. Funny. What would I do if some dude & his family set up camp in my backyard? I’d call the police is what I’d do.
By the time I think to tell Juliet that we have guests, the ulu is already drawing up beside ‘Juliet.’ The boy holds up something heavy and asks, Pi?a? I should know the word but I have to lean over and squint. Oh, I say. Do we want some pineapple?
I almost start to cry. You bet we do! Yes, I say. Sí! Por favor. Mucho pi?a! Gracias, hombre!
I almost go overboard reaching for the fruit. We haven’t seen a grocery store in a month, since we left Porvenir.
I ask them if they have anything else to sell. Other fruit or maybe lobster or fish to eat? Lobster, yes, they say. They know the English word. They will be back. Will ‘Juliet’ still be here?
Yes, I say. We will be here.
Iggi watchee? asks the boy.
The Guna don’t have their own word for “time.” In order to talk to the merki, to do business with us, they had to borrow one of our words. They point at their wrists. They say “iggi”—Guna for “what”—and “watchee”—Guna for ridiculous merki tool of self-enslavement. Iggi watchee? I am always embarrassed to be asked this question. After the last time, I tucked my watchee under the aft berth mattress.
I grab my empty wrist.
I gave up time, I tell them.
The boy and the man exchange a glance.
Any watchee, I say. All watchee.
They don’t try to disguise their laughter. The boy wears a worn tank top but the father looks like he could have just stepped off the green, handsome, and in a collared polo.
I point to my chest and say, Stupid merki.
No, no, they say. Buen hombre.
I lean down into the companionway & holler for Juliet. We’ve got the engine running to charge the batteries and the girls can’t hear in the galley below. Juliet’s making paper snowflakes with Sybil.
Can you please come up and help me? I say. I’m dying out here.
When Juliet steps on deck, her turquoise tunic fills w/ wind. Her dark hair thrashes against either shoulder. She is like a fallen scrap of sky. The three of us stare.
I clear my throat.
We have visitors, I say.
Hola, she says, smiling.
She speaks Spanish like a pro, due to her Puerto Rican grandma. Despite the fact that Spanish is not our guests’ actual language, it seems to be the best channel for this confab. Juliet talks in Spanish with them & I just watch.
The man and his son warm to her immediately. She presses her hair down with the back of one hand & smiles. In the dusk, she’s brown as a nut. Her big eyes are sleepy-looking. Ah, I think, there she goes again, collecting boyfriends. They talk for a while. I watch her.
I know her. I’ve known her since I was 21. I fell in love with her so hard I shattered some bones. But there were times back in CT when the sound of her voice made my skin crawl. Because every time I heard it, I was getting either instructions or criticism. I tried to stay intimate physically, but it’s tricky having sex with your critic. It