dead transmission. Aside from the Westsail, my dad’s one other flourish was the purchase of a 1984 Pontiac Fiero in white. I used to drive it around Ashtabula with my best friend Nate in the passenger seat. The car was a lot slower than it looked, but Dad was so proud of the thing. He told us not to race it. So we raced it all the time. Stoplight to stoplight through empty nighttime Ohio intersections. One night, the Fiero started sticking a little as I shifted gears. Like it was having doubts. Then, as I was trying to gun it from first to second, the gear shift came loose & started flopping around in my hand. Turned out it was the clutch plate. Me & Nate had broken it. So when ‘Juliet’ quits in Snug Harbor, that’s why I start praying, Please let it be the clutch plate. Because it could be so much worse.
* * *
—
It was our hottest day in Guna Yala. There was no breeze in the anchorage, and, sitting in the bald sun, we got a taste of how hot it would get when the Caribbean summer started. Nothing stirred in Snug Harbor. Our neighbors were all belowdecks, probably drinking Moscow mules in the air-conditioning. Georgie played in the baby pool we’d set up in the cockpit so that we could concentrate on worrying. Sybil lay on her back in the shade of the bimini top, not minding the lack of cushions, nibbling attentively on a candy necklace, one of our last items of food. Michael and I sat in the cockpit perspiring, trying to figure out what to do. Midway between ports, we were perfectly stuck.
Oh, great, I said. Missionaries.
What? Michael said, dreamily.
Missionaries. Look.
Because there they were, white shirtsleeves and all, motoring toward us on a dinghy.
Well, this day is just going from bad to worse, Michael said.
Why’re they all dressed up? Sybil asked, peeking out of the cockpit.
Michael and I looked at each other. He was wearing his muscle shirt, and his unwashed hair had clotted into soft blond spikes. I was wearing one of his T-shirts over a sarong. And the children, forget it. Sybil was topless, except for some Mardi Gras beads. She was wearing shorts over pants. We had to laugh. I tugged Sybil’s shirt on.
Jesus Christ, I said. What a sight we are.
Don’t use our savior’s name in vain, Michael said.
Hello! called out one string bean of a boy. We heard you are having problems!
Oh, I said. They want to help.
Can we come alongside, Juliet?
Uh, sure, Michael called back.
Another boy threw a line and Sybil quickly tied it to our cleat. There were three of them in the boat, nearly identical in dress and buzz cuts. One boy lifted his sunglasses. He looked older than the others, but still very young.
We’re based in Playón Chico, he said, just on the other side of Snug Harbor. I’m Teddy, this is Mark, this is John.
We introduced ourselves and explained about the transmission.
Rotten luck to need a repair out here, the older boy said. But you have options. We have a local guy who flies out of Narganá. He could fly you back to Panama City to get parts, if you like.
We were just contemplating what to do, Michael said. We’re stumped.
Rotten luck, the boy said again. He seemed genuinely sorry.
Even if I got the part, Michael explained, I couldn’t do the repair myself.
The boys nodded somberly.
But you can sail, said another boy, hopefully. I mean, your boat is sound.
I looked at Michael, who seemed lost in thought.
The way they used to do it, added the third. Plenty still do. Like the Guna.
My husband’s a really good sailor, I said. He could sail us to Cartagena without a motor. It’s not far.
Michael looked at me, surprised.
I can fly on the rigging, Sybil announced. Want to see?