We poled past Ernesto’s house, the only structure in sight. It was a large, hospitable-looking hut, the thatch roof whispering in the breeze. We saw no movement through the cane walls.
Maybe he’s gone out, I said.
Gone out where, asked Sybil, staring at the jungle.
I assumed I would be nervous in Michael’s absence, but in the mangrove, for some reason, I felt calm. The children and I fell into a peaceable silence, watching the shadows of leaves and seabirds cross the flat surface. What calmed me was the absence of wind. It’s hard to find privacy on a boat, but the one presence a sailor can never truly get free of is the wind. Even belowdecks, it whistles, questions, and tears.
The banks of the mangrove formed a solid wall of vegetation. Cool exhalations came out of the jungle when we brought the dinghy close enough. The roots of the mangroves multiplied as they forked outward, diving into the water in huge, complicated knots. Sybil and I made a game of trying to follow one root all the way back to its trunk. We were still doing this when Georgie suddenly pointed into the canopy.
Deh-deh! We ignored him. Deh-deh! he said.
Be quiet, you, said Sybil. I’m concentrating.
We nosed farther toward shore, close enough that the vines started poking our hair. I became aware of the snake too late. By then it was overhead, hanging in bracelets from a branch. I screamed, poling the dinghy backward. The snake leered at me and dove into the swamp. Georgie looked on, wide-eyed.
Deh-deh, he explained again.
I put my hand to my heart.
Sybil was rattled. Why can’t he just say snake, she huffed.
’Nake! said Georgie. ’Nake!
Guess you just taught him how to say it, I observed, heading out into the open water as fast as I possibly could.
The commotion roused Ernesto.
My friends! he said, stepping through the curtain of vegetation, buttoning his shirt. Welcome to Gaigar. Excuse my tardiness.
I found myself grinning. Hello, Sahila.
What is the name of your tender? called Ernesto.
Oily Residue, I replied.
He put his hand to one ear.
Oily Residue!
The sahila asks for permission to board your Oily Residue.
Sybil looked at me and snorted. Why’s he talk like that?
He’s a chief, I said. He can talk however he wants.
If you bring your vessel to my dock, he shouted, I will show you Gaigar.
I rested the pole across my legs. The old man stood there in a rumpled linen shirt with a blossom through the buttonhole, knobbed legs sticking out through merki-style running shorts, his skin cleanly shaved. I realized he’d gussied up for me. My pulse, to my chagrin, quickened.
Georgie stood and charged across the dinghy.
’Nake! he cried toward shore.
Ernesto put his hands on his knees. Did you see a snake? Doesn’t your mother know not to wander under the fig tree? Watch this.
Ernesto stomped the thin board on which he was standing—his dock, I presumed—and immediately several smaller snakes thrashed away through the sargasso weed.
Cool! Sybil said. We’re coming!
He gripped my hand hard and strong, stepped down into the dinghy, and sat beside Sybil. He directed me across the swamp without turning his head. He was probably too old to do otherwise, but I liked to think he was respecting my right to captain my own vessel. Guna women learn to sail in girlhood. I had seen beautiful women with tippy, overloaded ulus fitted with sails crossing open water in high winds.
The jungle looks like one but it is many, Ernesto was saying to Sybil. See this plant. Growing from the trunk of palm. No, not that one, this one. See its leaves. Big. Wings. Like stingrays. This is why it is called nidirbi sakangid. Stingray fin. This plant cures dizziness. Do you ever get dizzy?