Wind, Michael had told me, wind is free!

  I didn’t see him snorkeling at the outer reef. But I did see an ulu with two figures in it. I waded out as far as I could, thinking I might ask them, but they were too far upwind to hear my voice. I watched them for a moment, scanning the surface, until Georgie writhed to get down and the two of us slopped back to the beach.

  Hey, Michael said.

  He was sitting right there, his back against a palm, his flippers stacked beside him.

  What the hell, I said. Where the hell have you been?

  What? His expression changed, contracting around my voice. Snorkeling, honey. I’ve been snorkeling.

  Where, in fucking Cartagena?

  He lowered his eyes to his sand-encrusted legs, then squinted back up at me. The sky had clouded up with a hazy brightness. He looked uncomprehending. I softened.

  Why didn’t you tell me, Michael? I said. You should have told me. I was scared.

  I sent Sybil back. Didn’t she tell you? I saw you. I thought you saw me.

  You didn’t. She didn’t.

  George squatted down to stare at his father’s sandy leg.

  Deh, he said. Deh-deh.

  That’s right, buddy, Michael said. Daddy.

  What’s wrong? I said.

  Nothing, Michael said.

  Nothing?

  Nothing. I just feel—

  Sybil crashed through the palms. She had shucked her swim shirt and stood with her arms crossed over her naked chest, in a huff.

  I told you not to move, Sybil, I said.

  I don’t have nobody to play with. Play with me.

  What, Michael, I said. Talk to me. Are you hurt? You feel what? Sick?

  He looked up.

  Changed, he said. I feel changed.

  February something-or-other. LOG OF YACHT ‘JULIET.’ Have you ever seen the way water lights up near the breakers? Because of the bubbles. It’s like a night sky during a snowfall. I drifted out today. Far out. I couldn’t see anything but the bubbles & my own stark white arms. Couldn’t see the bottom. Just some shapes that changed w/ my imagination. Eventually I saw a shadowy bulk below, smooth.

  I’ve already swum over the stern before I piece it together. Foredeck, cockpit. I half expect to see the crew walking on deck, mopping in slow motion. The light gives the whole scene a supernatural glow. Suddenly my heart is pounding. I can’t regulate my breath. I have to lift my face and spit out the mouthpiece, kicking to get high enough out of the water, which this far out bites my face with salty chop.

  Then I hear voices. Nearby, two Guna sit in their ulu. A man and a teenage boy fishing. They appear to have been there for a long time. But the current does things like that. A shell game of near and far.

  The boy lifts a hand and waves.

  Hey! I shout. I’m hysterical, relieved to see two real people—my first in days. Hola! Qué tal!

  Qué tal, says the boy, wiping his forehead with the inside of his wrist.

  The man smiles and just looks at me. I am close enough to see sweat on his temples. Neither of us says anything. He pulls on a rope a couple times, leans over, and checks his pot or cage. I don’t remember how to say “lobster” in Spanish. After a while, I realize they are watching me again. I feel an alertness, a reminder of all that I cannot see. Something shudders below me.

  I know what it is before I put my mask back in the water. In the valley between the sunken boat and the sea shelf, moving like a corporation of shadows, swim a pod of reef sharks. They pace back and forth over the wreck.

  I swim a little closer to the ulu. But I can’t look away.

  For a long time, I don’t.

  * * *

  —

  I sat under the open hatch. 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, Piña? 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 piña! 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 may feel great but it’s just not ultimately in your best interest. I can only imagine what she thought of me.

  It hurts me to think of the things we’ve never talked about. Look at the care we take w/ our secrets, when we’re so sloppy w/ everything else.

  The Guna father makes a joke, & Juliet laughs her big laugh. I join in, halfhearted.

  You don’t need to punish someone like Juliet.

  That would be redundant.

  * * *

  —

  I remember the halyard bumping against the mast like the tongue of a bell, and the boat swaying, pushed by the currents and their cross-purposes. It was brightly dark on our bed, the moon watching our nakedness through the open hatches.

  Ménage à trois: man, woman, moon.

  Making love on the boat lent the love act added closeness. Under the low ceiling, we were nose to nose, many-elbowed. Michael’s body was shadowed blue in the moonlight. Already, he was touched with age. Age grew from his ears, fouled his chest hair. But at sea, a little gray seemed favorable. My sexuality had been blinking on and off like a light with faulty wiring for years, years after the kids were born. Some days I walked through the world with absolutely no desire, like a doll, and then, as if possessed, I’d be consumed by lust, triggered by something embarrassing like the image of Tom Brady shirtless on the beach, blowing into a conch. That night at sea, it didn’t seem to matter how far away I’d wandered or why. It didn’t matter how tangled sex was for me on a good day—not under that moon. I wanted him.

  He saw me. He bent down. He cheated open my tiny door. And I became like the spirals of bioluminescence you can stir up with an oar in certain dark lagoons.

  Feb 15. LOG OF YACHT ‘JULIET.’ Naguargandup Cays. NOTES AND REMARKS: No more piña, no more naranja, not even any more banana, a pretty boring fruit that sounds delicious right about now. Today we sail to the mainland to re-provision. Sybie & I up early. Feasting on oatmeal boiled in shelf-stable milk. I figured I would take the opportunity to show her how to use the VHF. We sit at the nav station, side by side. Morning blazes through the hatches.

  Every once in a blue moon, I say to Sybil, a boat has an emergency. And the crew has to make a distress call. If so, you use this. I hold up the VHF handset. You’ve seen me talk on this, yes? Yes. Well even though we can’t see them, lots of people are out there listening to the main channel.

  Sybie says, I already know what to say. Mayday! Mayday! she shouts. We’re taking in water! Help!

  Shh, I say. Your mom is sleeping. Good start, though, I say. Let’s practice. But not with Mayday. You absolutely can’t joke around about that.

  OK, she says. This button? Yes, that button, I say. Hold it down. Let’s see if we can find somebody. Just for fun. Say the name of your boat. You have to say it three times. Then you say, Over.

  This is ‘Juliet,’ she says, into the handset. Over.

  You have to say it at the same time you push the button down, OK?

  OK. ‘Juliet,’ ‘Juliet,’ ‘Juliet.’ Over.

  Very good, I say. Now wait.

  We listen. Nothing. White noise fills the cabin.

  Oh, Daddy, she says, sighing. There’s no one out there. We are totally alone.

  I laugh, thinking, God, she sounds just like her mother.

  We’re just practicing, I say. No biggie. But now we have to wait two minutes before we try again.

  OK. She swings her legs violently. We wait.

  Then we hear it.

  ‘Juliet,’ this is ‘Adagio.’ Over.

  Sybil’s face lights up. Hey, Daddy! That’s us!

  It gets me every time. A response from beyond.

  It’s a man’s voice. Friendly, a little sleepy. Lightly accented.

  Sybil screams, Hello, ‘Adagio!’

  Over, I prompt.

  Over!

  ‘Adagio,’ I say. This is ‘Juliet.’ Switch to six-eight. Over.

  Sybil and I both stare into the static.

  Roger, ‘Juliet,’ replies the voice. Roger six-eight. Over.

  I scroll through the channels with the knob.

  If you are signaling Mayday, I tell her, you don’t have to switch channels.

  But she has already grabbed the handset. Hello, ‘Adagio!’

  Hello, ‘Juliet.’ Am I speaking to the Captain?

  No! She roars laughter.

  You don’t have to shout, honey, I say.

  My name is Sybil Partlow and I’m seven years old! Over! I’m learning how to use the VHF in case we start to sink. Over!

  Hold on, ‘Juliet,’ the man’s voice responds. I have someone you might want to talk to.

  Hello? says a new voice.

  I prod her. Say something, Sybil.

  Hello? This is the boat ‘Juliet.’ Good morning. Over.

  Hello. My name is Fleur and I’m seven years old.

  Sybil throws down the handset, runs across the saloon, and climbs on top of the settee. She does a pull-up to peer out the portlights, her bare feet clawing at the bulkhead.

  Where are you, little girl? she shouts.

  Sybil, I say, laughing. Use the VHF.

  She drops, runs back.

  Hello?

  The other child is laughing, too. What’s your name again? she asks.

  Sybil. Sih. Bull. Sybil Partlow. From the United States of America!

  I’m Fleur and I’m Dutch. Fleeeeer. Do you want to come over and play?

  Do you have any dolls? Sybil shouts. My favorite one fell overboard years ago.

  * * *

  —

  I pull up to the house and sit behind the wheel for a moment. It is late afternoon. The topmost corner of the house is lit with sun, like a dog-eared page. I can see the row of arborvitae that line the backyard, also dipped in sunlight. The backyard was the reason we bought the house six years ago. I wanted to try to grow vegetables. There was plenty of room for Sybil to play. We liked the brook at the back edge of the property. All day and night it could be heard gurgling, reciting a watery rosary through the curtain of trees. And because of this brook, there was a surprisingly good show of bird life. I could sit beside the stream and watch starlings bathe among islands of mint.

  Now, I drag myself out of the car and gather the groceries. I’m certain I’ve forgotten many items in the rush to get through the checkout after seeing my friend. The heft of the bags is reassuring. I must have bought something.

  I walk inside and push off my shoes. My mother sits at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Her hair is wet.

  Did you get a bath? I ask.

  Mmmm, she says, rising to take the bags. Your friend Alison came over with another casserole, she says.

  That’s nice, I say.

  She left a note.

  OK, I say.

  Do you want to read it?

  No thank you.

  She stands next to me at the counter. Let me put these away, she says.

  OK, I say.

  But then she stops and looks at me. Are you all right? Did something happen at the grocery store?

  I look at her closely. How in the world does she know this?

  What do you mean? I ask.

  Never mind, she says, taking out the groceries. The preschool called while you were out, she says. They say George has a slight fever. They say not to worry—it’s very slight. But he may be coming down with something. Do you want me to go get him?

  The news hits me hard. I have lost my ability to absorb shock, even the smallest surprise. I’m worried for George, but also I am afraid. Because it means that, per the commandments of the preschool, George will need to stay home from school tomorrow. And I won’t have time to sit in my closet. I’ll have to move around and appear competent.

  I stare out the kitchen window for a moment. I try to focus on the nuthatch that clings to the feeder.

  Yes, would you mind? I say to my mother. Could you please go pick him up?

  It’s what I’m here for, my mother says, reaching for her keys.

  I put my hand on top of hers.

  I want to thank you, I say.

  It’s no problem.

  I want to thank you for being here. For coming with almost no notice. For, for—I don’t know what I’d do—

  Please don’t thank me, Juliet. Please let’s not say another word about it.

  Can you “run from your troubles”? Of course not. You run from one kind of trouble straight into the arms of another. But maybe what I didn’t know, I mean when I was a kid, was…certain troubles are built right into you. I mean contradictions. For example that 99% of the time our self-interests are at odds w/ any kind of social contract. We are hardwired for deceit & treachery but we keep hoping that the ones we love will live safe & innocent lives.

  III

  Eventually, we’d hit bad weather. This was guaranteed, and yet there was something so cheerful about that peacock-blue Caribbean sky, we simply forgot. It was not hurricane season. I conveniently assumed this to mean it would never storm, but rather that cloudless days would be peeled one by one from God’s freshly minted pile.

  Well you know what they say. It always gets deeper before it gets shallower.

  * * *

  —

  All right, crew, Michael said, addressing us from the cabin top. We have spent a week—or two, or three, we’ve lost count, actually—in this fair paradise of Naguargandup. We have runneth out of banana. We also needeth propane and gas for the dinghy. And our clothes stinketh and we must findeth some freshwater for laundering—

  Daddy, said Sybil with a laugh. She looked up at me, her eyes bright. Daddy said stinketh.

  We also must sail the seas to find the Princess Fleur, who wants to play with Sybil.

  Yaaay, she yelled. Find Fleur!

  But before we departeth, we should say farewell to our favorite island—he turned and, one hand around the mast, made a deep bow, and I was glad there wasn’t anyone else in the anchorage—Bottlecap Island, he intoned, otherwise known as Salar, or in certain circles, Home Run Island. Maybe it’s the water. Or maybe the breadfruit flowers. Something here makes a man kneel at his wife’s altar—