When I got far enough east, I turned and ran between Peter Island and Salt Island until I could see the tip of Gorda, then headed due north.."
"You headed north from where we were?"
"Yes, north and east."
There's that uneasy feeling again. "If I remember my chart right, you were headed straight for Roadtown. We were only a couple of miles from help."
"I already told you, I thought you'd be better off here."
"No, you said you came here because it was closer." She was quiet. "Mariah, what gives?"
"Ian, I just... wanted to... take care of you... you were hurt and I knew I could help you here. Don't be angry at me." She started to cry.
"Oh, God, don't cry. Come here." She was wearing one of my sweatshirts and some ill-fitting, baggy shorts. I held her in my arms, but my mind wouldn't stop asking questions.
"When did you drop anchor?"
"What?"
"Drop anchor. What time was it when you dropped anchor?"
"Drop?... oh, it was... getting dark."
"Mariah, you didn't try to sail around these islands at night, did you?"
"Ian, it wasn't completely dark and I know these waters. We arrived just fine. But I have to tell you... don't get angry..."
"What?" She was no longer in my arms. Her eyes refused to meet mine.
"It's about your boat..."
"What? Tell me!"
"It's on the beach."
"Oh, God, no!" I wailed, forgetting about the headache. I ran out of the cave, stumbled down the stone stairs, around the pine tree and stopped. There she lay, on her keel and beam ends, about a third out of the water, a ghostly apparition of a proud, dead ship lying in the moonlight. Her sails were furled, her booms secure, flags still flying, the helm lashed amidships. There didn’t appear to be any major damage except that she was beached. It reminded me of my grandmother’s funeral – she looked so alive lying in her coffin but she was still dead. The dinghy lay like a calf alongside her dying mother, upside down. I guessed that Mariah had used it as a step stool to get aboard to get the Tylenol.
I dropped to my knees on the beach, too stunned and angry for words. My mind whirred. Here I am, stranded on a godforsaken island with a beautiful girl, some kind of nympho psycho and I'm pissed off. Something's wrong here and I can't put my foot on it. What is it? I want my ship back. I want to get away from this place. There's got to be a way. I let the thoughts roil around for awhile, then rose and went over to Andromeda. From what I could see, her planks were not split; I couldn't even find any paint cracks to indicate the hull had flexed out of shape. You're a tough old broad, you are, I said to the cold hull. You are okay. I need to find a workboat to pull you off the beach at high tide. It'll cost me a goddamned fortune, but you will sail again.
I calmed down. I had a plan. I went back to the cave.
Mariah sat reading a darkened leather-bound book by lantern light. She looked up when I entered the room. "You okay?" she asked hopefully.
"No. I am not okay. I'm bloody well, God damned pissed off. When does the next supply boat come by here?"
"A week."
"A week! She'll be silted in forever in a week. What if you have an emergency... you need help... you need to contact somebody?"
"I talk to charter boats that anchor here once in awhile. They take messages. They have radios."
"God damn it!" I yelled, the shout reverberating off the walls and out over the water. She got out of her chair.
"You've got me," she said softly padding over. Her eyes drew me like magnets. "Is that so terrible?" She put her arms around me, started to rub her hands up and down my back, up and down, into my shorts, and closer to her.
"NO!" I broke away. "I've got to think," I said, pacing. I looked at her. "How did the boat get on the beach?"
"I put it there," she said coolly. "I sailed in, dropped the canvas and let it drift ashore."
"You say you love this boat, why would you kill it?"
"It's you, my love. You were in bad shape. I needed to get you back here. I couldn't bother with anchoring and dinghies. I was thinking of you. Ian, you are so tight. Let me rub some of the tension away. The boat's not going anywhere. It'll all be better in the morning."
I was exhausted; maybe she was right. I sat on the edge of the platform bed, thinking that if this woman plans on making love, my head will split wide open.
"Let me just work on these shoulders." She knelt behind me, poured scented oil on her hands, and began to rub. Muscle by muscle, knot by knot, first using her fingers, and then the flat of her hand, she was strong and knew what she was doing. She worked her way down my back, and then up again, shoulders again, arms, and then neck, gently now. Somewhere along the line she had lost the sweatshirt and, as she worked, she hunched closer. I was now seated between her knees, her breasts grazing my back from time to time.
An image flashed in my brain. A sunny day. At sea, at the helm, moving nicely, a naked girl clinging to me from behind. It came over me then.
"No!" I shouted, standing up and turning to face her. "This is how we got in trouble the last time. Why don't you just put a stopper on that libido of yours and help me figure out a way to get my boat off the beach." Now my head was starting to pound. I felt dizzy and took refuge in one of the cane-back chairs while Mariah, looking not the least bit wounded or rejected, wiped her hands on her thighs and climbed back into the sweatshirt. Her eyes turned steely and lips taut as she stomped out of the cave. I closed my eyes, wishing the pain behind my eyes would go away.
There was another pounding, another boom, slightly out of synch with the one inside my head and different, far away. I opened my eyes and realized it was coming from outside. Not the sound of surf, more like a... banging... on wood. The boat...
I leapt out of the chair and ran out of the cave, down the steps, onto the beach, where I saw, in the moonlight, the ghostly silhouette of a woman bashing a large hole in the bottom of my dinghy with a rock.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I boomed. She kept right on pounding. I ran over to her and tore the boulder out of her hands. She struggled to pick it up again, but I wrestled her away. She was incredibly strong and fought frantically, grunting in anger, twisting, elbowing, biting like a wild jungle beast. In the end, I pinioned her wrists behind her with one hand and bent her head back with a handfull of braided black hair until she knelt on the sand, subdued. "Now,” I screamed within inches of her face, “You tell me what the hell you think you are doing," She struggled to get free, then yelled back:
"If I can't have you, then no one can, Ian Dunn."
"You poor, reclusive bitch," I said, turning my back on her to survey the damage. Without a sound, she jumped me, with legs locked around my waist and an iron arm across my throat. I spun wildly, staggering into the water about waist deep, then, drawing in breath, butted her head with the back of my own and at the same time, wrestled the arm from my throat. She fell backwards into the sea. I twisted around in time to see her splash and grabbed for the braid to hold her under, but there was no resistance. Apparently the head-butt had knocked her out cold.
Slipping my arms beneath her, I picked her up easily and carried her limp body up the steps and into the bed. She was cold from the dunking and breathing shallow, tiny breaths. I covered her with a blanket, walked out of the cave and set to work, knowing exactly what I had to do.
The hole in the bottom of the dinghy was about nine inches round. Wood had splintered and there was no way to repair it. I would have to fashion a patch. I clambered aboard Andromeda to find my oiled mechanic's cloth, some duct tape and a cut-away one-gallon milk jug to use for bailing. At the dinghy, I sliced the cloth in half and taped one piece over the hole. Tearing strip after strip, I covered the patch with overlapping pieces, not once but twice. I could only pray that it would hold.
I flipped the dinghy over and taped the other piece
on the inside, repeating the process as I had done on the outside. I lashed the bailing jug to the seat, grabbed the oars, launched the boat into the black water and set a course for the blinking aero beacon on Beef Island, about five miles to the southwest. As I cleared the cove and entered the strait, I watched the island become part of the night. There was a glow from the cave and I thought I saw a figure waving, the wind in my ears singing "EEEEEEEan, don't go....." I shook my throbbing head to silence the siren's song, grabbed the oars and began to row with deep, frantic strokes. The patch seemed to be holding. It was now me against the sea. As exhausted as I was before I began, I kept rowing. No telling which way the current was taking me, maybe northward into the open ocean; I could not tell. I could only keep rowing and look over my shoulder from time to time to keep my eye on that beacon.
Suddenly there was a flare of light on the beach I had just left in darkness. It grew brighter... a bonfire... flames leaping higher, bits of flickering ash rising on the thermal, and I stopped rowing. "NO!" I roared. The bitch had set my boat on fire. May she roast in hell! When I get my hands on her, I will tear her apart. "NO!" I stood as though to run back to save my beloved ship from oblivion, and as I did, I stepped through the patch in the bottom of the boat.
The Caribbean sea began to rush in. "Holy shit," I yelled and, tearing off my shirt, jammed it in the hole, and covered it with a