by Trish Doller
“We’re interested in getting tattoos,” Taylor says.
“Will you need some time to look at the flash?” Ellen asks. “Or maybe you have a design in mind.”
“We were in northern Georgia aboard a twenty-five-foot sailboat when Hurricane Dorian hit,” Willa says. “So we’re thinking something hurricane related, but we’re not really sure what.”
“I’ve had clients who’ve gotten hurricane vectors or even the colored radar imaging,” Ellen says. “So, I suppose the next question is what you want the tattoo to convey. Do you want a conversation piece? Or something more personal.”
“Personal,” Taylor says quickly. “A reminder that we survived.”
“A moment in time.” Ellen cocks her head and touches her fingertips to her lips. She’s wearing an enormous silver skull on her index finger. She reminds Willa of a pirate. “Or a place.”
Her words spark an idea in Willa’s mind. “What about the coordinates of Sapelo Island?”
Ellen nods. “Coordinates are popular, but they can be very personal.”
“Are they very expensive?” Willa asks, only just realizing that they’re going to have to pay for the tattoos.
“What day is it?”
“Thursday,” Taylor offers.
“Ah, Thursday!” Ellen taps her knuckle to the middle of her forehead. “Today is buy one tattoo, get a second for half the price.”
“Why do I feel like you just made that up?” Willa says.
Ellen lifts her arms like a game-show hostess, her bangles clanking. “I own the place, darling. And it’s clear you girls have a story to tell. I would be honored to hear it.”
“You have a deal.”
“Wonderful. Who would like to go first?”
Taylor—the girl most likely to chicken out—opts to get the first tattoo, but Willa goes along for moral support. They look up the coordinates for the ferry dock online, and as Ellen slips on a pair of black latex gloves, Willa begins telling the story, starting with a deathbed promise and ending with a hurricane. By the time she reaches the end, they have matching tattoos—Taylor’s on her inner wrist and Willa’s on her inner arm just above her elbow.
“The lovely thing about these particular coordinates is that it’s unlikely you will ever regret them,” Ellen says. “After all, they mark the spot where you learned exactly how strong you are.”
25.7255° N, 79.2968° W
Reach for the stars.
Taylor
THE INTRACOASTAL WATERWAY IN FLORIDA is different from that in every other state they’ve traveled. Less wild, more populated, and really . . . really . . . long. The farther south they go, the heavier the boat traffic. They see fewer tugboats and shrimpers, more sport fishing boats and mega yachts. The waterfront homes grow bigger and fancier as they pass though Palm Beach and Boca Raton. And there is a ridiculous number of bridges. Most are tall enough for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot to pass beneath, but they have to rearrange their schedule to wait for the drawbridges to open. It takes them an entire week to reach the northern outskirts of Miami.
“Where do you want to stay tonight?” Willa is lying on the cockpit bench with her feet propped on the cabin top, flipping the pages of Getting Loopy. “There’s a good anchorage at Dinner Key that’s closish to downtown, or we could go to No Name Harbor, which is kind of remote, but a good jumping-off point for heading south.”
Taylor is in a weird place emotionally because she’s sick of Florida, but she also isn’t ready to run the final lap. The breeze ruffles the chart book on the seat beside her and the pages settle on a different chart. It feels like a sign.
“Let’s not stay in Miami tonight,” Taylor says. “Let’s make a detour east.”
“There’s nothing to the east except the Bahamas.”
“Exactly.”
“Are you serious?”
“In just a few days this will all be over,” Taylor says. “And this is the chance of a lifetime.”
Willa looks into the distance at the last two bridges before Dinner Key, then picks up the chart book. “If we leave right now and sail all night, we’ll be in Bimini by morning.”
Taylor pushes the tiller and the boat makes a hard left, turning into the deep channel that runs along the Port of Miami—where a line of enormous cruise ships waits to sail—and out into the ocean. Once they’ve cleared land, Willa raises the sails and Taylor turns off the engine. Her stomach flutters with an excitement she would have never expected.
While they still have daylight and Wi-Fi, they quickly look up the immigration and customs regulations and where they are allowed to anchor. As much as they love Captain Norm, his book has no information for an unauthorized detour to the Bahamas. They have to do this without him.
Taylor texts her dad. Willa and I are going to Bimini.
I don’t remember this being part of the original plan.
A lot of things aren’t part of the original plan.
True, but . . .
If you were 18 and the Bahamas were only 50 miles away, what would you do?
Have fun, Taylor.
They’re not far out from Miami when a pod of bottlenose dolphins appears near the boat and swims alongside them. A couple of the dolphins show off for each other, leaping high out of the water and doing flips. Willa manages to catch a flip on video, but Taylor’s favorite subject is the baby dolphin drafting along in its mother’s wake as she swims beside the boat. Taylor can hear the little puff of air from its blowhole whenever it surfaces. The pod stays with them for more than an hour, playing in the waves that break from the bow, then leave just as suddenly as they arrive, peeling away to go where dolphins go.
“That was incredible,” Willa says.
It’s on the tip of her tongue to say Finley would love this, but Taylor is learning that it’s okay to experience things without running it through that particular filter. Finley would love this, but what really matters is that Taylor loves it.
Willa
WILLA HAD BEEN EXCITED ABOUT going to Canada, but crossing part of an ocean to reach a tropical island is almost more than she can stand. As Whiskey Tango Foxtrot passes into inky-blue water, the depth gauge goes bananas, flashing 9999 and 6666 and—inexplicably—LOL. Even as she and Taylor crack up laughing, Willa understands what the depth gauge is experiencing. The idea of thousands of feet of water below the keel has scrambled her programming too.
Not long after, they enter the Gulf Stream, a current that runs north like a river through the ocean, and smooth sailing turns a little bit choppy. Before they left Miami, Willa plotted a course for a point south of Bimini, counting on the Gulf Stream to push them exactly where they want to go.
“I think we should motor sail for a while,” she says. “The stream has slowed our progress, and I’m worried we’re going to get pushed past the Bahamas and end up in the middle of the Atlantic.”
They leave the mainsail up and the engine helps the boat cut through the current, but it’s still a slower trip than Willa anticipated. They’re about halfway to Bimini when the sun starts to set. They’re completely out of sight of land—something neither of them have ever experienced—alone, except for a huge cargo ship in the distance. The sky turns brilliant gold with streaks of rosy pink, sherbet orange, and deep purple. Taylor goes for her cameras, but Willa trains her eye on the place where sky meets sea, watching for the green flash. For centuries, mariners have claimed to see a glimmer of green at the last moment of sunset. It lasts no more than a second or two—a very definite “blink and you’ll miss it” moment. Willa waits to look at the sun until it’s almost set and then she stares, unblinking.
Then it slips below the horizon and is gone.
“Oh my God,” Taylor whispers, almost reverently. “I just saw the green flash. I can’t believe it. Did you see it?”
“I must have blinked.”
Taylor snaps one more picture of the fading light. “My dad has seen it a bunch of times during overnight regattas. I can’t wait to tell him.”
Willa blinks rapidly, but she can’t keep the tears from trickling down her cheeks.
“Are you okay?” Taylor asks.
“I’m jealous that I didn’t see the green flash,” she says. “And because I thought—okay, it’s ridiculous, but I thought seeing it would be a sign that Finley knows we’re going to be okay. And I also feel ridiculous for assigning an emotional value to a scientific phenomenon.”
Taylor laughs, but not unkindly. “Yeah, because no one has ever made wishes on shooting stars or when the clock hits 11:11 before.”
Willa gives her a grateful smile. “Good point.”
“And here’s the thing . . . I know we’re going to be okay. Don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Taylor shrugs. “So you probably didn’t need a sign.”
As darkness falls, they divide the night into equal shifts and take turns sleeping so they won’t be tired when they reach the island. Willa is on the sunrise watch when they cross into shallow water, brilliant green and so crystal clear that she can see starfish the size of dinner plates sitting on the sandy bottom and schools of silver fish flashing in the sunlight. Bimini sits in the near distance, awaiting their arrival.
“We made it,” she says as Taylor comes out of the cabin wearing her pajamas.
They stand there for a long moment, taking it all in.
“It doesn’t feel real,” Willa says finally as she starts the engine. “Like, if someone had told me that someday I’d be sailing to a tropical island, I would have laughed in their face. Kids like me don’t usually get to do things like this. I always thought my dreams had to be practical—get a college degree and make enough money to pay the bills—so this is beyond beyond.”
“You were the one who got us here,” Taylor says. “Maybe it was Finley’s idea, but you made the whole trip happen. So if anyone is going to land somewhere beyond their wildest dreams, it will be you.”
“We’ve both come so far.” Willa laughs to keep her tears at bay, but fails. “I mean, look at you. When we left Sandusky, you didn’t even like sailing.”
Taylor smiles. “To be honest, it’s still not my favorite thing, but I kind of like knowing how to do it.”
“It might come in handy if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse.”
Taylor snorts a laugh as she climbs up on deck to lower the mainsail. “You’re such a dork.”
According to the rules of entry, they are required to raise a solid yellow quarantine flag to indicate they haven’t officially checked into the Bahamas yet. They don’t have a Q-flag, so Taylor cuts a rectangle from an old yellow T-shirt. The makeshift flag flutters in the breeze as they motor into the anchorage. Once they’ve cleared customs and immigration, they return to Whiskey Tango Foxtrot long enough only to grab their snorkel gear.
“So what should we do while we’re here?” Willa asks as they walk down the King’s Highway, the island’s main drag. The road is lined with shabby, colorful homes, souvenir shops, corner markets, bars, and local restaurants. They’re passed by locals in cars and tourists in rented golf carts.
“Hit the highlights,” Taylor says. “Swim, snorkel, eat conch, drink beer that we don’t need fake IDs to buy, and sleep out on deck under the stars.”
“Yes, yes, yes, and . . . yes.”
They cut down a side road leading to the west side of the island, to Radio Beach, where they peel off their clothes, don their flippers and masks, and swim out into the crystalline water. The bottom is white sand with large scattered rocks, where tiny fish dart into the shadows as Willa passes over. She finds a red starfish bigger than her hand, and as she and Taylor move into deeper water, a small green sea turtle swims right up to Willa’s face mask. Clearly unafraid of humans, the turtle paddles around the girls, getting close enough for Taylor to make a video with her phone and for Willa to stroke its soft underbelly. The world feels at once huge and tiny, and she feels so overwhelmed with wonder that she surfaces to catch her breath.
After a couple of hours in the water, they walk up the beach to a waterfront shack, where they share plates of spicy conch salad and battered “crack” conch, washing it down with bottles of cold Sands beer. When they finish, Willa and Taylor each snag an empty conch shell from the mound behind the shack. With holes in them from where the conch were removed, the shells aren’t gift-shop quality, but they’re perfect anyway.
On their way back across the island, they come across a place called the Dolphin House, a patchwork house made from stones, shells, driftwood, colored tiles, and recycled bottles. The arched entryway is framed by leaping dolphin sculptures, and a sign on the door explains that Dolphin House was built by Ashley Saunders and has been a work-in-progress since 1993.
A brown-skinned man with graying dreadlocks approaches as they read the sign. “Welcome to Dolphin House,” he says. “If you would like to take a tour, you can pay just inside the gift shop and come upstairs.”
They each pay five dollars, then climb a set of outside stairs decorated with bits of brightly colored tile. The man is waiting in the main room of the house, where mosaic dolphins adorn every wall. He introduces himself as Ashley Saunders and explains that he started working on the house after an encounter with wild dolphins.
“The dolphins touched my heart and awakened the artist in me,” he says as they move slowly around the main floor. Ashley points out whole starfish, bits of coral, US license plates gifted to him by visitors, and coins from around the world plastered into the walls. Overhead, multicolored buoys dangle from the ceiling. Taylor snaps what seems like a million pictures. “I built this place by myself as a monument to honor the wild dolphins of Bimini.”
Before either of them can reply, Ashley excuses himself to greet an older couple who have wandered in off the street. Leaving the girls in a mermaid-themed bedroom. A Finley room. When he returns, he explains that visitors sometimes donate trinkets to add to the house. He shows them a few pairs of earrings, beer bottles from other countries, and even someone’s favorite lipstick. “People want to be a part of the house.”
“It’s like a group effort,” Willa says.
Ashley nods. “Exactly.”
He takes them up another flight of stairs to an unfinished third floor where they can see out over the island. As Taylor takes photo after photo of Ashley’s work, Willa tries to memorize everything she sees. Maybe she’ll return to Bimini one day. Maybe she won’t. Either way she wants to remember it all.
Finally, Ashley leads them back down to street level to sign the guest book. Taylor signs—Whiskey and Tango were here!—and they slip out when he’s greeting another new group of tourists.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” Taylor says as they head back toward the boat. “I thought it might be just a bunch of random crap, but it’s not random at all. It’s pretty clear he has a vision, and it’s so impressive that he did it all by himself.”
“It’s magical,” Willa says. “I mean, no one really needs a house devoted to dolphins, but I feel like its existence makes the world a more hopeful place.”
“So . . . I have an idea.”
Willa cocks her head and waits for Taylor to go on.
“I’ve thought a lot about which of us is going to keep the Finley mermaid—”
“I already told you to take it,” Willa interrupts.
“I know,” Taylor says. “But what if we give her to Ashley? He could incorporate it into the Dolphin House, and people from all over the world would see it.”
“Do you think he’d go for that?”
“I mean, you’ve just seen his house. I’m pretty sure he’ll love it.”
They motor out to the sailboat and remove the mosaic mermaid from the bulkhead over the sink. On the back, Taylor writes Finley’s full name, birthdate, and the day she died. Willa isn’t completely sold on the idea—especially since she wants to keep the mermaid for herself—but when she sees the way Ashley’s face lights up, she changes her mind. He is a storyteller and they’re
offering him a tale.
Back on the boat, they make good chicken tacos and gather their bedding into the cockpit to watch the sunset. Willa doesn’t look for the green flash. She lives in the moment and later falls asleep to the sound of gentle waves lapping against the hull.
Taylor
A FEW DAYS AND A Gulf Stream crossing later, they reach Marathon—a town that spans several of the Florida Keys—where they pick up a mooring ball for the night. They sleep a few hours and ghost out of the harbor before sunrise, like they were never there. Taylor keeps track of the lower Keys as they sail past. Big Pine. Ramrod. Summerland. Cudjoe. Sugarloaf. Saddlebunch. Finally, they round the western tip of Key West, and soon the harbor is within shouting distance. Taylor feels tears building behind her eyes as she unties the halyard to lower the mainsail. Making the detour to Bimini only delayed the inevitable. Soon their promise will be fulfilled. Their lives will diverge, maybe forever.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she says. “I just—I’m not ready to go back to the real world.”
“Okay,” Willa says, starting the engine. “But what if we reject the idea of the real world being different from this world? What if we don’t have to go back because we’re already here?”
Taylor’s eyebrows pull together. “I’m not following.”
“I’m saying that no one except you gets to decide what makes life real,” Willa says. “Key West doesn’t have to be the end. It can be the beginning.”
“Do you really think it’s that easy?” Taylor asks.
“No, but—”
The outboard splutters to a halt.
“What the—” Willa yanks on the starter, but the engine only makes a weird wheezing sound. She tries again. Nothing. Once more. Still nothing. “You have got to be kidding me! You wait until the very last second to die? How the hell am I going to sail this boat into that harbor?” Taylor laughs as she opens the cockpit locker and takes out the towrope. “Still sure about that real-world theory?”