Don't Rock the Boat

by Cathie Wayland

  Hernando just tipped his hat, bowed slightly and nodded. I guess that was as close to an answer as I could expect from this enigmatic man.

  Mike had made her way back to me, all smiles and wiggles, and thrust a ticket into my hand. “Okey dokey, here you go.”

  I suppose I looked more dazed than usual, for she elbowed me to get my attention.

  “It’s your ticket, Bernie.” Mike wrinkled her nose. “Oh, and by the way, I don’t think it’s a good idea to fraternize with the locals. You don’t know those people, and you sure don’t want to give them any vital information that’d allow them to steal your identity or your cell phone or your souvenirs.” She raised up on her tiptoes. “Bernie? Are you listening? I’m talking about you chatting up that swashbuckling fellow—jeez, he looked familiar—when you should’ve been pushing and shoving in the line like me. But, doesn’t matter. We’ve got our tickets. Let’s go.”

  I sighed and trudged behind her to the base of the long, long, long—did I say long?—wooden staircase that wound it’s way up the hillside next to the tumbling, burbling waterfall.

  “I promise you it’ll all be worthwhile in the end,” Mike grinned. Then her eyes narrowed. “You will enjoy this, Bernadette Catherine North. Do you hear me?”

  She was probably right about the hike up the mountainside being a memorable experience. If only I could be sure her words rang true for the mystery cruise, too. I felt like taking my Mystery Badge and tossing it in the brink.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Once we’d purchased our tickets, we were more or less on our own to climb the hillside. The guide at the front of the serpentine line of hikers wouldn’t be much help if we got lost or even separated from the group. Determined to be nice for Mike’s sake, I hitched up my elastic waist shorts, clamped my hat firmly onto my frizzy head, eyed the vertical hillside with trepidation, and began the climb. Mike, though not in the best of shape either, seemed to be taking it all in stride—no pun intended. After an eternity, I begged her to stop for a moment to rest. We’d been climbing the steps for at least a half-hour, which translated into twelve minutes, real time.

  “Where…are we?” I gasped, sucking in air.

  “Step forty-one,” Mike answered, almost as breathless as I, but attempting to appear in control of the situation.

  “So, we’ve only…climbed…about forty-nine feet…of the six hundred?” I wanted to cry.

  “I know we can do this, Bernie. And after all, you…promised we could,” Mike whined.

  “Okay. But I can see…how some people accidentally…dive off…the top of that crazy…waterfall.”

  The heat and humidity were on the rise, and so were we. However, we weren’t making that climb quite as quickly as the natural elements. Step after step we clambered up the hillside, and my whining and complaining took a more sinister bend as I mumbled about how I would get even with Mike for this ascent to insanity. We took rest stops on a regular basis, about every five or six steps, until we reached a small platform landing that signaled we were halfway there. We dripped with perspiration. Whatever makeup we’d applied in the morning had long since washed from our faces. From far above, we heard the exuberant laughter and shouts from the rest of our group. How had they made this damn climb so quickly? We were only a few minutes behind, yet they sounded happy and excited and none the worse for wear.

  “Come on Bernie,” Mike urged. “By the time…we get to…the summit, the rest of…the gang will be…headed back to the bus. They may…want to leave without us.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” I growled.

  We turned, leaned on the railing and began the ascent once more, resigned to endure the next leg of the upward journey. Convinced that this was no ordinary tourist attraction, that some deviant mastermind must’ve diabolically designed it, I pushed my poor body to its limits. Yes, some angry natives on this lovely, tropical island were sending a not-so-subtle message to us mainlanders that they did not appreciate visitors trampling their naturally beautiful scenery in search of a photo opportunity.

  After another twenty minutes of the grueling uphill climb, we arrived at the top of the hill, where the crystal-clear waters rushed over the jagged cliffs and crashed into the blue-green pool, six hundred feet below.

  As we mounted the final step, the rest of our group exploded into thunderous claps and raucous cheers. They looked comfortable and unaffected by drenching perspiration and aching, gasping lungs. In fact, each lifted umbrella-adorned glasses and toasted us with fruity drinks—ice cubes tinkling. Mike and I stared at one another, at the group, then back at each other.

  “Congratulations, ladies,” our tour guide shouted out loud and clear. “You should be very proud of your efforts and determination.” He flashed pearly white teeth in an enormous smile across his tanned face. “Very few visitors make that climb, especially at your ages, and you are to be commended. So, we applaud.”

  “Wait just a minute,” I panted, leaning on the guardrail. “What are you…talking about? We all made…the climb. Didn’t we? Why…are we so…special?”

  The guide looked around at the smiling faces of the group. “Madam,” he smiled even wider, “almost all visitors to Glimmer Falls take the tram. Few choose the stairs as you ladies did.”

  As my vision cleared, I saw a small station of sorts just behind the group, by the snack bar. The tram was suspended on rails and supported by cables. How could we have missed that tiny little detail?

  Mike had backed away, inching closer to the group. From the middle of the pack, she offered a sheepish smile and raised a glass in a very tepid salute.

  “Uh, sorry Bernie,” she mouthed, attempting a grin.

  I shuffled to her, refused to glance her way, purchased a cold drink then turned to glare at her over my swizzle stick.

  Mike made a face. “I guess I didn’t do my homework. I mean, I didn’t know there was another way to get up here from down there, and, well…we did it. I mean, isn’t that quite an accomplishment? I mean, aren’t you proud that you were able to do it?”

  I just sipped my drink. I’d have plenty to say to her just as soon as I regained consciousness.

  FORTY-SIX

  Mike and I snapped photo after photo of the gorgeous place, complete with a panoramic view of the Caribbean, and our luxurious ship, the Caribbean Mermaid, waiting at the dock. We accomplished the trip down the mountainside in a matter of minutes, and Mike looked away every time I made a snide comment. I knew she felt bad about our near-death experience, but that was no excuse to let her off the hook. Still, it’d be another great story to tell…and re-tell, good-naturedly laughing about it…as soon as they released us from intensive care.

  We focused our attention on Clarice and Kingston, who held hands like young lovers the entire time. I wondered what would happen to them and their budding romance when the ship docked in Miami. Was this a shipboard romance, or something more?

  Making our way down the mountainside, I drank in the beauty: waterfall, gorgeous flowers, tropical birds, and deep blue skies over St. Maarten. What a lovely little place and we had to leave far too soon. After extricating our weary bodies from the tram, we ambled over to the rickety old bus that had delivered us to the scene of the crime. Hernando was nowhere to be seen. I wondered how he got here in the first place, since he hadn’t arrived with us from town. An absolute enigma, that man.

  As we bumped and jostled our way on board, we snatched seats and scorched our bottoms and the backs of our legs on the black vinyl seats that’d been baking in the sun. In my case, that’d be enough surface damage to have me delivered to a local burn unit. Once everyone settled on cramped seats, the ancient vehicle lumbered onto the road, headed for the Mermaid. Mike and I sighed, exhausted yet somehow exhilarated.

  “Oh, wow…that was so neat,” Mike leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “Uh hmmm. We certainly have a great story to share at dinner this evening, and Clarice and Kingston’s version should prove to be an interesting subplot.”
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  “Yeah,” Mike breathed.

  We rattled onto the street near the dock and close to Souvenir Shop Row in a cloud of dust and fumes. As the bus bumped to a halt, we joined the conga line exiting the vehicle, legs a bit wobbly from the ordeal of the past several hours. We stretched and groaned and stumbled off in search of a public restroom, hoping to refresh what was left of our morning faces before taking the obligatory beach walk. As Mike and I splashed water on our bright red faces, we couldn’t help smiling at the frightful reflections of two unrecognizable women, one very tall and one very short, both frizzed and sunburned. In spite of it all, we’d live.

  “Now, you’ve got to admit that was a blast,” Mike chortled. “Just think. Back home you would’ve been plopped in front of the television or computer, bored out of your skull. Instead, you’ve just made a remarkable memory. Right?”

  “Well, thanks all the same, pal,” I said to her reflection in the cloudy mirror, “but I would like to know your plans in advance the next time you come up with something so horrendous. I need to be sure my will is in order and my insurance premiums are paid in full.”

  We dabbed our faces with the coarse paper towels then wandered back out into the bright, sunny, crowded streets. A small café beckoned. Reggae music from within enlivened the atmosphere. Without another word, we lurched off in the direction of the fun and music. Just as we approached the cheerful stucco structure, complete with open patio and numerous colorful advertisements for tequila and rum, we overheard an explosive monologue. The familiarity of the raucous voice was unsettling, for we knew without a doubt that the voice emanated from none other than our dear Loretta.

  We hadn’t seen her all day, and didn’t know that she’d arrived on St. Maarten until this very moment. There should’ve been a tremor in the universe, or some other type of cosmic phenomena to advise us of the proximity of this, our mortal enemy. Yet, there she was, in all her radiant glory, berating an unfortunate shopkeeper. Embarrassed, Mike and I understood why Americans are often mistrusted, even disliked, away from their homeland. Loretta exuded an attitude, along with a great deal of anger, over some real or imagined error in judgment.

  I was content to stand by and watch in mild horror. Not Mike. No, my plucky little pal must’ve reacted to some long dormant impulse to settle disputes, similar to stopping fights on the playground, or determining who pranked whose locker. She strode up to the fracas, and interjected herself between the screaming hysterical hurricane called Loretta and the unfortunate little shopkeeper.

  “All right, you guys,” Mike murmured in a soothing tone of voice, facing one then the other, smiling. “Come on…let’s settle this peacefully and logically, okay?”

  As in most fights, logic had little to do with the discussion. Loretta glared at Mike with a laser look designed to melt her resolve, but once again, Loretta underestimated Michaela Mercer Rosales.

  “This woman, she is a crazy,” the little shopkeeper blurted. “She come in. She look around. She bump into table with her…with her…well, she bump into table, and she break stuff on shelf. And she yell at me. Me. She say it is my problem aisle too narrow. No. She is…she is too…”

  “She is…to blame, yes, I know,” Mike finished his sentence before he could utter another inexcusable remark about Loretta’s size, which would only get him killed. Loretta’s angry glare flip-flopped between Mike and the shopkeeper, but her recurring antagonist had pushed the right button. Loretta turned her back on the shopkeeper, and focused all of her intimidating attention on Mike. I knew I couldn’t leave her outnumbered since one against one did not equal fair play in this situation. So, I dashed to Mike’s side and joined in the stare-down as a crowd gathered to witness a genuine catfight right there on the dusty streets of St. Maarten.

  “Now, you look here,” Loretta huffed between clenched teeth. “I’ve had just about enough of you.” She pointed a crimson-nailed forefinger at Mike then turned toward me. “Actually,” she puffed up larger than life, reminiscent of a king cobra, “I’ve had it with the both of you.”

  Well, at least I’d diverted a portion of Loretta’s unwanted attention away from Mike but jeez. Such venom.

  Loretta became aware of the gathering mob’s intense interest. She took two steps closer, got up into our faces and hissed, “I don’t care what Hernando told me about you two. I think you both are a pain in the butt, and have been a pain in the butt for well over a week. And,” she continued, spraying us with spittle, “I intend to tell him so this evening at the meeting. I don’t care if you two are persons of interest, or however he described you. I’m not putting up with either one of you one minute longer.”

  Loretta stalked away—parting the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea. The crowd cheered as the livid woman charged away from the scene, and Mike and I high-fived each other, convinced we’d saved the innocent shopkeeper from sure annihilation. As we turned to face the clerk, we were taken aback by his reaction. Where were the gratitude and the outpouring of appreciation? Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, tapped his toe, and stared at Mike through hooded eyes.

  “Okay, Lady, now who gonna pay for all ’dis stuff? Hmmmm? You let crazy woman go and da police is on da way, and dey say to keep her here, and you let her go. Now what? You gonna pay for all dis stuff?” The shopkeeper was furious. And it dawned on us good Samaritans that we’d allowed the bull in the china shop to make a clean getaway, while we stood there holding the red cape. Mike and I exchanged a weary look of resignation and our shoulders sagged. Maybe we weren’t such super heroines after all. We followed the little man back into his shop where he quickly whipped out a calculator to assess the damage.

  Nine minutes later as we headed toward the ship, I couldn’t help but rub salt into the wound. “You know, usually when you spend that much money in a souvenir shop, you come away with something.”

  Mike didn’t bristle. Instead, she murmured, “What do you think Loretta meant when she said we were persons of interest? And, just what was that about Hernando and, whoa. Wait a minute. There’s a meeting tonight?”

  Mike looked at me, eyes shooting question marks, but I didn’t have any answers. If answers existed at all, the solution to the problem was aboard the ship, and we sailed for Miami tomorrow morning. No matter what else happened from here on out, one fact remained. In less than twenty-four hours, all this craziness would have to be answered, explained, and rationalized. Somehow, some way, the myriad of events would come together and assume some semblance of logic.

  Wouldn’t it?

  FORTY-SEVEN

  We were cutting it a little close, arriving back at the ship only fifteen minutes prior to departure time. Considering the fact that we still had to check in, show our identification, get through Customs, and actually step onto the promenade deck, we prayed everything went like clockwork, and we could zip onboard under the wire.

  Since this was the final port of call, it seemed our fellow passengers had squeezed every last minute of island time from the beautiful tropical paradise, and we all dashed for the finish line. Every available crewmember assisted in processing the surging mob, and I was grateful that my lofty height afforded me the opportunity to at least see what lay ahead. Mike, on the other hand, enjoyed a less favorable view—lower backs, belts, and, limited visibility.

  “What’s going on?” she whined.

  “Well, I can see the entrance to the ship on the promenade.” My answer was meant to be reassuring, but she ground her teeth in frustration. “Oh. And there’s Clarice and Kingston, way up ahead. They must’ve gotten a head start on us.”

  “Everyone got a head start on us, Bernie,” Mike sighed. “Well, it’s almost over. And I admit that even though I’m exhausted, I’ve had an amazing time.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed as we inched along like shoppers in a Christmas Sale checkout line.

  “Bernie, what did Loretta mean when she said there was some sort of meeting tonight?” Mike asked, fidgeting like a four-year-old. “Ma
n. I wish I were taller. Being short is an aggravation.”

  “Yes, and people in hell want ice water. You’re just going to have to live with it, my dear,” I responded with very little sympathy. After all, I’d suffered through many years of enduring the plague of being too tall. It annoyed me a bit that short people always want to be tall, while tall people long to be short. It’s just one of those strange facts of life. We never appreciate what we have, and always want what someone else takes for granted. Such is life.

  Still, I couldn’t help feeling just a little bit sorry for Mike. Too alleviate her frustration, I described what was going on. “We’re approaching Customs. The queue seems to be moving along. Hernando’s talking with Loretta, and—what the heck?”

  “What?” Mike squealed. “Loretta’s talking to Hernando? Didn’t Loretta say she was going to give him a piece of her mind about us, and that there was some special meeting and—Bernie, what else do you see? Darn. I can’t see a thing.”

  “Wel-l-ll,” I said, processing the amazing scene taking place right before my eyes. “Loretta’s mouth is going a mile a minute. She’s flinging her arms all around. Gosh, her face is red.”

  “Go on. She always does that. What else?” Mike begged.

  “Hernando is looking down, not really making eye contact with her, and she is still yelling. She’s making quite a scene; the crowd is stopping to watch instead of moving onto the ship.”

  “Well, of course he doesn’t want to look at her. All she does is act crazy.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So, what’s he doing now?”

  “Well, it appears that Hernando is through with their little discussion. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away. Of course, that’s not enough to deter or distract our indomitable Loretta. She’s right there on his heels, following, gesturing and talking non-stop, but he’s not stopping. Still walking away, poor man. No…wait…he’s just walked up to some security guys and is pointing at her, and—get this. There are two guards escorting Miss High & Mighty away from Hernando. Good for you, buddy.” I smacked my lips in approval.