Adrift on St. John

by Rebecca Hale

  21

  Mary’s Point

  Jeff yawned as his wristwatch alarm beeped its five a.m. alert. Pushing a button to silence the beep, he rolled silently out of the queen-sized bed, taking care not to wake its other, still snoozing occupant.

  With the crook of his finger, he scooped up his red T-shirt from the floor. A quick twist of his wrists turned the garment right-side out, so that the logo of the resort’s dive shop was now visible. After a discreet sniff, followed by an “oh well” shrug, he stuffed his head through the neck hole.

  A couple seconds later, he’d pulled on a loose pair of well-worn, knee-length shorts, slipped into his flip-flops, and ducked noiselessly out of the one-bedroom condo unit.

  He stood on the doorstep and briefly scanned the surrounding area. In the predawn darkness, no one else was awake to observe his exit—save the bright green iguana staring curiously up at him from the nearest lawn. This section of the resort was slated for renovations that were scheduled to begin in a few months’ time, and the outdated rooms were rarely used to house paying guests.

  With another wide yawn, Jeff waved at the iguana and loped down the hill to the dive shop.

  * * *

  Bright lights burned through the shop’s front windows, the only illumination beyond the ground lamps that lined the sidewalks leading to the resort’s quiet waterfront.

  Drowsily rubbing the rough stubble on his chin, Jeff pushed open the door and shuffled inside. The other crew member assigned to the morning’s charter sat kicked back on a stool behind the counter, loudly slurping a cup of coffee.

  Jeff groaned internally as his expressionless gaze fell upon Rick, a cheeky blond-haired kid in his late twenties who’d recently moved down to the island from Tampa. This was one of his least favorite work pairings.

  Rick was easily distracted, sloppy with their safety protocols, and had an annoying tendency to disappear whenever there was work to be done. Even worse, he was apparently under the misconception that the two of them were buddies.

  Jeff felt his jaw tighten as Rick greeted him with an enthusiastic, “Good morning, sunshine.” He raised a knowing eyebrow and added slyly, “Sleep well?”

  Issuing a noncommittal grunt, Jeff reached behind the counter for his beat-up toiletry kit. The slightest twitch creased the left corner of his mouth as he retreated out the door, but the taciturn exterior concealed a constant commentary that played inside his head.

  Mind your own business, jughead, he thought with irritation.

  A few long strides took Jeff around the corner of the building to a public restroom.

  He dropped the toiletry kit onto the ledge near the sink, turned on the faucet, and dunked his head under the cool stream of water. Then, with a fist full of paper towels from the automatic dispenser, he scrubbed his face dry.

  Jeff let out a sigh as he ran his hand through the tower of tight curls piled up over his head. The night before, he had finally given in to Pen’s demands and washed his hair.

  Bannanquits, he thought with a small smile, before opening the kit and fishing out his toothpaste.

  Half an hour later, Jeff guided a sleepy group of hotel guests off the dock and into the dive shop’s powerboat. Up in the vessel’s elevated cabin, the captain reviewed his equipment checklist and confirmed the day’s weather report.

  Jeff scanned the boat’s interior and the adjoining dock. Rick was, predictably, nowhere to be found.

  Once Jeff had safely loaded the passengers, he returned to the dive shop for the rest of the day’s supplies. Muttering under his breath, he picked up a crate holding a thermos of fresh coffee, a box of Danishes, a variety of juice containers, and several bottles of rum. By the time he returned with the crate, Rick had reappeared and was now aboard, happily chatting with the passengers.

  Grimacing, Jeff hefted the crate over the side of the boat and began his routine inspection of the rigging. Despite the early departure—and the less-than-desirable shipmate—today’s outing was a welcome break from his regular routine.

  The dive shop typically ran two daytrips a week. The first route circumnavigated the straits between the U.S. and the British Virgin Islands, taking a few snorkeling stops en route to the Virgin Gorda Baths on the far east end of the BVIs.

  The Baths were marked by several enormous boulders that looked as if they’d been propped up on their ends like dominoes—the huge structures could be seen from miles away. A series of trails wove in, around, and over the rocks, creating a fun, kid-friendly, but often crowded playground.

  Those were busy trips, Jeff mused wearily: helping the children struggle into their pint-sized life jackets, teaching the tots how to use the snorkel gear, and constantly counting heads to make sure he didn’t lose anyone. But he’d take that shift any day over the alternate route.

  The dive shop’s other regular excursion was a more adult-themed affair. That trip focused on Jost Van Dyke, an island positioned at the west end of the BVI chain, not far north of St. John. Due to the later departure time, the boat stopped first for lunch at Foxy’s Bar and Restaurant before proceeding on to White Bay. There, the passengers swam ashore, carrying money in plastic ziplock baggies, for a taste of one of the Soggy Dollar’s renowned Painkiller cocktails.

  In between stops, Jeff spent the majority of his time pouring drinks, cleaning up spills, and wishing he could push his increasingly inebriated passengers overboard.

  In contrast, this morning’s excursion was a specially chartered voyage. Over the next couple of hours, they would slowly circle the island, stopping every so often for a scenic photo op and the occasional snorkel break. It was a refreshing deviation from the weekly schedule. And at least on this trip, Jeff reflected drowsily, there were only four guests to cater to. How much trouble could that possibly be?

  A reclining Rick waved as Jeff untied the boat from the dock. “Hey, ya’ need any help there, bro?”

  Make that five passengers to take care of, Jeff grumbled internally.

  The sun’s first creeping edges reflected off the flat surface of the water as the powerboat finally pushed away from the pier. Jeff began passing out pastries while Rick sat sipping his second cup of coffee.

  The loud hum of the engine drowned out all conversation—which was just as well. By the time they had passed the outer edge of Cruz Bay, the vigorous commentary inside Jeff’s head had reached a fever pitch. His fellow passengers had given him plenty of material to work with.

  The two couples who had booked the early morning charter were from Texas. Jeff had gathered as much from the snippets of conversation he’d picked up during their earlier dialogue with Rick. Their distinctive drawling accents combined with an intense debate about the current starting lineup for the Cowboys football team had given them away.

  This alone would have provided Jeff with an easy hour’s worth of mocking mental dialogue—his New England–born prejudices were firmly imprinted on his persona—but the observational bonanza of these guests didn’t stop with their aggressive hometown pride.

  These were rich men, overtly so—in a way that had blurred their individuality as well as their common sense. Who else wore Rolex watches and expensive leather loafers on a boat, Jeff pondered cynically. Despite their request for an early morning snorkeling stop, he was willing to bet his portion of the tip jar that neither man would risk dampening their elaborate hairpieces in the ocean’s salty water.

  Their wives, of course, were another matter entirely. These women were the men’s second, probably third iterations on the marital wheel, judging by the dramatic age differences and the females’ numerous plastic improvements.

  No need to worry about additional floatation devices, Jeff thought wryly. Not with the size of those implants.

  The boat rumbled past Caneel Bay’s pristine western shore, revealing a row of one-bedroom cabins discreetly tucked into the trees and bushes. The acres of shallow water that stretched out from the beach were populated by a wide array of colorful fish, several bobbing tur
tles, and a squadron of dark gray stingrays—the last of which were, in Jeff’s opinion, far too snorkeler-friendly.

  As they rounded the top corner of the Caneel property, the rocky outcropping of Turtle Point came into view. This protruding spit of land was the scenic location for some of the island’s most lavish and extravagant weddings. The outer rim of the national park’s north shore provided a stunning photographic backdrop for newly hitched couples.

  Jeff’s bleary eyes followed the track of the land east from Turtle Point’s narrow peninsula. He knew every inch of the map by heart: the bays of Hawksnest, Trunk, Cinnamon, and Maho—then, looming in the distance, the densely wooded curve of Mary’s Point.

  * * *

  Skimming along the well-traveled channel between St. John and Tortola, the boat didn’t take long to reach Mary’s outer tip. As the vessel circled the heavily forested bulge of land, the sun made its first full glowing appearance, its blinding ball playing hide-and-seek among the mounded humps of the eastern BVIs.

  The captain cut the engine to a purr as they neared the first snorkeling site. The area known as Waterlemon Cay was popular for its own happy band of turtles, a colony of starfish sucking on the ocean floor, and the occasional deer swimming across the bay on a watery shortcut to the opposite side.

  The women pulled their bleach-lightened hair back into ponytails and stripped down to their suits, preparing for their swim. Meanwhile, the husbands leaned over the side, puffing on cigars as they searched the water for fish.

  One of the wives stood up and took a seat on the bench next to Rick.

  “Oh boy,” Jeff muttered to himself as the woman placed a manicured, heavily bejeweled hand on Rick’s knee and smiled seductively.

  Grunting an interruption, Jeff stepped across the deck and handed the woman a snorkel mask.

  A few minutes later, the wives climbed down the boat’s ladder and into the water. Jeff watched them float away from the vessel, internally contemplating the chances that one of the long narrow barracudas trailing beneath the boat’s shadow might take an interest in the sparkling diamonds weighing down the women’s fingers.

  From behind his left ear, Jeff heard one of the husbands call out to the captain’s tower.

  “Hey, Cap—ya’ got any music?”

  Jeff felt his shoulders stiffen with resistance. Oh no, please don’t, he pleaded inside his head.

  The boat was equipped with a large collection of CDs as well as an MP3 player packed with a wide variety of tunes, but the tourists only ever wanted to hear one album.

  “How ’bout that Kenny guy? Doesn’t he have a house down here?”

  Jeff cringed as he heard the captain push the button on the CD player. The disc that—in the eighteen months he had been working for the dive shop—had never once been ejected from its slot began spinning its music. Out of the boat’s speakers came the opening strum of a guitar and the soft sound of lapping waves.

  There was nothing wrong with the tune, per se. Jeff had even enjoyed it—the first one hundred and fifty times he’d heard it.

  But now, the country crooner’s song about his favorite blue rocking chair on a St. John beach grated in Jeff’s ears like fingernails down a chalkboard. He had heard the lyrics so many times, the mere thought of a blue rocker made him physically ill.

  Jeff had often dreamt of confronting the singer whose popular song had become his daily torture. The man occasionally showed up at the Crunchy Carrot and was frequently spotted walking the streets of Cruz Bay. He had a private estate, right on the water, that they had passed during their route earlier that morning.

  One of these days, I’m going to jump off the side of this boat, swim up to that guy’s house, and cram that blue rocking chair up his—

  Jeff broke off his silent rant as he caught sight of a movement on the east side of Mary’s Point.

  Wait a minute, he thought with a musing grunt. What’s that?

  The rising sun illuminated the figure of a woman perched on the crest of a ridge. She was dressed in a beaded bodice and knee-length sarong. The light morning breeze lifted a thick mass of dark curly hair from her forehead as she looked down on the water.

  The woman’s gaze suddenly lifted, as if she sensed she’d been spotted. She raised a conch shell to her lips and blew out a haunting, mournful call.

  From the opposite side of the boat, Rick released a puff of smoke from a cigar given to him by one of the husbands and commented, “Hey, I bet that’s the Slave Princess…”

  22

  A Heated Debate

  The governor stood on the balcony outside the second floor of the Government House, looking down on the harbor as a cruise ship pulled into Charlotte Amalie.

  Behind him, the door to his office stood open. Inside, a portable television set had been tuned to a local channel broadcasting the day’s proceedings of the Fifth Constitutional Convention. The delegates were receiving a report from the attorneys appointed to advise the convention on their currently proposed Native Rights terminology.

  An aide wearing a suit, tie, and shiny leather shoes paced nervously back and forth on the office’s plush red carpet, his hands tucked into the small of his back, his face fixed with a tense expression. The governor and his staff had been apprised of the results of the report prior to today’s disclosure. The legal counsel had been unable to identify language that would meet the delegates’ demands without coming into conflict with the overriding U.S. Constitution.

  The aide listened anxiously as the information was explained to the delegates. As predicted, those pushing the Native Rights issue were not backing down.

  A woman’s commanding voice squawked out of the television’s speakers. “I cannot vote in favor of this constitution unless it contains a provision for Native Rights.”

  The remark immediately brought a mixed chorus of cheers and grumbling.

  “We can’t keep coming back to this,” another woman replied with exasperation. “The lawyers have just told us it will violate the U.S. Constitution. If we put in a Native Rights clause, it will sink the whole thing.”

  She was immediately overwhelmed by dissenters. The crowd became more and more unruly; angry voices poured out of the television set. The gavel pounded, ineffectually, against the speaker’s wooden platform.

  “Order, order,” a man’s stern but ignored voice demanded. “I call this meeting to order!”

  The aide scampered out onto the balcony, wringing his hands nervously.

  “Sir,” he said with a gulp, “things are getting out of hand down there at the convention. You’re going to have to weigh in on this.”

  The governor inhaled a deep breath of humid ocean air. He stared out across the harbor for a long moment, his face a dark canvas of serious contemplation. Finally, he rested his hands on the edge of the balcony and metered out an even reply.

  “Not yet.”

  23

  Gussying Up

  Friday afternoon, Vivian sat me down in front of the bathroom mirror in my condo at the resort and began tugging a comb, not at all tenderly, through my tangled wet hair. Freshly showered, I was ready to be glamorized, or at least made presentable, for that evening’s dinner with the nebulous Hank Sheridan.

  To avoid any awkward questions about my whereabouts that evening, we had kept with the script laid out in the invitation. Vivian had spread the word that I was meeting with an executive from the resort’s home office who had been sent to St. John to conduct an appraisal of the Maho Bay property. Neither of us had any idea where he was actually staying, but according to Vivian’s well-concocted story, Hank Sheridan had snubbed the rooms at our resort for more glamorous digs on St. Thomas—the man’s luxurious tastes had subsequently been derided at both the Dumpster table and in the break room behind the reception desk.

  Neither Vivian nor I had discussed the Sheridan meeting with Hannah. For her part, she hadn’t offered any other rationale for her uncle’s visit.

  What would transpire next was still a mystery.
Had my time on the island run out? Was the large man from Miami coming to remove me from my post?

  I would find out soon enough, I told myself. Hank Sheridan’s car would be picking me up in less than an hour.

  Vivian continued to torture me with her savage beautician skills, while Hamilton played on the tile floor near the bed, happily assembling a new set of Legos.

  The little paper box had held just over a hundred colorful plastic brick pieces that were designed to fit together into the shape of a boat. It was one of several toy kits I had stashed away on a top shelf in my closet. There were few contingencies that I took the time and effort to prepare for—a bribe for Vivian’s hairstyling expertise was one of them.

  As for the rest of me, I’d picked out a mail-order dress I’d kept aside for those rare occasions where a sundress and sandals were too casual. It had left my closet only twice since my move down to the island.

  Vivian twitched her mouth critically at the matching pair of open-toe pumps, which had seen a similarly limited amount of use. She pointed skeptically at the two-inch heel.

  “You really think you can walk in those?” she asked dubiously.

  I shrugged my response. They would have to do. They’d come with the dress—it had been four years since my feet had seen a mainland shoe store. These were the only shoes I owned that hadn’t spent a deteriorating amount of time at the beach.

  Muttering under her breath, Vivian gathered the back sections of my hair and began twisting them into a bun. I tried not to wince as she wound up the strands and fastened the clip. Then she spun me around and began working on my face and bangs. An army of beautifying tools lay spread out on the counter, each pencil, brush, and lipstick container diligently awaiting her next command.