“Oh, wow,” Number One exclaims as though Conner just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
Conner draws the women into the conversation he was having with Gwen regarding the natural wonders of the island, and they listen with what I suspect, for them, is unusually rapt attention. During the course of the conversation they volunteer to Conner what they denied me—their names—Piper and Willow. They also divulge their ages—twenty-one—place of origin—The Hamptons—favorite alcoholic beverage—Malibu Rum. Piper and Willow would make horrendous spies. Around Conner, they are physically incapable of withholding even the most banal information about themselves. In fact, they seem to compete as to which of them can perform the fastest verbal striptease. They dominate the conversation, relegating Gwen to the sidelines. In the front of the plane, Alexandra listens to the pilot explain what all the controls and gauges are for, unaware of her husband flirting with two debutantes at the back of the plane.
I turn away from them all, staring down at the endless sea, and settle in for a long flight.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot announces. “Here is the main attraction: Isla Fin de la Tierra.”
We crane our necks for the best vantage point. As we approach the island the deeper blue sea is dotted with patches of more shallow, aquamarine waters—the colors dazzling. Gwen clutches my hand once more, though not from fear but giddy excitement. How sweet and childlike she can be, her face aglow with wonder, like a little girl on Christmas morning.
A sail ship passes beneath us, cutting a neat line through the waves. The main island looms ahead, studded with hills and rocky cliffs jutting into the turquoise water. Fields of golden grass cover the rolling hills, and trees huddle in dark green clusters beneath the fierce equatorial sun. Scattered in the sea around the island are rocky outcroppings, some barely rising above the surf, a few large enough to be islands unto themselves, though not by much.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the pilot says to unanimous agreement. “After this island there is no other land mass until you reach Africa. If you look just below you will see the bay where your resorts—the only resorts on the island—are located.”
On the left of the bay, nestled in a cove, lies the four-story hotel, Jumby Cove. Numerous cabanas line the beach and scores of vacationers dot the sand, browning their skin in the sun. Across the bay lies my destination. It is a decidedly smaller and more intimate resort than the hotel across the bay. Forty bungalows line the beach. Designed to look like Tahitian huts, each one has spectacular beachfront views. In the center of the row of huts lies the main restaurant and offices of the resort. They look just like the bungalows but on a much larger scale. From the palm trees swaying in the breeze to the massive swimming pool complete with waterfall cascading down a faux rock formation, the resort is even more beautiful than the brochure depicted.
“What’s that there?” Gwen points to several acres of woodland behind the resort. “Is that part of the resort, too?”
“It’s a bird sanctuary,” I answer, speaking loud enough so the others can hear in case they wonder about it as well. “See the lagoon on the other side of the woods? It’s filled with brackish water. Those trees surrounding the lagoon, the ones with the roots coming out of the water—those are mangrove trees. Isla Fin de la Tierra is the only landmass around for migratory birds on their way from North America to South America. It’s fantastic that they built this resort without disturbing the sanctuary that these birds depend on.”
“Wow, Phillip, you know a lot about this place,” Gwen notes with admiration.
“Just some stuff I read online,” I reply sheepishly.
“I think it’s fascinating,” Alexandra says.
“No offense,” Conner grins and gives me a hard clap on the back. “But you can keep the swamp birds. I’ll be out on the ocean with a jet ski. You jet ski, Phil?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind going out on one of the little catamarans I saw in the brochure.”
“They’re called hobie cats,” he explains. “They’re fun if you want to putter along, but if you really want to fly you need the jet skis.”
“I want to try that—the hobie cat,” Gwen says, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Phillip, you can steer and work the sails while I lay up front like a princess.”
I laugh. “Okay, your Highness.” Her enthusiasm is infectious, momentarily eclipsing all the turmoil between us.
We descend and the pilot calls our attention to a small town at the center of the island. “Just ahead is the capital of Isla Fin de la Tierra: Rio Galera. Population: 4,000. Give or take a hundred.”
The shadow of our plane races over the hillsides. It is fascinating to see the topography of the island from such a vantage. Many of the homes we pass over are little more than shacks, their roofs made of rusted sheet metal and their patchy yards festooned with rusting automobiles.
“It’s hard to believe people actually live in homes like that,” Alexandra remarks.
“Even paradise has a ghetto,” Conner jibes.
“No, no, I would not call it a ghetto,” the pilot corrects him. “People here don’t need as much to get by. They live simply.”
Conner shrugs. “You can keep it. I need hot running water and a flat screen TV.”
Our landing is smooth. There is no airport, not in the traditional sense, anyway. From a small control room two men emerge to assist the pilot in unloading our luggage into a waiting van that will carry us to our resorts.
The air has a different scent here, something subtle. Perhaps it comes from the salty sea or the sun-baked rocks. Even the light seems different here—brighter, more intense. It fills me with a quiet thrill, this sense of being somewhere foreign and free of my familiar surroundings. I look at Gwen and know she feels it, too. For no particular reason she rests her head on my shoulder and I do not mind at all.
Alexandra dons her oversized sunglasses and approaches the driver of our van. He is a tall man in his early twenties, his skin the darkest brown from the omnipresent sun, and he wears a crisp resort uniform.
“Owen, at your service,” he bows with a smile. His island accent is strong but still easily comprehensible.
“Can you tell me what nightclubs there are in town? Or duty free shops?” Alexandra asks.
“Sorry, we have nothing like that here. No disco clubs. No duty shops,” he gestures to the town around the small landing strip. “We have a church, a police station, and a hospital, but hopefully you won’t need to go there.”
“Why, is the doctor horrible?” she asks, her mouth pursed with concern.
“Ha, no,” Owen laughs. “We have very good doctor, but it is your holiday, no? Who wants to go to the hospital on holiday?”
Alexandra chuckles. “I see your point.”
Gwen touches my arm to get my attention. “Look at that stray dog. Poor thing. I wonder the last time anybody fed it.”
The dog she points to is a raggedy mongrel, sniffing the ground, roving for anything edible.
Gwen reaches into her purse and finds a granola bar. “Maybe it will eat this.”
She approaches the dog with soothing words, the granola bar held in her outstretched palm.
“Gwen, you don’t know this dog. Leave the food on the ground,” I advise her. “If the dog is hungry it will take the food without you getting too close.”
She ignores me, bending down to appear less threatening as the dog warily approaches. The dog takes the bar from her hand and sits in front of her to wolf it down. Gwen ruffles the dog’s fur and flashes me a triumphant smile.
“Ugh, that thing is probably crawling with fleas,” one of the debutantes sneers.
Gwen walks back to us with the mongrel trailing.