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I almost laughed in his face. Even if we were about to be stranded for eight days in one of the most expensive places in the world, I’d be damned if I was going to sand and paint a boat hull, in tropical heat, on my vacation. Or sleep in that stinky main salon another eight nights. “I don’t think so,” I told Dan. “What do you mean? ” His tone implied we owed him. He also looked a little trapped, both angry and as if he might cry. “Not deserting,” I said firmly. “Disembarking. In St. ” The next day we motored into Charlotte Amalie and dropped anchor.

Get in, get in, get in, his hand motions urged. ” we cried with relief. “It’s okay,” I told the cab driver in English. ” Not exactly true, but true enough. Pat tried to assure him in Spanish. ” The cab driver looked over the two burly men who were now pulling my duffel back out of the trunk and taking Pat’s bag from her hands. He gave his two crazy American women one last glance, 25 UWP: Bledsoe: The Ice Cave page 26 scornful this time, as if he’d suddenly pitched his concern for us far out to sea, accepted his big tip, and drove away.

The close, hot air of the main salon made me feel sicker, so immediately following lunch I headed up the ladder again. No longer expecting leisure, I stood on deck and waited for the next torturous chore to be announced. The boat rocked and heaved, a motion that back home I’d fantasized as being nurturing, soothing, hypnotic, but which instead was one of the most unsettling feelings imaginable. We’d been warned to never vomit in the heads but to weave our arms in the ratlines, to avoid going overboard, while delivering the contents of our stomachs to Neptune.