Last Resort (3 page)

“A week,” Gwen shouts over the humming propellers.

“You’re going to love it,” Conner chimes in.

“You’ve been to Isla Fin de la Tierra before?” Gwen asks.

“This is my third time; Alexandra’s first.”

“Lucky me,” Alexandra adds.

“We’ll only be there for three days,” Conner continues. “Then it’s off to Tobago, Aruba, Cozumel.”

“You forgot Costa Rica,” his wife reminds.

He slaps his forehead. “Ha, yeah, we’ve scheduled a week hiking in the Costa Rican rainforest.”

“You’ll be hiking,” Alexandra quips. “I’ll be back at the hotel spa getting a massage.”

“You’re job gives you that much time off?” I ask Conner.

“My job?” he chuckles. “I own a venture capitalist company. Not by myself, I have two partners. I don’t want to take all the credit.”

I feel like a fool for asking the question. The resort Gwen and I are going to is incredibly expensive—hell, if we remain together we will be paying off the credit card debt from this trip for years to come, but for some reason I assumed many of the people we would encounter at the resort would be in a similar income tax bracket to ours.

Winds buffet the plane, causing it to dip and rise. Gwen grabs my hand again, and for a moment the back and forth banter inside the plane ceases.

“Just some mild turbulence,” the nonplussed pilot assures us as the plane steadies.

“I could use a good month or more off,” Conner continues when the tension in the plane subsides. “After dealing with the sharks of Wall Street when I encounter a real one out on the reefs I won’t feel a bit of fear.”

“Oh, don’t say that” Alexandra gasps. “If there are sharks out there I won’t go near the water.”

“Aw, baby, the sharks around the island are small. They won’t bite you—but they have been known to take a nibble,” he takes her hand and playfully nibbles her fingers.

Alexandra giggles and swats him away. The breezy affection Conner displays, masculine and completely at ease, has me feeling like a stonehearted eunuch in comparison.

Conner leans over Gwen’s lap and says, “So, Phil, it is Phil, right? What do you do?”

My answer that I am an adjunct professor elicits the type of polite pause people sometimes gives when there is nothing positive to say. I glance at Gwen who has a distant expression I cannot read. Is she thinking of something else—perhaps imagining what it will be like once we reach the resort—or is she wondering what it would be like if she was not married to a poorly paid adjunct professor who is completely dependent on her for health benefits?

“Do any diving, Gwen?” Conner asks.

She snaps out of her reverie. “No, but I can snorkel.”

“You are going to the best place for it,” he replies. “Isla Fin de la Tierra consistently gets ranked as one of the best reefs in the world.”

He proceeds to describe all the high points of the resort—the exceptional service, the exquisite cuisine, the stunning ocean beauty—all things I already went over with Gwen when I showed her the brochure, but she listens to Conner with the enthusiasm of someone who never heard these things before.

Behind me, the young women talk to each other as quietly as the rushing air and propellers outside will allow.

“—Get out. That can’t be true,” girl Number One says to her friend.

Number Two nods emphatically, eyes wide for dramatic effect. “I’m telling you the truth. I got the text last night. Besides, like, why would I lie?”

“Oh, I believe you—for sure. You’re my best friend. Of course, I believe you. I’m just shocked—literally shocked—that Ashley would do this to me.”

“Didn’t I warn you? She’s a snake in sheep’s clothing. I never liked her. All that bullshit ‘No, I didn’t have plastic surgery. I just grew into my nose’. I mean, c’mon, get real. That big nose of hers could have provided us with shelter on a rainy day,” Number One guffaws in appreciation.

“You are so right,” Number One adds, her voice thick with contempt. “Ashley is such a liar. I’m sure she went there just to make a play for Justin. She’s probably rubbing him down with suntan lotion right now—and she said she would never go for him. I’m sorry, but what a lying bitch.”

Number Two nudges Number One to indicate they have an audience. I am eavesdropping so intently I did not realize how obvious I am. Both young women stare at me. Mustering a smile, I decide to adopt Conner’s tactic and confidently extend my hand towards them, “Phillip Crane.”

This direct introductory approach does not work for me nearly as well as it did for Conner. Instead of shaking my hand, the two women offer only a meek wave, recoiling from me as though I were a homeless man harassing them for spare change. From the corner of my eye, I see that Gwen and Conner are watching me crash and burn. My face reddens. If only I could open the door of the plane and jump. I have to salvage this somehow.

“You must be looking forward to going to the resort,” I gamely say, hoping to initiate a face saving conversation.

“We’re not going to the same resort,” Number Two deadpans.

“Then you must be going to Jumby Cove,” Conner interjects, and then turns to the rest of us to explain. “It’s a new four story hotel built right across the bay from our resort.”

“Hey, did you know what ‘Jumby’ means?” he asks. The young women shake their heads. “In the native dialect ‘jumby’ means ghost.”

“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.

“It seems you’ve made a friend,” I grin.

“I know, isn’t he adorable? He or she. Whichever. It’s so dirty I cannot tell. I wish we could bring it with us to the resort.”

Owen loads the last suitcase into the van and joins us. “I would not fret for it, miss. The dogs on this island have the life of kings.”

“He does not seem very royal,” Gwen replies.

“Perhaps not by the standards of your American dogs, with their groomers and trainers and fancy dog food, but believe me the dogs on this island live well. They get to enjoy year round what you lovely people only get to experience for a week or two…the sun, the sea, the tropical breezes.”

With a rueful expression, Gwen climbs into the van and turns to the waiting dog. “I am sorry. I have no more food to give you.”

The dog gives a quizzical tilt of its head as Owen slides the door shut. As we drive away, Gwen waves to the dog. It watches us from the curb.

“I feel so bad for that animal,” Gwen says.

“As I said, miss, don’t fret for this pup,” Owen says. “It won’t miss many meals, believe me.”

We bounce over pitted and crudely patched roads. Owen drives with self-assurance taken to the point of recklessness. Men and women—their skin dark and leathery from the blazing sun—walk on the cracked sidewalks and gutters alongside the narrow road. Some of them stop to watch us drive past. Can they see me through the tinted windows? More than once, I flinch as Owen nearly sideswipes one of the pedestrians, but he drives on without pause. The other drivers sharing the road are just as heedless, each behaving as if there were no other vehicles on the road.