Aaron
I haven’t been here in a good, long while. Seriously, how fucking long has it been?
If we’re talking about this hotel hallway at this particular tropical resort, then fucking never as far as I can recall.
I usually remember visiting places like this, which brings me back to the question.
How fucking long has it been since I’ve been in this place? Wandering down a hallway, concentrating just to have enough coordination to walk, nearly seeing fucking double.
Alone.
There’s been a few nights that were sort of like this for me in the past, like in college, when I realized I was so drunk that I should just go to fucking bed. But this was after socializing, talking to people, having a decent or maybe even a great time.
And those nights were years ago, not too many, but they still feel like another lifetime now.
In addition to this resort hotel fucking hallway, another place I’ve never been before—in a state of intoxication or otherwise—is the state of isolation I seem to have put myself in.
It was like some fucking movie imagery, shit that would seem almost too unrealistic or cliché to fly nowadays:
A single guy at a bar—single being solitary, and he sits like that, at the bar, by himself, drinking the same booze he can drink for cheaper somewhere less embarrassing. But that’s not what he chose to do. He chose to sit there alone, in public, with a piña colada, looking dour and eating the free fucking trail mix they’ve got at the bars here.
Okay, the story just became a bit more specific.
Another thing they don’t show in the movies is the way spring break in St. Maarten looks right now. The bars are fucking packed, at least at night.
And it’s not just college kids, either. There are people a few years older, maybe my age. A lot of women, single and ready for their own vacation flings. A few even approached me.
And what happened then?
I was fucking polite for a few minutes, then excused myself.
I just don’t fucking feel like it, and I’m not sure why.
And no, I did not see anyone I know—no staff members, no fellow guests, nobody.
Nothing but strangers.
As it’s getting into the early morning hours—there’s already goddamn sunshine coming through the hallway windows—a bit of my sober brain is reemerging along with the sun.
And it’s telling me to stop replaying the last few hours, to drink a couple more glasses of water, and go the fuck to sleep.
In a few short hours, I’m going to be piloting a speedboat on the Caribbean, and I’m going to be in much better company.
“Okay! I’m up! Just a second!”
I might still be asleep when I say those words, because as soon as I open my eyes, I realize I’m yelling at a harsh, electronic buzzing, going off steadily in two second bursts.
For the sake of my ears and my fucking sanity, I quickly identify it as coming from the wall phone closest to the suite door. With some clumsiness, I hobble to it quickly to get the noise out of the suite and hopefully out of my life for good.
The buzzing stops when I pick up the receiver, which puts me in such a good mood. I decide to see who it could possibly fucking be calling this suite, which is associated with at least four different people at this point.
“Hello?” My voice is still more than half-asleep.
Like, maybe twenty-five percent awake, at most.
“Good morning, Mr. Michaelson!”
“Who is this?”
“This is Rhonda from the front desk, taking care of your wakeup call personally.”
“I didn’t order...do you know who it was who ordered the call?”
“Are you having a bit of a joke, Mr. Michaelson? We do appreciate that here at…”
“Rhonda, I’m not joking. I just want to make sure the person who ordered the call actually gets it.”
“You said I could call you Aaron, is that still okay?”
Uh…
“Absolutely, Rhonda. When did I tell you that, again?”
“It was earlier this morning, Aaron. You told me all about your boat tour today—and your wife, of course. She sounds like a real special lady.”
Fuck. The last thing I remember was walking back through the hallway.
I must’ve been drunker than I thought—which is pretty much part and parcel of being fucking drunk.
“You bet. Before I let you go, Rhonda, help me out by reminding me how to get to the boat tour?”
“On foot, you walk past the private cabanas and keep going, it’s just a straight line for about twenty minutes until you reach the departure pier. Or, you simply get the shuttle that departs in ninety minutes exactly.”
“That’s plenty of time. Thanks for helping me, Rhonda.”
“Enjoy your tour and your lifetime of marital bliss, Aaron.”
Ignoring the last comment, I hang up, find a moderately tight-fitting and informative swimsuit, and stride to the bathroom in a great mood, looking forward to a beautiful, relaxing day with Macy.
I start off whistling in the shower, then humming, then singing some nonsensical yet emotive opera.
This continues while I shave, and hear Macy walking around outside. A few minutes later, I open the door to find her in her own very flattering swimsuit choice.
“I’m hungry,” is the first thing she says to me.
Perfect.
“We’ve still got forty-five minutes until the shuttle leaves for the boat tour. And, we could eat at that outdoor bar.”
With her arms crossed, Macy nods agreeably to what is shaping up to be an amazing day.
There are no second chances at first impressions, but the chance to spend some more time with Macy at that bar seems close enough.
Even though it takes a little over half an hour to get down there and for our eggs benedict to be served.
“Are you going to tell me some movies you like, or what?” Macy casually stuffs a forkful of spinach and runny eggs into her mouth.
I must say, I’m enjoying the grilling overall, even though I’m not that huge a fan of the subject matter.
Still, I’m not going to be a dick and tell her to look up an old interview like I would to almost anyone else in the world at this point.
She might appreciate a joke, though, if she gets it.
“Oh, you know...” Even though I’m wearing sunglasses, I look up into the sky reflectively. “Citizen Kane, Goodfathers, Godfellas…the real classics.”
“Oh, ha, ha. Think you’ll get out of this with some above-it-all irony?”
“What if I don’t want to get out of it?”
Macy taps her fork a couple of times against her English muffin before answering.
“Then we won’t get into it, I guess.”
“That’s fine with...fuck.”
“What?”
“My excuse, Macy, is that I enjoy talking to you so much.”
“We missed the fucking shuttle, didn’t we?”
“There she goes.” I point to the small, white bus motoring away from the lobby entrance.
It’s times like these, when you have to run a mile down the beach so you’re not late for what may be the best part of a vacation, that I’m glad I only took a few bites of my eggs benedict.
I guess that this is the only time like this, actually.
“I can carry you, Macy.”
“I don’t...want…”
“You don’t want me to carry you?”
“...to fucking hear it.”
Macy’s not happy, but she keeps up with me like a fucking champ until we see the departure pier, and the boats.
As we approach, I see a large, older yacht—though not what you’d call a luxury yacht—and a series of smaller, open speedboats, most of which are boarded, with engines started. The larger vessel is the guide boat, and the speedboats follow individually.
Just like they’re starting to do now—just as we get to the booth by the pier.
“Can we still get on the tour? We have reservations.” I’m starting to get slightly winded as I ask.
“Mr. and Mrs. Michaelson?” The college-aged kid there asks, a bit too slowly.
“Yes,” I almost yell, focused on getting the fuck on the water. I can feel the relief coming from both of us as he hands me a two-way radio.
“They’re just departing now, and you’re on the guide manifest, so make sure to radio them on the frequency it’s on now if you have any problems. You’re in the last boat left...”
“Thanks!” I yell as we run to the pier.
Macy jumps right on the boat before me, and I save that as something to be impressed about later as I get the engine started.
Things start looking up as the engine starts with a full-throated roar, and they start really looking up as I steer us rapidly towards the band of boats ahead of us.
It is fucking beautiful as any sign of land vanishes quickly behind us, and we’re surrounded by nothing but the paradise of limitless, tranquil waters.
As we start to catch up with the tour group, the air and water seem as calm as could be—except for a slight breeze, which starts growing stronger.
And now it looks like the guide boats are bearing away from the wind, and I do the same, towards the port side. We stay in the same general bearing though, which is good, because we will hopefully see something out here—as beautiful as the sea is.
The wind picks up again, and we all bear away from it a little harder, towards the port side again.
Then suddenly, I can’t steer.
Tell me this isn’t fucking happening.
The engine’s really fucking loud now, and there’s very little visibility because the entire boat is fucking vibrating like crazy, until there’s a dull impact and the engine powers down rapidly.
And dies with a sound so definitive that I wish I’d recorded it to sell as a fucking Foley sound.
“The good news is we didn’t hit another boat,” I announce after the engine dies.
“Is that good?”
We’re ashore.
And it’s not St. Maarten.