Richard DuBois - Last Resort

“Isn’t that something?” Don comes to stand by us. “Looks like something out of the age of pirates. The ship came here early today—picked up some of the other guests for a tour of the island.”

The boat drifts as close to the shore as possible without scraping the reef. At the stern Conner and Alexandra lean against the side of the boat. Her hair, tangled from seawater, blows in the wind. Shirtless and poised like a statue of an ancient gladiator, Conner looks to the horizon. One of the crew scampers along the bow and drops anchor. Conner, Alexandra and the other guests climb into a small powerboat chained to the sailboat. They motor to the beach and slide up where we stand. Conner helps Alexandra out of the boat. I am content to keep walking, but Gwen stops.

“How was it?” she asks.

“It was wonderful,” Alexandra sighs dreamily as she pulls her hair into a ponytail. “Captain de Salle sailed around the entire island, and then he took us diving on this amazing shipwreck. I felt like I was in an undersea National Geographic program.”

“That’s great,” Gwen replies and then gestures to me standing impatiently several feet away. “We just went snorkeling.”

“The reefs here are no comparison to the shipwreck de Salle just took us to,” Conner brags.

I take my wife’s hand with the intention of heading back to our room, and say to Conner, “Maybe later in our trip we’ll check out your shipwreck.”

“You know, Phil, if you’re concerned about swimming so far out to sea they have life vests to help you,” Conner says with a cocky grin. “Just in case you get tired.”

“I swim fine,” I retort.

He throws up his hand to indicate he meant no offense, and then promptly proceeds to offend me. “It’s just that it’s easy to get tired once you’ve been out there swimming for a while. You might not have the stamina.”

Am I imagining this or is this guy I hardly know taunting me? Conner seems completely at ease—we are just two men making polite conversation, but something about his amused expression reminds me of a cat toying with a mouse.

“How far did you two swim out on the reef?” Conner asks.

Gwen points to the far end of the beach where we snorkeled.

“Oh, that’s not far,” he remarks, and points to a buoy bobbing out in the bay. “Now if you said you swam out to that buoy I would be impressed. Hey, let’s swim out there now—you and me, Phil. The exercise would do us good.”

Gwen squeezes my hand. “Phillip, that’s too far.”

Conner steps into the surf, not waiting for my reply. “C’mon, let’s go. It’ll be fun. We could make a race of it.”

I have been in situations like this before. The predicament I am in would be familiar to any boy on the playground. Accept the dare or back down? Conner’s easygoing smile barely conceals his smug bravado. When faced with a challenge like this in the past I always feigned an excuse to avoid it. Not this time. I do not want to be that timid, drip of a man, anymore—a man so easily overlooked and disregarded by everyone, even his own wife. I stand next to Conner in the water.

“Phillip, what are you doing?” Gwen asks, perturbed.

Her concern for me is irritating. Alexandra shows no such concern for her husband. How weak does Gwen think I am? I ignore her question.

Conner turns to Don. “Can you count us off?” then he says to Gwen. “Don’t worry about Phil. If he can’t make it he can always climb on my back.”

Don and the other bystanders laugh. Now I officially hate Conner.

Don counts us off, “One, two…” frustratingly long pause. “…three!”

I leap into the water, arms flailing, hearing nothing but the rush of water and the thrust of my arms propelling me forward. I get several yards out and realize I am alone. I stop swimming. Conner is still on the beach laughing at me.

“C’mon back,” he waves. “I was only kidding.”

My face burns. Conner played me for a fool. I hesitate, treading water, and then a stubborn streak rises in me.

“That’s okay, I still want to swim to the buoy,” I call back. “Like you said, it will be good exercise.”

Gwen starts to protest. I pretend I cannot hear her and swim on. After a few minutes, I feel winded. Despite all my effort, the buoy seems only marginally closer, while my wife and everyone else on the beach appear to be miles away. Pausing to catch my breath, I look down and cannot see the bottom. How deep is it? I have never swum this far from land. If exhaustion overtakes me and I drown, no one will be able to reach me in time. Gritting my teeth, I continue towards the buoy. I can do this. I can call Conner’s bluff. To keep my imagination from dwelling on whatever hungry sea predators might be lurking beneath me, I imagine my triumphant return to the beach, shoving my swimming prowess in that arrogant asshole’s face. Gwen will kiss me and extol my incredible stamina. I will take it in my stride, chuckling and pulling her close to me, accepting compliments from all the guests gathered on the beach.

I reach the buoy—a floating ball tethered to the sea bottom by a slimy, algae covered rope—and cling to it, panting heavily. As the black sailboat sails away, the crew point at me, say something to each other and chuckle. I give a weak wave. No one waves back. I turn to the beach. My wife is just a dot mixed in with the other dots. Now my imagination starts to get the better of me. I picture a shark—a ravenous tiger shark—circling in the deep blue below me, preparing for a fatal upwards rush towards my dangling legs. Or that barracuda—the one I saw poised so diligently over the reef. In a moment, I will feel it slice into me, opening a major artery. Feebly, I will struggle back to the shore but the blood loss will be too great for me to make it.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts from my brain. From this vantage point, the entire resort lays before me. How pathetic would I look if I refused to budge from the buoy and someone from the resort had to rescue me in a hobie cat? I am not about to find out. I rest for a few more minutes and then head back to shore.

No matter how spent I feel stopping in the middle of the bay is not an option. To conserve energy I flip over on my back and paddle with my feet. My progress slows, but never stops. It seems like an eternity, but I reach the shallows and touch bottom.

Don and Amy stand next to Gwen. Conner and Alexandra are nowhere in sight. So much for my victory lap.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Gwen scolds.

I am too exhausted for much of a rejoinder and can only shrug.

“We thought you’d be hanging out with Neptune, young man,” Don teases.

“That… was… my… workout… for… the… day,” I pant, trying to make light of it all.

“Really, Phillip, I cannot believe you,” Gwen mutters. “I am not ready to be a widow. You shouldn’t let Conner goad you into a stunt like that. I am just relieved you made it back.”

I am too tired to mount much of a defense. How could I explain to Gwen that all my life jerks like Conner have mocked and ridiculed me? Conner, Patrick Farber—all the overconfident jackasses who feel I am no competition, simply someone to brush aside while they take what they want. Gwen should realize I am finally standing up for myself.

Part of me wants to tell her all of this, but I do not.

“Let’s get ready for lunch,” I tell her, and we head back to our room.

After lunch, Gwen and I sign up to use one of the hobie cats. The hobie cat, which is the size of a compact car, is basically a miniature catamaran. Lorenzo runs through techniques of successfully piloting the craft.

“If you pull too swiftly on de line de cat will capsize, and you probably won’t be able to flip it back over,” he says.