Janice Horton - The Backpacking Housewife - The Next Adventure

I had imagined that the very next phone call he took would be the catalyst to him taking off on some new and fabulous adventure and that he’d have to go saving something somewhere in the world without me. But now, instead, I’m suddenly and happily conjuring up in my imagination a traditional clapperboard Caribbean style house, surrounded by palm trees, either here on Tortola or Virgin Gorda. I’m imagining myself holding out my arms in welcome to my family as they arrive to spend Christmas with us this year. And, next year, planning with them a visit over the summer holidays and lots of other special family times too. I imagined my mum sitting on a comfortable chair under our shaded porch, looking out at a beautiful tropical garden, rather than sitting in an old armchair in front of the fire and looking outside at her small winter ravaged patio. I imagined Ethan teaching Josh and Lucas to scuba dive in the warm sea and them all having an amazing time together.

That’s my dream – a big happy family – all spending quality time together.

And, when my mum and my two boys step off a plane into my new world – and they see for themselves what kind of life I’m living and what kind of man I’m living with now – then they can be happy for me at last. Then they wouldn’t worry about me so much. Or continue to question my state of mind. And demand, in every long-distance conversation, that it’s time I came home. What a perfect way that would be for me to introduce them to Ethan too.

Part of my angst and guilt is because I haven’t yet told them I have a new man in my life.

I’ve only explained about going off with a new friend to do some conservation work.

I certainly hadn’t told them how I’d met a gorgeous man in Thailand, fallen head over heels in love with him, and that we were now travelling all over the world together.

I don’t feel it’s the kind of news that’s best shared in an email or a message.

Although, I’m sure, if they ever did manage to get over the shock of me having a new man friend, then they would be impressed that he’s a renowned environmentalist and the founder and CEO of The Goldman Global Foundation. And, when my mum eventually picked herself up off the floor at the thought of me having another man in my life, she might be thrilled to hear that Sir Ethan had been knighted for his services to global ecology and endangered animal conservation.

Right now, I’m excited. I find Ethan’s idea of a renting somewhere entirely acceptable.

Although, it is certainly a little unusual – simply because as a rule Ethan doesn’t rent – Ethan buys. Probably because he can afford to buy anything he wants. Like this ship, for example.

While many fifty-year old men might choose to buy a classic motorbike or a flashy car, this middle-aged philanthropist prefers to spend his small change on a state-of-the-art fully equipped ocean liner, with the world’s most advanced gadgetry and marine research facilities on board. But renting a house will be far quicker than buying one.

We might even be able to move in today!

‘It’s not a house,’ Ethan tells me with great gusto. ‘It’s an island no one has lived on in a hundred years!’

And, suddenly, I can feel my elated heart sinking ever so slowly down into my deck shoes.

The image of an idyllic Caribbean colonial style house with my mum on the porch immediately crumbles away to be replaced by something far less decant and far more decayed looking. I sigh and take a deep breath. I do love that he cares so passionately about preserving ecosystems and saving the endangered creatures of the world. But after eight months spent mostly at sea, and while working on the most pressing conservational issues in the world today - that of plastic pollution in our seas and the study of global warming on our oceans – what I really meant when I’d tentatively hinted to him that we might settle down and find a home together, was somewhere with an actual address.

I’d thought we might live in a place that can be found without satellite imaging or having to use longitude and latitude coordinates. Somewhere civilised with a population and civil amenities and a transportation system that includes an international airport and not just a precarious landing strip. Somewhere with shops. A supermarket where I can buy milk that doesn’t necessarily have to come from a coconut. A house with a proper kitchen rather than a galley with a floating stove. A bathroom with a tub instead of a tiny shower and with a proper toilet rather than one in a tiny claustrophobic cubicle like the kind you find on an airplane.

Was I expecting too much? I guess so. This was Ethan Indiana Jones after all.

Because now I fear he has another adventurous project in mind rather than an actual home.

On an island that no one has lived on in a hundred years no less!

But was that even possible these days in the BVIs?

Jeff, one of our marine biologists, laughed. ‘You’ve gotta admit it, Lori. This is so Ethan!’

So Ethan had become a popular adage with all the scientists onboard for when anyone had a crazy idea. Never crazy to Ethan, of course, who was still enthusiastically strutting his stuff on deck. I roll my eyes as I consider yet another desert island where we can live like castaways.

I know how cynical and ungrateful that sounds, but I’m kind of fed up with shifting sand.

I’m missing solid ground. I’m missing being in one place for a while.

But more than all of that I’m really missing my family.

At Road Town, Tortola, The Freedom of the Ocean is now safely docked in the harbour and no one has wasted any time getting onto dry land. Ethan has wasted no time either in securing a small boat to take us – just the two of us – on what he describes as a romantic voyage of discovery. So, I’m now standing on a wooden jetty in a very busy part of the marina, with my cell phone firmly clamped to my ear, while I’m trying to reach my family back home.

Ethan is chatting to a very distinguished looking man who is wearing a linen suit and a panama hat. I’m casting my eyes over some incredibly impressive yachts and catamarans in what is known as the boating capital of the Caribbean, and as I can already feel my long wavy hair becoming even crazier in this ridiculous humidity, I’m regretting not bringing along a hat myself. I’m already perspiring profusely in my white cotton shirt and shorts that I’m wearing over my swimsuit. The tops of my flip-flopped feet are being scorched by the hot morning sunshine.

I watch the two men gesticulate over a very sleek looking motor boat. It’s expensive looking with white padded seats and two powerful outboard engines and I can’t help but to wonder why, when I have a full signal on my phone for the first time in absolutely ages, is no one answering my calls? I then realise 10am here is 2pm in London. My boys will be at work and my mum will no doubt still be at her afternoon pensioner’s bingo session.

Then I see Ethan and the distinguished looking man shaking hands and there is a set of keys being handed over. Suddenly he is waving at me with great enthusiasm. ‘Okay, Lori. Let’s go!’

I dash over to untie the mooring rope from the cleat and jump into the boat that Ethan has procured. We set off into the sparkling sunshine and soon made good progress through the stretch of water between the islands that is known as the Sir Frances Drake Channel. As we leave the harbour and the bay, I can clearly see the verdant shapes of the larger islands across the straights from us. In the far distance there is Norman Island, said to be the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson’s book Treasure Island , and Peter Island, with its broad curve of white sand beaches and exclusive high-class hotel resort.