Although I'd heard of Ansel, we had sailed into his cove by pure chance and when we found the hut had running water—it had been his house before he built the bungalow to celebrate his newest and last child—we decided this was for us. I explained we were on a prolonged honeymoon—but under wraps because Rose had a husband who didn't think much of our honeymoon idea. Ansel took the lie and assured us he was a man of the world and understood perfectly. The only time I've actually seen him amazed was when we installed a bathroom in the large hut at our expense.

Ansel's a little man in his late fifties with a dark skin, sharp features, and very proud of his thin, silky-white hair. His wife is a large tan woman who rarely speaks and probably can pick him up with one hand without straining. They have a son who runs the store, and two married daughters living in the islands. The baby boy was a change of life child and as Ansel says over and over, “We knew she have de child in her and we squeeze him out just in time.”

The first time he told me this I made the mistake of asking what he meant. “When Cecil, de first born, come, de old lady have four knots in navel cord. All islanders know each knot signifies de number child woman have inside. Then we knock out two gals a year apart, and den nothing. As years go by, Mrs. Smith say to me, 'Come on, mon, come on, de last baby awaiting.' Mickey, I wear meself out trying for that baby. But we bring him in right under de wire. You bet!”

Ansel himself is not only a dreamer but a tremendous liar. Although he sometimes lapses into the island dialect—for my benefit, I think—he's widely read and self-educated. His hobbies are the history of the Cayman Islands and sex. Over a beer he'll tell anybody Columbus first called the islands Las Tortugas, or the turtle islands. Ansel claims Columbus reached the Caymans first—before he sighted Dominica, which would make old Cris a hell of a cockeyed navigator. Later Ponce de Leon thought the islands were a continuation of the Florida Keys —or cays—named them Cayman Islands. Old Ponce must have had a queer sense of distance, too. Once the Caymans were the center of the turtle industry—there still are turtle pens around—and Ansel loves to lecture about them.

On sex Ansel is the local Dr. Kinsey. In an open and scientific manner, and in great detail, he asked how Rose was in bed. Of course he considers her the most beautiful woman in the world—and so do I. In exchange he told me about the women he'd slept with—which seemed to number millions—and gave me local pearls of wisdom concerning birth. If a crawling baby looks under the mother's skirts the woman is pregnant again, “for the baby is hunting for de new child.” Unless a pregnant woman works hard, the baby will be lazy. A woman will certainly be sterile if the after-birth of the first born isn't buried with a silver coin in the yard outside the house, and facing East. The nana or midwife should tie a tight cord around the waist of a pregnant babe to keep the child from leaping from the womb into her lungs and suffocating her. Half the time I didn't know if he was kidding me or not. Ansel knew a lot about Obeah—a kind of ancient voodoo—but frankly refused to discuss this with me.

He talked about sex and birth with Rose. At first she was sore, until she realized he was merely talking. I know she's fond of him and his wife. Often Rose and Mrs. Ansel Smith (we never knew her first name) have fierce arguments over the baby boy, mainly on matters of sanitation. But Mrs. Ansel is a good listener and they get along fairly well. Most important, from the start Rose completely trusted them.

If Ansel suspected we had more money than we should, that we were on the run, he never said a word. And Rose felt safe there, or as safe as she ever could feel then. Every few months we would sail out for a day or two, then come back to Georgetown, register as new arrivals to get our temporary tourist permits.

At one time, I thought we were going to be stuck on Ansel's hunk of land. Eight months ago a hurricane came ripping through the West Indies, heading for Florida where it did a lot of damage. Of course it also kayoed plenty of huts in the islands, too. We had ample warning and I had the boat securely anchored. The hurricane came in over the reef and hit us without doing much damage. Then one of those nutty things happened: the wind suddenly did a complete about turn. It came raging back—without warning, blowing away from the reef and out to sea. The Sea Princess swung around so sharply she broke one anchor rope, and dragged the other anchor... landing on the rusty brown reef. Crouching behind some trees that had been flattened the first time around, we watched the Sea Princess breaking up on the reef—with all of Rose's money in the hidden drawer. I clawed my way to the hut, grabbed an aqua-lung, and let myself be blown toward the water. Rose was screaming at me to stop, frantically trying to get her hands on me. I finally had to knock her down with a shoulder punch.

The water was rough and soupy with sticks, leaves, boxes, and any other loose junk. But once I submerged it was calm and a snap to make the reef. I got cut up a bit around the legs trying to climb aboard the Sea Princess. I made a raft and tied the oilskin bags of money— and the bag with all that foreign writing—to it, lashed everything securely—and started back, towing the raft. The coral ripped a large hunk of skin from my left thigh as I jumped into the raging water. It was rugged swimming against the wind, losing a lot of blood, and the salt stinging the hell out of the wound. I tried staying just below the water but it was hard going and soon the air in my tank gave out. So I had to battle the wind and the waves, duck a thousand objects being driven over the water with bullet speed. I collapsed when I reached the beach. When I came to, I crawled up to an old overturned rowboat—a hulk that had been lying on the beach for years and far too heavy for the wind to move. I dug through the sand, cutting my fingers on a big coconut crab hiding there, and shoved the oilskin bags under the boat... then refilled the hole. It was about the hardest work I'd ever done in my life and when I was finished I was too bushed to move. I lay there, protected by the boat from the wind, listening to the wild beat of my heart which seemed to be louder than the roar of the hurricane.

The next thing I knew the wind had started to die and there was Rose dragging me toward the hut, my body leaving a bloody track in the sand. She was hysterical and I could dimly hear her cursing as she washed me down and bandaged my cuts as best she could. Then the bed felt like heaven. I awoke several hours later. The sun was streaming through the window and for a moment I couldn't even recall what had happened. I tried to sit up and then Rose was at my side, her eyes red with crying, pushing me back into the wonderful softness of the bed. I pulled her head down, mumbled about the money being under the old rowboat, and slipped off into sleep.

I slept around the clock and when I awoke I felt weak but okay—except for the cuts on my legs and body. I asked her if she'd found the money and she nodded and began crying again. Talking was as tiring as lifting a barbell, but I asked, “What's the matter? Why the tears?”

“You money-hungry bastard!” Rose shouted.

“Look, I got it for you,” I said, talking very slowly, to save my strength.

“You damn near got yourself killed! You think I wanted that? Or any money is worth having you dead!”

“I told you, I did it for you. Want... to count it?”

“You greedy louse!” she said, walking away from the bed.

I was too weak to get it. When I awoke later that night and had some food, I felt strong enough to argue. She was still mad as a boil and I asked, “Honey, what the hell is the matter with you? Getting your dough wasn't any pleasure swim or...”

“Of course it wasn't! You were willing to take a chance with your life for some lousy money! If I didn't have the dough, if I lost it, what would you do, throw me aside!”

“Rose, did the storm scare you crazy? Do you realize what it means for a couple of... well, for us, to be flat broke in the islands? Sooner or later we'd be deported, have to go to the authorities for help. That what you want? That's the reason I swam out for the money. Hell, it's your dough, doesn't mean a thing to me.”

“I bet!” Her face was suddenly ugly with a horrible sneer.

I turned over and looked at the wall, finally went to sleep. I didn't understand what was eating her and a day or so later when I was up and around, she was cold and abrupt. We never talked about the money for some time, and after a week or so she forgot the whole thing.

There wasn't a stick of the old Sea Princess left on the reef, not even the old Essex engine. After she'd broken up, everything had been carried out to sea. Later that month, when I was completely healed, Rose agreed we had to have another boat. I borrowed an old double-end catboat from Ansel, a typical island boat with an oversize sail of sugar sacks that swelled out like a racing spinnaker, and made the forty-mile run to Georgetown. There wasn't anything worth buying there but through a yacht broker I heard of a boat in the water at St. Croix in the Virgin Islands. I cabled for more information and it seemed worth looking at. I sailed back to our island and told Rose, suggested we both take the boat to Kingstown and then a plane to St. Croix. Of course she was afraid to step into a USA port. I finally asked her to give me ten grand and I'd buy the boat. There was a long moment of hesitation—I knew damn well what was running through her mind. But then we had to have a boat, and she knew that too.

Rose got crocked the night she handed me the money and I told her, “I should be back in about ten days, or sooner.”

“I'll keep a fight burning in the window for you.”

I grabbed her and shook her hard as I said, “I don't like what you're thinking. I don't need a fight to come back to you. Remember that.”

She gave me a long kiss and we put in quite a night.

I felt like a big shot stepping off the plane in St. Croix with all that money in my pockets. The boat was a dream. Some rich joker who must have been a little like Mr. Decker had her custom-built abroad, and because he didn't have too much confidence in sails, had installed the two Diesels so she could cut water like an express cruiser. The guy and his wife, along with a friend, had taken her down the inland route from New York, then island-hopped to St. Croix, where he'd had a heart attack. They flew back to New York and left the boat with a broker. They were asking $18,000, claiming the boat had cost $25,000. I offered six grand in cash, came up to eight thousand and told the broker that was all I had. Glancing at my clothes, he must have been astonished I had over two singles in my pockets. Perhaps because it could only sleep four in double bunks—and only two comfortably—there hadn't been many offers. After a day of cabling back and forth, I had the boat for eight grand.

I took her to San Juan to register her as the new Sea Princess with the Coast Guard station. Exactly eight days later I sailed the new Sea Princess over the reef into our cove.

Rose swam out, followed by Ansel and his wife in their rowboat. I showed Rose around and saw she was crazy about the ship. Giving her $1675, I calmly said, “Here's your change,” like a kid returning from the store.

She cooled it, too. “What took you so long?”

“Had to straighten out my Coast Guard papers in San Juan. I registered her in my name. Okay?”

Grinning at what her wet bathing suit held, I pulled Rose to me. “See, I didn't run off with the dough—you can put out the light in the window.”

There was a slight odor of stale whiskey in her kiss, and then we had to go back on deck because Ansel and Mrs. Smith were climbing up the ladder.

I had an uneventful sail to Georgetown, crowding on all the canvas I could handle and making good time. But after the usual early morning chat and drink with the custom officials, I wondered what I'd been rushing for. True, I was in a hurry to see Rose, but I was punchy from being up nearly twenty hours, and what I wanted with Rose... well, being bushed wouldn't help. I tied up at the dock and called a pretty good mechanic over to see why the oil temperature had shot up so high, and hit the sack for a few hours of deep shut-eye. When I'm not drunk I can wake up whenever I want to. I was up at noon and found the mechanic sleeping in the cockpit.

I shook him awake and he said, “I was waiting for you. I have found the trouble. I checked the water jacket cooling, the fuel circulation, the timing, and the crankcase for...”

“I know you worked yourself to death,” I cut in. “What's wrong?”

He wasn't to be rushed. He stuck a cigarette into his dark face and took his time lighting up. “All these things, and a clogged oil cooler, would account for the overheating of your port engine. The oil cooler is clogged.”

“What's that mean, bad news?”

He blew smoke up at the bright sky. “In time. You can use the engine for several months without danger. But it should be taken care of. If you like, I can send to the States for a new cooler and install it. Or, you might be able to get one in Kingston, although I doubt if anybody in the islands carries parts for these particular Diesels. Maybe in San Juan. I'd like the job, but easiest thing would be for you to sail to Miami and have a new cooler installed.”

I paid and thanked him, hoisted sail, and started the final two hour run to our cove. When I dropped anchor I was surprised Rose didn't swim out and for a bad second I had this uneasy feeling I'd never see her again. Mrs. Ansel rowed out with the baby to tell me Ansel was over at the store, and to see what I'd brought. I asked where Rose was as I handed her some copper pots I knew she wanted.

“Oh, my beautiful, beautiful pots! Look at the bottoms. Rose—sick womon.”

“Sick? What happened?” I had a feeling of trouble.

“Nothing. Bad stomach—too much worry about you. The storm and you a whole day late. That womon get most nervous. My Lord, I very glad when she try get drunk. I swear I never see no womon worry about one mon so much. She carry big love you, very big. You lucky fellow.”

“Where is she?” Big love—like when I'd gone out after the money in the hurricane, Rose was afraid she'd lost her boy. There'd be so much explaining—and looking—if she had to start all over again with another John.

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