The boat was called the Miguelita. It was battered, but painted bright blue with red trim. Black smoke billowed from the noisy outboard motor as it bobbed up and down in the chop of the surf. A young Mexican man stood in water up to his waist and waved at Mary Bliss and Dinky.
They waved back and waded out to meet him, holding the bags containing their scuba gear high over their heads to keep it dry.
Dinky spoke to the man in Spanish, he nodded, and Dinky hoisted himself over the side of the boat, while Mary Bliss struggled valiantly to find a foothold on the slippery wood.
“Hey,” she called finally. “Remember me?”
Dinky’s head appeared over the side of the boat. He popped the top on a can of beer. “Oh yeah. My wife.” He reached down, hauled her up, and left her flopping around on the floor of the boat like a half-gaffed marlin.
Once she was inside the boat, Dinky called to the Mexican. The man pulled up the anchor and handed it to Dinky, who casually tossed it onto a pile of life jackets near Mary Bliss, who was still struggling to right herself.
“Anchors aweigh!” Dinky hollered, as he pushed the boat’s throttle all the way down.
The outboard roared and the boat lurched forward into the waves, sending a shower of water over the bow and completely soaking Mary Bliss.
“Slow down,” she screamed, but her protests were lost in the din of the motor.
“Oh Lord.” Mary Bliss mouthed the words. Her fingers fumbled as she hastily strapped one of the life jackets over her dripping bathing suit. “Forgive me for what I am about to do.”
Dinky Davis’s navigational technique was crude but effective. He pointed the bow of the boat on a course parallel with the shore and floored it. The Miguelita bounced and shuddered and slammed through the waves. Mary Bliss gripped a brass boat cleat with both hands to keep from being tossed overboard.
Dinky headed the boat north. Gradually, the white sand beaches and string of shoreline hotels disappeared. The terrain turned rocky, and jungle greenery tumbled down to meet the sea. No other boats were visible on the horizon.
Wave after wave poured over the bow of the boat, and the sun beat down on her head. Her eyes burned from the salt water. She could feel blisters forming on her neck and nose. Her carefully wrought plan was being smashed to bits. No sunblock, no bottled water, no skillful maneuvering into just the right position to stage the accident. Mary Bliss hung on to the boat cleat for dear life. Dinky drank an alarming number of beers, throwing the empty cans into the water with maniacal glee.
After an hour of being jounced around like the proverbial Mexican jumping bean, Mary Bliss grabbed one of the life preservers and aimed it at Dinky’s head to get his attention.
“Ow. Fuck.” He glanced her way and rubbed his head accusingly. “You made me spill my beer.”
“Slow down,” she screamed. “You’ll wreck the boat and kill us both.”
“I thought that was the plan,” he hollered happily, aiming the boat directly into another towering wave.
But this time something went wrong. The engine faltered and choked. The wave slammed into the powerless boat, lifting it up and up. Mary Bliss lost her grip on the cleat. She heard herself screaming. From far away, she heard Dinky’s voice too.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck.”
Then she was out of the boat. She felt herself being hurtled through the air, weightless, for only a matter of seconds. She felt her body hit the surface of the water with an angry smack, felt the burn of the water on her eyes, on her throat as it rushed into her open mouth. A sharp blow at the back of her head was the very last sensation she remembered.
Now she was having a dream. She was drifting through a curtain of green. Schools of fishes darted in and out, showing flashes of silver where the sunlight caught their iridescent scales. She felt a shadow fall over her. Parker? She lifted her head, opened her eyes. The pain was blinding.
“Owww.” Water rushed into her mouth and she choked violently.
“Señora?”
When had Parker learned Spanish?
“Señora?” Now she was being dragged on her belly through sand, sharp edges digging into her skin.
Stop, she tried to call. But her throat burned, the words wouldn’t come out.
Arms lifted her. Pain. Her head throbbed. Her skin was on fire. Suddenly it was all very clear. She knew where she was. Hell. She had planned to kill her husband. Failed. And now she was in hell, where she would burn for eternity. Funny. She had known there would be flames, but nobody had ever mentioned the sand.
Or the torrent of Spanish flowing over and around her.
Mary Bliss forced herself to open her eyes and keep them open.
“Señora McGowan?” A wizened face hovered over her own, a long, gray braid grazing the flesh of her neck. It tickled, actually.
Tickled? Mary Bliss was woozy, but she did not think one could be tickled in hell.
“Yes?” she croaked.
A smile wreathed the mass of wrinkles. Now the old lady took a long drag from a cigarette, the ash dropping on Mary Bliss’s chest. “Bueno,” the old woman said. “Muy bueno.”