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It doesn’t want to open, and I realize there are tree limbs and debris blocking it. I shove hard, and the door swings widely enough for me to crawl out.
The hut is a disaster. Everything is wet and muddy. There’s all manner of junk filling the space. Life jackets. Branches. Opened trash bags.
I wish I had brought my shoes in with me.
The rain is coming down, but nothing like before. I pick my way around the counter.
The hut is more or less intact, other than the roof, which is completely gone.
The hand-crank margarita machine is bolted down near the side wall. The colorful rainbow skirt attached to the edges of the metal stand is a sodden mess.
The table where the oysters sat on trays is on its side, and luckily enough, this trapped my sandals in place. I tug them out, muddy and wet, but at least I won’t step on anything that could cut my feet.
I move to the open side, my gut twisting at what I see.
Kayaks are strewn all over the beach, the metal racks that held them mangled and dismantled. Lounge chairs are everywhere—in the water, upturned on the sand, scattered in the tree line.
The hut that housed the bathrooms has totally collapsed. The bamboo roof that was so cleverly decorative a few hours ago lies on top of the rubble like pickup sticks. Thank goodness we didn’t shelter in there.
I walk to the other side, where the kayak racks were before they got tossed around. The equipment shed is intact, including its roof. It was smaller, and possibly more sturdily built.
But the worst part is the dock.
The end is twisted, probably by the force of the waves, leaving jagged metal jutting out. The wood planks splintered away like broken spaghetti.
There’s no way to pull up a motorized boat now. The water is too shallow, and the dock is unusable.
The cruise line will have to first know that there is a problem, and if they don’t realize we’re here, they might simply shuttle all their island stops elsewhere without sending someone in a rowboat to reach the shore. They might not even have a rowboat on board.
And if they act like most companies, they will wait on budgets, subcontractor estimates, and a cleanup crew before they make actual landfall and figure out we’re here.
Bailey and I might be stuck here for days.
17
BAILEY
I’m not just soaked but filthy.
Rhett took too long, so finally I pushed open my cabinet door to tumble out onto a pile of muddy tree branches.
I grimace at my white cover-up. It’s clinging to my black suit, and now one side is brown. I peer up at the open sky where the roof used to be. The rain is coming down, but nothing like it was.
I tug the wrap into place as best I can and shove my hair out of my face. I don’t know when I lost my hair tie, and unless I dig out my bag from this mess, I’m not going to be able to pull it back with my spare.
I’m grateful for my flip-flops as I pick my way around the counter to the main opening of the hut. It’s remarkably intact, other than the roof, although the floor has standing water and one of the tables has been overturned.
I approach the open side and spot Rhett immediately, still shirtless, standing in the rain and peering out over the dock.
Or what used to be a dock.
This can’t be good.
I walk up to him, hoping the rain will wash off the mud. “That looks bad.”
“It is. They’ll have to use a shallow boat that can get to us. Maybe they can anchor the tender as close as possible, and we can swim out.”
“I can swim.”
