As we approached the break in the reef, Serge came into view riding an old Jet Ski. In the same broken Spanish that Mimi used, he instructed us to follow him very closely. Slowly and with great care, we made our way through the reef and into a tiny backwater lagoon. His intention was to lead us all the way to a little dock he had built near his house, but he was uncertain of whether our draft would allow us to pass through the narrow channel. Arrangements were made to tie up alongside a fishing vessel in the lagoon while I took a lead line and went with Serge to take some soundings. Definitively, we could not pass. A bit more troubling was that the lagoon itself was too shallow in parts to turn the vessel around on its own. Our friends on the fishing vessel agreed to let us spend the night on the condition that they be able to leave at six a.m. Serge suggested that we stay put for the time being and when the tide came in a bit, he would use the Jet Ski as a tugboat and help us turn our bow seaward again.

In the interim, Serge asked me to come to his home. He and Mimi had swallowed the anchor in this odd place at the edge of the world and began to build their perception of paradise. The two were weathered in a way that showed many thousands of miles of salt and sun in their past. Serge had the kind eyes of a sailor, and in the right light, you could see the reflection of the moon shining on the sea. Mimi was wrapped in bandages. There were a few places on her arms that were uncovered, showing that her skin was badly damaged. She sat in the corner at a sort of shoreside chart table complete with the VHF radio from their boat and Serge continued with the tour. He took me up to the highest building on the property, which turned out to be a funky little restaurant they had built. He asked if we would come to dinner that evening. It seemed only right for us to patronize his little corner of the universe in some way, and I told him I would suggest it to the owner when we returned to the vessel.

We made our way back down the hill and climbed aboard the Jet Ski to go and make our maneuver. When we arrived, I climbed aboard. Jiorgos gave all of us a briefing on how he wanted to perform the stunt and the whole thing was completed without incident. Once we were again secure, we said a gracious farewell to Serge, and I reported my scouting mission to the rest of the crew. The owner wanted no part of the little restaurant on the hill, insisting that we have dinner on board.

As we prepared the meal that evening, the VHF nearly vibrated itself out of its mounting bracket.

“CAPTAIN! CAPTAIN! WHERE IS ZEE MOONAY? MY HOOSBAND WORK FOR YOU ALL ZE DAY AND YOU GIVE HIM NOSSING! WHERE IS ZEE MOONAY!?”

Mimi’s voice came through shrill and harsh. As I had been the elected representative who spoke with them all day, all eyes turned to me to answer. Try as I did to ease the tension, she became ever more frantic until I finally explained that I would come to the house with “zee moonay”. The owner, quite curious what I meant, proclaimed that he owed them nothing, having not been able to berth at their dock and not having eaten in their restaurant.

The three amigos all went to our own wallets, quickly discovering that between us, we had twenty-three wrinkled, sweaty dollars to our names. There wasn’t a bank around for tens of miles, and it was up to me to go and smooth things over with the little old sailors. I climbed over the fishing vessel and took the dirt road toward their house wondering what I would possibly say to make our meager offering equal a day’s work. When I arrived at the door, Serge answered and welcomed me inside once again. As I looked into his deep seafaring eyes, I realized that there was nothing I could say to make this right. I held out the twenty-three sweaty dollars and apologized to him, telling him the truth of what had happened. He understood and invited me to have a drink with him. As we entered the kitchen, it became clear why the voice on the radio was so aggressive. Mimi sat at the end of the counter, moving to the swell of her passage making days over a nearly empty bottle of pastis. She maneuvered to interrogate me, but Serge intervened and they exchanged some words I could not understand which sent Mimi staring back into her empty glass. Serge took a fresh bottle from the pantry and poured a round for all of us, asking me to join him at the chart table. As we drank, he imparted to me some wisdom. Mimi frequently interrupted him when she would awake briefly from her boozy coma to notice my presence and remember why I was there.