Jungle Juice

By Seth Schechter

It was a hot fucking day, but it wasn’t a familiar heat. It wasn’t a Vegas sizzler that melted your credit cards, or a Cajun broiler that blackened your snapper and singed your beans. I was experiencing the slow burn of an authentic Caribbean jerk roast. And worse, I wasn’t floating in the Bahamian bathwater with a banana daiquiri and caramel mermaids massaging my feet.

I was deep in the jungle following two machete-wielding Haitians. The Haitians broke trail through dense vines and vegetation as we hiked the property my employer was acquiring. Sidney Frank, the billionaire booze tycoon, was closing on 3,000 acres on Cat Island. Cat was in the Bahamas, next to Eleuthera and about 130 miles south of Nassau. Our parcel spanned from the high cliffs of Mt. Alvernia to the Atlantic Ocean below, and at $14 million for the whole shebang, she wasn’t exactly a bargain.

I knew we were near the coast because I could hear waves breaking, but we could’ve been going in circles for all I knew. I was just following the Haitians and trying to remain optimistic. My body was embalmed in a smeary mixture of zinc oxide, sweat and nuclear-strength insect repellent. Repellent was almost redundant since my personal rum vapors would probably deter Godzilla.

We maintained a grueling pace, and while I focused on avoiding ground hazards, I occasionally looked up through the bamboo canopy and caught glimpses of intense sunlight and humongous spiders. Big sons of bitches perched in golden, hammock-sized webs, some with leg spans bigger than my head. They were playing it cool, but I knew those suckers were monitoring me with their beady eyes and twitchy mandibles, waiting for an opportune moment to lunge for my jugular. The Haitians sliced the spiders like Benihana stir-fry whenever they were within machete range, which was frequently. I hated spiders and shrieked whenever I got hit by flying spider parts. This delighted the Haitians. Every time I screamed the Haitians grinned, and I noticed they had about three good teeth between them.

Cat Island spider

The lead Haitian guide, a part-time fisherman named Jean-Baptist Agwe, stopped in his tracks and held up an arm. He pointed at a tree ahead of us and gave me the universal danger signal — his long, boney index finger swept across his throat. I took a deep breath and remained calm. The tree itself was deceptively beautiful. Its elliptical leaves were almost heart-shaped and translucent, with berry clusters hanging like nectar sirens, tempting poachers to reach for its succulent fruit.

“Poisonwood,” was one of the three English words Agwe knew, quickly followed by the remaining two, “No touch.” I knew poisonwoods were there, but I’d never been mano-a-mano with one until that very moment. I was actually relieved to finally see one on our property.

I walked over and examined the tree closely, but not too closely. From a safe distance I could distinguish faint amber stains around its torso. The poisonwood oozed a sap that burned like liquid fire, leaving blisters that lingered longer than most conventional STDs. I took a few steps back to get a better view of the toxic tree in its full glory and splendor. The poisonwood was a giant green paradox. It was the epitome of natural danger, enchantingly savage and exquisitely cruel, beauty with a nasty bite. Poisonwood was going to be the perfect name for our project.

I backed up a little more and looked around. The natural beauty of Cat Island was abundant and obvious. The danger was much more subtle, more camouflaged, but it was there and it was very real. I glanced over at my guides, and they pointed at the tree and shook their machetes. Then it hit me like a sack of coconuts. I was a sick, sunburned attorney representing an eccentric multi-billionaire, and I was following poor, sword-wielding black men through man-eating spider and poisonous tree infested jungles. It hadn’t occurred to me, until that very moment, that I should have brought a machete for myself, just to even up the playing field. Even armed, the field was heavily slanted in favor of the opposition. I had $5,000 in my wallet, I was wearing a $10,000 Rolex on my clammy wrist, and I was closer to Dumbo than Rambo in survival skills. My Haitian hatchet men made roughly $20 per day on days when they had work, which were sporadic at best on Cat Island. Cat was a relatively undeveloped outer island, and it had a slippery reputation as a haven for drug smugglers and desperadoes. There was no one around us for miles. I could have easily vanished, sans watch and wallet, and no one would have found me except the spiders.

Small waves of fear started swelling in my periphery, and that familiar cloud of irrational tension began to dull my perception. My pulse quickened and my breath got strained. I reached for my back pocket and felt the lump. My self-defense security blanket was a pack of playing cards that Sidney gave me before the trip, and he said it was the most valuable thing he owned, which was an unusual thing to say, even for him. I supposed if worst came to worst, I could have flipped cards at the Haitians’ eyes. I’d seen Chris Ferguson, a world champion poker player, split whole carrots with a single, high-velocity card flip. I lacked proper training and technique, but I was willing to take the eyeshot if necessary. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I also had a backpack filled with water and energy bars. I smiled at my tour guides. “Who wants a snack?”

………………………………………………………………………………………

We finally arrived at a small clearing after what seemed like hours of soggy bushwhacking. We were up almost 150 feet above sea level, which was rarified air in the Bahamas. Most of the outer islands were flat and swampy, but Cat had the highest elevations of the entire chain, and the parcel of land we were acquiring from the Morton family had the second highest elevation at 201 feet. The Mortons were likely the descendants of missionaries or pirates, or both. Their family had acquired large swaths of oceanfront land from the natives, probably trading shiny trinkets for title or just outright stealing it.

The highest spot in the Bahamas, the peak of Mt. Alvernia, was 206 feet and located on an adjacent Morton parcel. Near the peak of Mt. Alvernia was the Hermitage, a scaled replica 12th century monastery built in 1940 by the infamous architect and hermit priest, Father Jerome. According to local legend, Father Jerome had a penchant for conducting services wearing only his boots. He spent a great deal of time wandering alone and naked in the Cat Island hills, speaking in tongues and flogging himself. The spiders probably gave him a wide berth. I could see the mini-monastery from the clearing.

I walked up to one of the highest points in the clearing to see what else I could see. A light mist was falling, but there was very little cloud cover. It drizzled every day on the island. The locals called it liquid sunshine, and it was refreshing despite the sweltering conditions. From my vantage point I could distinguish most of our parcel, from the mountains all the way down to the coast. The satellite enhanced 3D topographic maps, which had cost a small fortune to render, showed the complete picture, and it was awesome.

All of my searching had finally paid off. I’d now been on Cat Island three different times, and I’d circled the parcel several times in the air, but that paled to standing on the soil and feeling Poisonwood come to life. I could envision the contours and layout, the footprint and structures, and I knew what Donald Trump must feel when standing on the roof of an old building on Central Park South that he was about to steal from some dumb schmuck. A warm, tingly sensation started in my testicles and worked its way up my spine, across my neck, and my ears started buzzing. I suppressed an almost uncontrollable urge to scream and hug the Haitians, but I didn’t want to alarm them as they had sharp knives and limited empathy. I was elated and nothing else really mattered. This was it. This was the one. I’d seen hundreds of properties, but the old Union Estate tract on Cat Island had the potential for golfing perfection.

The topography was a course designer’s wet dream. Wide, rolling hills and mature foliage reminiscent of Augusta, rocky coastline channeling Pebble Beach, and windy links carved into high bluffs above the breaking waves, equal or surpassing the splendor of Bandon Dunes. Plenty of room for spec homes and a boutique hotel and spa. Building the necessary infrastructure from scratch would be a monumental challenge, but challenge built character. Access was easy from New York — a mere stroll in the park for a Citation X. We would need to lengthen the old runway at New Blight Airport to accommodate Sidney’s Boeing Business Jet (BBJ), but extending runways was much easier than building an airport from scratch.

Cat Island was vastly underdeveloped and in need of new schools, good hospitals and improved utilities. We agreed to provide all of these improvements and facilities, at our expense, in our master development plan. Our grand vision would turn this island ghost town into a bustling Caribbean oasis. And we were unfazed by widely substantiated reports that Cat was a hotbed of drug smugglers, pirates and gangs of cold-blooded Bahamian murderers. In fact, we welcomed that challenge also.

And we were also highly aware of the many Union Estate squatters — locals who built humble dwellings on small parcels without any formal ownership or title. Most had resided there and worked the land for generations, and they were more entitled to ownership than the settlers who possessed the deeds. While we would retain the legal right to evict the squatters after the sale closed, there was really no point and we didn’t want to stir up any trouble. In fact, we’d agreed to improve most of their land and dwellings, and provide many of them with consistent full-time employment for the first time in their lives.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Our future head groundskeeper would probably benefit most of all. His name was Mickey Ingraham, and I knew he was right for the job from the moment I met him. He was tending to the postage stamp yard of his newly painted cottage located just outside of New Blight. Mickey and his cottage were squatting on the Union Estate tract, and had been for many years. His cottage was beautiful and his yard was immaculate. The grass was trimmed neatly. The bushes were contoured in tasteful, symmetric lines. The palm trees and spiny hibiscus flowers were pruned to tropical perfection. Even the amateur layout and design took into account the natural, flowing beauty surrounding the property.

But it was Myles, the toddler hiding behind Mickey’s massive leg, an impish boy with wide hazel eyes, a full head bursting with black and blonde curls, and braces on his legs, that sealed the deal. Myles had muscular dystrophy, and his legs were almost useless to him. Mickey had to take him to Nassau for medical care and physical therapy, but the costs and distance made his treatment almost impossible.

Mickey realized that Sidney’s master plan would bring the hospital, doctors and equipment that Myles desperately needed, and he was so grateful he offered to work for Sidney for free. Mickey had almost nothing. He lived in a tiny cottage on land he didn’t own, and he wanted to work for a billionaire gratis. When I refused his offer, Mickey didn’t understand. After further negotiations, he reluctantly accepted a salary but insisted it be reduced.

When I returned to the states and showed pictures of Myles to Sidney, and explained his situation, Sidney went to the Vault and returned with an envelope. No words or fanfare. Just an envelope, and it was a thick one. Sidney called it an advance. He knew it would take time before the hospital was up and running, and he wanted to sponsor Myles’s treatment. When Mickey opened the envelope during my next trip to Cat, I could sense his confusion. He didn’t understand, and he was suspicious. Drug runners routinely greased locals and he was obviously concerned that we were aligned with the bad guys and trying to buy him. Mickey had never seen that kind of wealth come out of an envelope, and he initially refused to accept it. It took a little convincing, but I persevered.

………………………………………………………………………………………

The mist stopped momentarily, and I noticed an incredibly vivid rainbow extending from the rocky shoreline up to the cotton candy clouds. There were brilliant swarms of birds and butterflies floating up in all directions. I pulled out my camera and snapped some quick shots of paradise. Sidney’s dream brought me here, and this is where his inspiration would take flight. It was around 10am on January 10, 2006. We were within days of closing on the most perfect land to build Poisonwood, the world’s most beautiful and challenging oceanfront golf course. My balls were still tingling. Sidney was en route to Vancouver for a heart valve replacement, and when he saw these photos he would be in heaven.

I returned to my room at the Greenwood Inn after dropping the Haitians at their shanty campsite. The Greenwood was a shitty little scuba diving hotel, but the rooms had semi-reliable A/C, and they had a staff cook named Annie who made delicious conch fritters, coconut grouper and pineapple upside down cake. Annie was a big, beautiful Bahamian goddess who clearly enjoyed her own culinary delights. She had a loud, infectious belly laugh and wry sense of humor. One night she chased me around the bar with a meat cleaver for helping myself to her last piece of cake. I kept proposing to marry her and take her back to California. She kept rejecting my offers, which was good because my real wife back in California wouldn’t have been pleased.

I had paid each Haitian $50 dollars, and I let them keep the machetes. They looked at me like I was crazy. I was warned by developers not to give them a penny more than $20 dollars a day for fear the Haitians would get spoiled if daily laborer pay exceeded the customary wage. The Haitians sailed between the islands on little junk rigs that barely looked watertight. Many of them drown if a hurricane blew through. They lived in tiny shanties scattered around the shores of the outer islands, and waited months at a time for menial work. They worked hard and sent the money back to relatives living in squalor. I had a nagging pang of regret that I didn’t give them more.

My satellite phone started to ring and I saw that it was Chad calling from Nassau. Chad decided to skip the Cat Island excursion, opting to stay at the Ocean Club and play a few rounds of golf. Now he was probably sitting on the deck of his $3,000 dollar per night suite perched above the baby blue waves and relaxing after a hard week of doing nothing, thumbing through the latest copy of Robb Report, selecting Sidney’s next Maybach or Gulfstream or golf trip boondoggle.

The One and Only Ocean Club was the finest resort in the Bahamas. It was elegant, understated and luxurious. The suites were enormous and beautifully appointed with exotic woods and rich, warm furnishings. They had Egyptian linens, Turkish towels, and bowls of fresh tropical fruits and flowers tastefully strewn about. Chad usually selected a suite with a private infinity pool and spa, although he refused to swim or otherwise blemish his perfectly blown and sprayed hairdo. His Nassau accommodations were always the best Sidney’s money could buy, and he insisted that anyone else traveling with him, including yours truly, lodge at the Atlantis or, even worse, the Paradise Island Beach Club.

The Atlantis was like a hostile merger of SeaWorld and Circus Circus, filled with chronic gamblers from Florida and Jersey who wouldn’t know the difference between a Chihuly and a Chalupa. It was a glorified ocean front trailer park with sloppy buffets and loose slots, but tolerable for a day or two. The Paradise Club was a different matter entirely.

The Paradise Island Beach Club, affectionately known as the Parasite Club, still gives me night terrors. I stayed there once when the Atlantis was full, but I didn’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a stretch. My room was teeming with short curly hairs and big surly bedbugs, and the bedspread was well ventilated by cigarette holes. I couldn’t bring myself to get between sheets that were breeding more viral and bacterial specimens than Courtney Love’s G-string, so I sat on a chair covered with towels and braced for the nightly jumbo roach rumpus.

After a couple of long rings and deliberation, I answered the phone.

“So, how was it?” The sarcasm was so thick it stuck to the roof of his mouth. Chad knew damn well it was a scorcher, which was why he opted out.

“Hot.”

“Anything else?”

“Lots of big spiders.”

“Sounds lovely, but how’s the land?” Chad was irritated waiting for me to spoon feed some prime intelligence so he could call Sidney and regurgitate. I was not going to give him the satisfaction without a little struggle.

“Relatively hot and buggy.” Chad was Sidney’s favorite attorney, and I was second favorite of two, although lately my stock had been on the uptick and I was a legitimate contender for pole position. Chad was good-looking, cocky and amazingly arrogant for a 30-year-old punk with no real business or legal experience. But you had to hand it to him for hooking in and clamping down. The guy was a pro. He could be smooth and cool when performing for Sidney and his cronies, and a son-of-a-bitch redneck asshole in private. Chad spouted audacious fibs and outlandish whoppers straight to your face while looking you dead square in the eyes, and you’d almost believe his bullshit even if you’d seen the truth with your very own eyes only moments earlier, and even so you’d still second guess yourself. Chad also told hilarious true stories about Sidney and his nutty wife Marian that cramped your stomach from laughing. He was incredibly charming at times, and he could be rude, crude and astonishingly inappropriate a moment later. Not to mention Chad was a scratch golfer and sociopath.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Working for Sidney was Chad’s first job out of law school. It was like winning the lottery the first time he bought a ticket, but he was in way over his head as consigliere for a connected hooch hustler. Chad claimed to have a small amount of Native American blood, although he looked and acted whiter than Mr. Rodgers. His tales of growing up on an Oklahoma Indian reservation had dubious provenance, but you never really knew with Chad. He had a bulletproof poker face, and he told loads of stories that didn’t add up or check out. Chad was also, hands down, one of the biggest racists I had ever met. Every other word out of his mouth was “nigger” this or “Jew” that. He despised most races and cultures equally, including his own, but particularly the Jews, which was ironic since a Jew was essentially paying him seven figures to play golf every day.

Chad also didn’t discover until close to the end of my term with Sidney that I was a card carrying Member of the Tribe. My name wasn’t Shmuly Jewstein, but the name Seth Schechter might cause a mildly savvy person some pause. Chad, the arrogant ignoramus, naturally assumed that I wasn’t. I recalled a day we were playing golf at Sunningdale Country Club in Scarsdale. Chad pointed at a guy in a cart, casually leaned over to me, and said, “Hey Seth, look, there’s a Jew”.

“Really?” I pretended to be shocked and incensed. This was Sunningdale. It was a Jewish country club in Scarsdale, a primarily Jewish suburb of Westchester, a primarily Jewish region of New York, a heavily Jewish occupied state. You could barely drop a golf ball at Sunningdale without hitting a Jew in the foot. “Are you quite certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just know.” Chad leaned back in the cart and smiled, proud of his laser-like Jewdar. “I can always spot the Jew.”

Chad was a natural born salesman, and as long as you didn’t listen closely to the bullshit spewing from his mouth, it all sounded pretty good. But Sidney loved Chad, and Chad was his favorite. He was the prodigal child, the kind of son Sidney would have wanted. I think Sidney saw a lot of himself in Chad. Both were slick salesmen and extreme opportunists with raw talent and rough edges. But Sidney and Chad were fundamentally different creatures.

I still enjoyed some rare moments working with Chad, in spite of myself and everything else. He was offensive, depraved and I didn’t trust him an inch, but I laughed more during my time working with him and Sidney than during any other job in my life. My favorite memory to this day is flying with Chad from New York to California in a Citation X to meet some golf course architects. Chad convinced the flight crew to perform aerobatic stunts while I was in the lavatory trying to relieve myself after slamming about three beers. I tried to brace myself and aim true, but the plane was doing Kamikaze dives, Blue Angel barrel rolls, turbo tail-slides, supersonic whip-spins and Magic Mountain loopty loops. I alternated between sticking to the floor and hitting my head on the ceiling. The massive G forces actually bent my urine flow’s trajectory, and my body was literally airborne in midstream on several attempts before my prostate involuntarily cut the flow to avoid peeing in my own face. At some point, I tried to sit down and white knuckle it, all to no avail. I ended up urinating all over my shoes and pants, and I laughed so hard whilst pissing myself that I almost started crying.

………………………………………………………………………………………

“Cut the bull, and tell me about the land.”

“Geez, you’re Mr. Cranky Pants. Must be all that Ocean Club stress. What’s wrong? Did your masseuse have a goatee? Did they forget to put an umbrella in your piña colada?” I was mushrooming Chad and enjoying it immensely.

“That’s me hanging up.” Chad was getting close to his breaking point.

“Ok, relax.” I took a deep breath, “The location and topography are perfect. Completely and utterly perfect. It’s pristine. The land has never been touched by a hurricane. It’s in a naturally protected zone where hurricanes can’t build any power due to the cold and deep currents directly offshore. It’s raw jungle now, but the potential is unreal. It has everything we are looking for. It could be better than Pebble Beach. Every hole on the ocean. It could be the greatest ocean course ever, with plenty of room for other development. It’s unbelievable,” I paused, building up to the zinger, “You should have been here.”

Eerie silence. I almost detected some disappointment on the other end, like an exciting journey was coming to an anticlimactic conclusion. Chad enjoyed the hunt more than the capture, and why not? We were paid an exorbitant salary to travel to exotic locations, stay in world class accommodations, eat in the finest restaurants and research golf courses by playing them. I didn’t mind being Chad’s Sherpa, even if it meant dodging spiders and bunking with flesh eating bacteria. Besides, Chad was traveling less frequently due to family issues, and I was often on my own and much happier.

“Email me the photos.” Sidney loved photos and movies. They made him feel like he was a vicarious adventurer.

“On the way. Some mpegs also. Tell Sidney that you did a fabulous job today when you talk to him.”

“Whatever.” Click, and Chad was back to his fancy magazines and fruity drinks. He would forward my photos and movies to Sidney, and then call him to describe his dangerous safari to the superlative golf course destination. Sidney would probably see right through Chad’s shtick, but even if not it didn’t matter because we had perfection. And for the mere price of $14 million, with a $1.4 million nonrefundable earnest money deposit, we would own this jungle jewel. The Bahamian government’s blessing was a formality at this point.

Bahamians loved wealthy Americans, and Forbes ranked liquor magnates were near the top of the heap. The government used injections of foreign capital to create jobs and commerce, particularly in underdeveloped and underutilized outer islands like Cat and Eleuthera. Nassau and Paradise Island were overbuilt, over-commercialized disasters, but most of the other islands were poor and relatively desolate. Any islander who wanted consistent work had to relocate to Nassau. The government needed to change this trend, and creating infrastructure and industry on the outer islands would help alleviate the problem.

Our attorneys scheduled meetings with government representatives in what seemed like a never-ending parade of private meet and greets, one official cued up behind another. The Minister of Palm Trees. The Ambassador of Bananas. Undersecretary to the Coconut Sub-Committee. All smiles and warm welcomes and so very pleased to make my acquaintance. Thrilled we selected Cat Island. Looking forward to many years of success and good fortune. But there was something lurking behind the forced grins, sweaty handshakes and oversold island hospitality. They could smell big money, and big money owned the Bahamas. Sidney’s purchase was a double up in their eyes.

The first pot was free commerce. They needed outer island infrastructure, and if they could get Sidney to help bankroll it, all the better.

The second score was old school Caribbean swindling. Colombian drug cartels and American organized crime families had controlled the Bahamas for generations, and corruption was so customary it was almost expected. The government assumed we were coming to Cat Island to launder currency or bury some hidden treasure, and they all wanted a piece of the action. The officials were sizing up our stack and waiting for the flop. Waiting for the optimal moment to strike, just like the spiders. They were greedy bastards, but this wasn’t their first rodeo and they wouldn’t spook us too early in the game. They would easily endorse our project and promise subsidies and incentives, mainly to set the hook. They knew they could squeeze more than schools and roads out of a Tommy Bahama piñata like Sidney. The government officials saw a great white whale with a big red bulls-eye branded on his backside. Suggested contributions, solicitations, shakedowns and fleecing would all follow in due course, predictably when we were in urgent need of government assistance.

I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes, desperately needing rest but still feeling restless. My body had crashed but my brain was still bouncing. There were divers out on the beach cleaning their equipment and telling fish stories, and I could hear the clinking of Kalik beer bottles and loud belly laughter. On top of exhaustion, I started feeling lonely. I needed to go home and recharge. It seemed like I hadn’t been home in years. In fact, it had been almost two months. I closed my eyes and tried to remember Laurel’s face. Her warm breath was like the waves crashing in and rolling up the sand. I could picture her strawberry blonde hair and her translucent eyes, which were almost the same color as the sapphire water just outside my door. I could see her eyes looking at me with that same distant and detached expression. I expected her to be happier that we had more money coming in, and the potential to make a lot more and live the dream in a tropical oasis.

It seemed like the higher I climbed and the more money I made, the unhappier Laurel became. She was tired of living alone for extended periods, and sick of living in the shadow of Sidney’s flying circus. I could see her flinch whenever anyone asked me what I did, and she’d roll her eyes as I told the incredible stories that she’d heard way too many times. Didn’t she realize I was doing this for us? For our family and our future? Granted, the job had some major perks, like traveling the world, playing golf almost every day and all the free liquor I could drink. But this wasn’t all about me, at least not entirely. Didn’t she realize it was a sacrifice to be far away from home and my loved ones for months at a time, all in the quest to fulfill the visions of a batty billionaire? It was a daily struggle, albeit more tolerable as said struggle was staged on luxurious tropical locales with five star resorts sporting Michelin rated restaurants and championship golf courses.

I still missed Laurel and Cooper, our big red Hungarian pointer. Sometimes I missed Cooper more than Laurel. He would sit in the corner of our bedroom and turn his back as I packed my suitcase. He hated the suitcase. The suitcase meant I was leaving. I remember backing out of the driveway and turning back to see his wrinkly cheeks smashed up against the window, hot breath creating a cloud of misty slobber, his woeful green eyes watching me go. I knew he’d be there when I returned, in that exact spot, sad eyes and smudged face, whether it was days or weeks or months. It broke my heart every time.

I didn’t want to think about home any more, so instead I tried to think about everything we had to do to close the deal. I needed to call the agents, attorneys and accountants, and set up meetings with the brokers and the bankers, maybe add some bakers and candlestick makers for good measure.

My phone rang, rousing me from a fairytale acquisition daydream. I saw it was Chad again, and I almost let it go, but I picked up just before it rolled to voicemail.

“Keep your pants on, I just emailed some photos and a few…”

“Don’t worry about it. He’s dead.”

“What?”

“Sidney’s dead.” Chad was subdued for a change, and I knew immediately that he was serious. I felt the blood drain from my head, and my knees got wavy. Everything was suddenly upside down and pear shaped. It was like I’d gotten shot but couldn’t figure out who pulled the trigger or where the hole was. I experienced bizarre waves of panic and déjà-vu, probably because I’d played this scenario over and over in my head. I knew it was coming, I just never thought it would actually happen.

“What happened?”

“Massive heart attack on the flight to Canada. I’m flying to New York in an hour. Get your ass there pronto.”

The line clicked and went dead. I was reeling. In mere seconds the day went from elation to bewilderment. I felt powerful waves of grief and loss swelling up around me. The world lost an extraordinary soul with a limitless heart connected to a limited heart valve. Sidney had been my patron and mentor, and I owed him for giving me the greatest opportunities of my life, and for teaching me that wealth wasn’t everything I thought it would be. If nothing else, his pain was finally gone.

I walked out of my cabin and looked around the beach. It was starting to cool down a little, and most of the divers had retired to their air-conditioned quarters for the evening. The sunlit reflections on the water were still bright and hypnotic. I was in paradise, but I didn’t know which end was up. My lungs were stiff and I couldn’t catch my breath. The Fear was building and closing in, and I was on the verge of a massive anxiety attack. I needed a drink.

I walked to the bar and grabbed a bottle of rum. No glass needed. The bottle and I reclined together in a hole in the sand in front of my bungalow. I started taking long slugs while struggling to breathe, but it felt like my lungs had collapsed. I kept drinking, but the rum wasn’t relaxing me. I needed a distraction.

I reached in my pocket for the pack of cards Sidney had forbidden me to open. This qualified as an emergency. I opened the pack and slid the cards out. They were extremely crisp and stiff, although they were not as sticky as I expected. The pack was definitely new, but someone had opened it and shuffled a few times. I spread the cards around the sand in front of me and tried to play a game of solitaire, but the cards started reminding me of people. Sidney was the undisputed king of congestive hearts, Chad the one eyed crackerjack of racist spades, my wife the queen of ideal cut diamonds, and Marian the wildest joker of them all. The cards weren’t helping.

As I was sliding the cards back into their box, I noticed a small glimmer in the corner of my eye. There was a tiny square of glossy paper stuck in the sand, almost imperceptible except for a bright reflective edge. It must have fallen out of the pack when I opened it. The sun caught it just at the perfect angle, and it was practically radiating red and yellow rays, like it was on fire. I picked it up and examined it. It was a small photograph and it was old. In an instant, I understood what Sidney was trying to tell me when he gave me the deck. He knew what was coming, and that I wouldn’t make it back in time to say goodbye.

I could see the dark waves building in the distance, but I was safe for now. My breath was returning and I felt calmer. I returned the photo to the pack of cards, and the pack to my pocket. The rum was also starting to kick in, and it was making me warm. I took another long drink and examined the bottle. Rum always reminded me of the Coyopa bottle Sidney invented that lit up and played reggae music when it was tipped. Way ahead of it’s time. I silently toasted Sidney, and closed my eyes. I listened to the waves crashing and rushing up and down the sand. I could hear the steady and reassuring rhythm of the sand and water, the trillions of tiny crushed shells and coral chips, grinding and chiming in infinite repetition.

My mind started to wonder with waves pounding my chest and rum warming me like hot blood. Something fluttered near my cheek, and I opened my eyes to see a Monarch butterfly touch down on the rim of the rum bottle inches from my face. Its wings were brilliant shades of yellow and orange, and its body and wingtips were covered with tiny white polka dots. It was one of the most phenomenal creatures I’d ever seen, and for a few moments I wasn’t sure if it was real or the rum talking. It froze momentarily, and then its wings started to flap in perfect synchronicity with the waves.

I leaned back in the hole and took a few more deep breaths. Everything was going to be alright. I watched the butterfly for several minutes, closed my eyes and passed out cold.