"Caribbean Vacation" (not starring Chevy Chase). Part 8

Flying time between Puerto Rico and Tortola is forty-seven minutes. I know this because all I did during the flight was to look at my watch, considering there was no eye contact or dialogue between Valerie and me. The last visual connection between us had been right after boarding the plane, passing through the goat and fowl reception line. I tried not to read anything into her expression; actually, I avoided glances like the bubonic plague. By now her flowing white cotton skirt and pale lavender-colored top were painfully wrinkled as if they had been wadded into a tight, damp ball; there were also some curious discolored spots on her skirt, that I surmised were the result of friendly goat nudges and nibbles. Her fixed stare out the plane’s window was a welcome respite, giving me time to reassess all the steps leading up to my current predicament:

• Great idea for a surprise birthday vacation;
• Worked with professional travel expert;
• Reviewed brochure information;
• Remote, exotic, Caribbean island;
• All-inclusive luxury “American” package;
• First class travel;
• No way to predict construction in Puerto Rico airport;
• OK, I forgot to ask about the style of plane to Tortola;
• Now really, who would have ever imagined barnyard animals on the plane;
• C’mon, Brian, considering the bigger picture of the next ten days in luxury, this is a very minor hiccup;
• We can do this, I know we can; it’s the island way.

My reassuring reflection was interrupted by the sudden jolt from the plane dropping. It felt like the sensation you feel from one of those rides in the amusement park. You know, the one where you pay good money to be strapped into a small open metallic container (with three other idiots), rolled out to the edge of a 150-foot high precipice and then you get to feel your testicles and/or other vital organs launch up into your throat as you freefall into the abyss; all the while screaming a shattering death cry.

And then, as an extra bonus, you get to spend the next thirty minutes trying not to vomit from the waves of nausea coursing through your body; all the while feigning how utterly cool the experience was. Then you boast that, if time permitted, you wanted to do it again.

I turned to look out the window as purple-dipped clouds burst open around us, the propeller blades shredding the dense mounds and causing the plane to rise and drop uncontrollably. The plane’s up-down, then side-to-side movements felt like we were being jostled by a child “flying” a model plane tied to a string. I leaned over Valerie’s shoulder for a closer look. There between shards of clouds, blinks of green and aquamarine filled the framed window scene. Tortola’s Mule Island tilted below us, the plane banking to the left in a wide, downward swinging arc.

Valerie turned from the window to meet my gaze.

The azure waters of her eyes glittered. Her smile radiated as the wheels touched the asphalt runway. We had landed in paradise.

For emphasis.

(b)