We’re in a small plane off Costa Rica, our legs touching together, beads of sweat crawling down our faces. Maybe the beads are touching as well, down where our legs are, but I’m not looking. My eyes are straight out the window.
Mary Ann’s hands are in mine, we take turns taking tight grips; turns in turn with the vibrations of the plane. We both know we’re perfectly safe; the pilot makes this hop from mainland to island to mainland a few times a day. He seemed good enough. But the dips and lifts aren’t good for assuaging doubts.
“It’ll be gorgeous,” Mary Ann shouts in my ear. It doesn’t hurt. I look at her eyes, which are wide with fear and excitement. He hair strands are wild in the wind, like individual dancers.
“Must be pretty modest,” I shout back. She nods, but I’m not convinced she understood me. Maybe she heard something better than what I said. This is my hope.
The plan is to camp on the shore for a three days, then return to the mainland for four. We’ve been looking forward to this for months. I just wish the damn island would show itself.
“Do you think they’ll have cigarettes?” She asks with enthusiasm. She’s really nervous. She’s forgotten we still have a pack.
“Yeah!” I try to match her excitement, but I fail. Down below, in a circle of green surrounded by blue, is the island. It’s times like this I know God smiles.