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.“Just a pit-stop on the way to somewhere else.”“Then for me it was a lucky stop.Where’s somewhere else?”“Honest truth, I don’t know! Somewhere near Hawaii.”“Oh.Hawaii?” There’s a cloud of nervousness in his eyes.“Then from Puerto Natan you’ll catch a plane the rest of the way?”“No, we’re going by boat.The Intrepid.You saw it yesterday.”“I saw.” He shakes his head.“By boat isn’t a good idea,” he says firmly.“What? Why?”“From here to Hawaii takes you straight through the Trash Vortex,” he says, pointing out at the ocean.“The territory of the plastic pirates.”I laugh.“Are those guys for real?”Natan isn’t laughing, not at all; he reaches out and stabs my forehead with his thumb.“Ow.”“You need to play less paintball and watch more news.The plastic pirates have an island out there, built from the plastic and shit that swirls around in the ocean.” He moves his index finger in a circle on his open palm.“Area as big as my country.The pirates like to raid ships and take whatever they can’t scavenge from the sea or out of the trash.”“I’m sure our captain has a plan.” But I wonder, assuming he knows about it, why Marcus hasn’t mentioned the plastic pirates to us.“I hope so,” Natan says.“The Vortex is as big as Mexico?”“Bigger.”“Then there’s not much chance we’ll run into any pirates, right? A small band of people in such a big area?”“Not a small band.Thousands.”“But still.In such a big space?”“Sure, a small chance if everything goes OK.It’ll feel like a big chance if you get raided, though.” We’ve arrived at the restaurant.Through the cracks in the closed shutters I can see it’s dark inside.“Wait here,” he says.He goes in and comes out a few minutes later with a paper bag, and from this he gives me a banana.I peel it and bite into it, squish the sweet paste through my teeth.“Tastes almost as good as you did last night,” I say, trying to restore the morning’s glow.But when Natan only smiles I know the mood has irrevocably changed—a victim of the plastic pirates, I guess you could say.In Natan’s eyes I’ve probably gone from glamorous paintballer to dumbass tourist in ten seconds flat.“I’m trying to find Ryan,” I blurt to Natan.Yes it’s classified info, but I tell it because hopefully it sounds good and noble and worthy of whatever danger awaits.I want Natan to respect me.“We think exile island is in Hawaii.That’s why I’m going there.It’s top secret.So please don’t tell anyone.”He shrugs.“I don’t say you shouldn’t go, I say you should take a plane.”I sigh.“Can I walk with you to your boat?”“OK.”At a pavilion at the top of the pier he stops at a locker and pulls out his fishing equipment.The net, folded and tied up with straps, is obvious, but the rest is a jumble of plastic and metal I would probably recognize in its assembled forms but which now looks technical and intimidating.Natan swings the load over his shoulder and we walk slowly to the end of the pier.“How do you swim all this stuff out to your boat?” I ask.“I swim,” he grins, “it doesn’t.”After setting it all down he slips off his shoes and pulls off his shirt, hands me his sunglasses, and drops backward into the water.He’s a clean, pretty swimmer, with movements that seem to work with the waves rather than fighting them.Before long he’s gripping the side of the boat we saw him in yesterday, and then with a splash he heaves his glistening body—his lean, starry back and strong legs—up out of the water and over the side of the rocking boat.I watch him shake out his hair and get to work pulling the tarp off the motor.I stand holding his sunglasses.I put them on, look around, take them off.Before long he motors up beside the pier.I pass his gear down to him and he arranges it around the boat.“So I guess this is goodbye,” I say.“It happens,” he says with a smirk.“Be careful, Boots McHenry.I had fun with you.I want to see you on TV next season so I can point to you and tell my friends and boyfriend I was with you.So be careful.”I start walking back down the pier before he’s motored away, but when he’s zooming out across the bay I turn and watch him.Sunlight winks on the back of his boat, which I see is named Miguel.Then I put my hands in my pockets and continue across the beach to the boardwalk.I go back to my unused hotel room and shower and then check out (the old woman with the pink fingernails looks bleary-eyed this morning).Standing on the street with a breakfast burrito and coffee, I watch the town waking up.Yawning shop-owners push open shuddered windows, vendors roll covered carts along the boardwalk.When I’m done eating I head back to the rocky beach where we parked the dinghy.Technically I still have plenty of time to spend in Puerto Natan, but I’ve had my fun and I’m eager to be back on the Intrepid.Maybe I can help Marcus with the supplies.On the beach I find our dinghy, and find it occupied.Barefoot blond legs that can only belong to Piper Pernfors are hanging over the side, dangling toes half buried in the sand.That’s all I can see as I approach so it’s not clear whether he’s dead, passed out, or just lying around daydreaming.I hope he didn’t get murdered or something.As soon as I can see the rest of him it’s clear he’s not dead, and equally clear he’s not just daydreaming.He has one arm covering his eyes and the other is bent in an uncomfortable-looking angle between his back and the floor of the dinghy.I kneel down beside it and cup my hands and yell his name
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