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chairs, and approached the bar. The bartender smiled and nodded. Carrie was about to try her Creole, a language she spoke minimally at best, but felt relieved when he greeted her in English.
    â€œWhat can I get you?”
    â€œWhat do you have on tap?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “Ti La Biere, Flying Dodo, Stella Pils, Black Eagle … oh, and Phoenix Fresh Lemon, which is fruity.”
    Carrie made a face. “Got anything that I don’t need a little umbrella with? Maybe a nice Weizen Bock?”
    The bartender grinned. “Flying Dodo Mean Wheat Bock.”
    Carrie hesitated, not sure if what he had just said was a mistranslation or just an oddly named beer.
    â€œI’m sorry. Are you saying that Flying Dodo means Wheat Bock?”
    The bartender’s smile grew broader. “No, that’s the name of the beer. Flying Dodo Mean Wheat Bock. It’s delicious, and has a mean kick.”
    â€œSounds perfect. One of those, and a shot of whiskey, please. Can I run a tab?”
    Nodding, the bartender drew her beer, topping the glass off nicely. He placed the beer in front of her, returned with a shot glass of whiskey, and expertly picked up that she wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He checked on his other customer and then returned to his stool behind the bar. Carrie downed the shot and then chased it with a sip of the beer. It was cold and delicious and tasted like happiness. Carrie made a mental note to tip him well.
    She pulled out her phone and was pleased to see she had service. Whatever the reason for the electronic malfunctions onboard the Novak and its surrounding flotilla, her cell seemed to be working fine here on land. She tapped the app for her e-mail and frowned in frustration when she saw that she had over two hundred new messages. She scanned the senders and subject lines, weeding out the obvious interview requests and best wishes from well-meaning strangers, and focused instead on friends and family. All of them were concerned about her. The incident had been all over the news. Rather than e-mailing each of them separately, she decided to post a message on Facebook.
    As a public figure, Carrie had two Facebook accounts. One was a Carrie Anderson page that the public could “Like” and comment on. The other was a private profile she’d created under the pseudonym Jojo Anderson, which was in no way connected to her public page. She kept the friends list on her private profile confined strictly to family members, current friends, and trusted peers. She logged into the private account and checked the news feed. Her sister, Rachel, had posted pictures from her home in Boston—Rachel, her husband Chris, and their two sons, playing in what looked like about two feet of snow. They were bundled up—hats, coats, scarves, and gloves. One of the pictures showed them building a snowman. Another showed their dog, Timber, pulling the kids on a sled. It seemed strange to Carrie that while she was here, sweating and sunburned, her sister was back home dealing with temperatures in the twenties and a mound of snow. But then again, it also seemed strange to her that Rachel was married, and a mom. Carrie still thought of Rachel as her little sister. It seemed inconceivable they were now both in their thirties, with lives of their own. And Rachel with a family …
    She spotted a slightly older post on Rachel’s timeline—a picture of their father, posted a week ago on his birthday. The caption read: “We miss you, Pops. Happy 60 th !” Carrie had spent that day out at sea, trying not to think about it. Their father had been killed in an automobile accident on rain-slicked roads when Carrie was a sophomore in college and Rachel was finishing high school. And their mother, gone two years next May to cancer. Things had not ended well for Carrie and her mother. It had begun when Carrie was a teenager, and her father’s death had only increased the