Page 43 of Pick-Up
Derek, the managing editor, flew ahead yesterday, so I share the six-seater with Stephanie, Peter, Jackie and a pilot, a local man in a classic airplane captain’s cap and a yellow T-shirt that reads “Turks & Caicos: Beautiful by Nature!” His name tag reads “Jimmy Baptiste” and his wide smile is contagious.
I feel like I’m buckled into the jump seat in an old-school checkered cab. Not exactly stable. But I push my fears away before going to thatWhat will happen to Nettie and Bart if I die?place. I will not sabotage this experience for myself.
The plane flies so low and the water is so clear that, out the porthole, I can literally see stingrays gliding in slo-mo beneath the surfacelike I’m watching a nature documentary from above. Like I’mina nature documentary! I can see tiny sand islets topped with toupees of greenery that shrink when the tide is high. Out the left side of the plane, Jackie spots a creature with a fin.
“Is that—?!” she says with alarm.
“It’s a gray reef shark!” the pilot Jimmy proclaims gleefully, like it’s a special breed of puppy.
Jackie is wide-eyed. “Are they—?!”
“They’re not aggressive,” he says. “Attacks are rare.”
“Rare is not never,” she murmurs to herself like a mantra.
“But what a way to go!” Stephanie exclaims from behind rose-gold aviator sunglasses, her feet propped up on the empty seat in front of her. Not a care in the world.
Peter, our cameraman, is green and has not spoken for the duration of the journey, except when he efficiently handled accounting for our vast array of production equipment at baggage claim. Now, he is hunched over, his hands clasped tightly in prayer or restraint.
“Are you okay?” I whisper to him.
“I do not like planes,” he says. “I especially do not like small planes.”
“Peter is afraid of flying!” Stephanie announces, swatting his worries away with her manicured hand like one would a gnat. Phobias are a drag.
“But what a way to go!” she says again.
Looking around at my fellow passengers, I can safely say we would all prefer not to “go” no matter what the way, however arresting the landscape. Jackie is shaking her head like she has not signed up for this.
Soon enough, we teeter toward a tiny airstrip on what looks like a mostly untamed island. We bounce and rebound upon landing. And, when we hit the ground, Peter holds his head in his hands, shouting, “Oh Lord!” But we ease to a safe stop. He stays in that position for minutes afterward. We give him grace to recover.
As soon as we’re told it’s okay, the rest of us unbuckle our seatbelts (as if they served a purpose) and, with Jimmy’s assistance, climb one by one out onto a portable step stool on the tarmac.
I step down to solid ground and look around. There is no other sign of life. At first, it’s just us on this alien planet, surrounded by dry earth, savage shrubbery and the embrace of that humid tropical air. There is only the back of a large white Georgian-style house ahead of us that I assume is the reception center. It has heather-gray asphalt shingles on the roof and teal shutters.
I close my eyes for a moment and breathe it all in, feeling my shoulders drop. I am here for work. The stakes are high. I need this job. But I might as well enjoy it.
As we begin to walk as a group toward the entrance, a tiny lizard skitters past.Cute! Wildlife!But, as we reach the door, framed by brush and strategical palm trees, the lizard’s much larger cousin lumbers across our path.Welcome to Citrine Cay!Peter and Jackie both shriek, taken by surprise. Jackie actually skitters away herself. But she returns, quickly, catching her breath with a hand to her chest.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” she says to me.
I nod with understanding.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” she says to Jimmy the pilot, who laughs heartily.
Inside, this is like no hotel reception area I have ever seen. It’s like a home in heaven. Everything is white. Everything is plush. The space is entirely indoor-outdoor with a seductive breeze blowing through. Below a bamboo ceiling fan with palm frond–shaped blades, I am led to a wicker couch that cradles the world’s cushiest cushions. There, I am handed a glass of bright red rum punch with an umbrella and a chunk of sweet pineapple in it. It tastes like vacation.
So this is how the other half lives.
I pretend it’s all normal to me. An average day. Stephanie is chatting up a manager who has come to greet us. Peter, recovering on the couch beside me, seems grateful for the alcohol. Jackie is already checking out a rack of organic cotton caftans in a gift shop off the main room.
I take out my phone to snap a few photos—a portrait of my drink sitting poised atop the rattan coffee table. I sign release forms, delivered on a clipboard directly to my lap, promising not to smoke in or otherwise destroy my room. Then, just as I’m signing into the hotel’s Wi-Fi so my phone will work, an older white man in a starched uniform and a name tag that reads “Michael O’Connor” approaches to say he’ll take me to my room. In the distance, I can see that my luggage has already been loaded into a golf cart that’s nicer than any car I’ve ever owned.
“See you at dinner!” Stephanie chirps, winking as I’m led away. In that moment, I have a sensation like I’m back in middle school playing truth or dare, being led into a bedroom by some boy. What might happen next? I am a lamb to the slaughter, and I am cool with it.
That’s when my phone startsbingingas my texts populate.
“Ah, so sorry,” I say, fumbling with my purse latch to try to extract and silence the noise pollution.
