“I don’t see you.”
The crossing was rougher than predicted—six-foot swells, the kind that made the crew pass out green ginger chews like communion wafers. But Margo stood at the rail the whole way, salt spray plastering her hair to her face, watching the horizon. And when Fort Jefferson finally rose from the sea—brick-red and hexagonal, a Civil War relic guarding nothing but sea turtles and sky—she opened the box. dry tortugas ferry reservations
“Hang on,” he said.
Cruz tilted the screen toward the sunrise. “This says standby. Ma’am, standby isn’t a seat. It’s a prayer. We’ve got forty-two people on the waitlist today. Spring break. Calm seas. Everyone wants Fort Jefferson.” “I don’t see you
Margo felt the weight of her father’s ashes in her backpack—a small wooden box he’d carved himself, back when his hands still worked. She was supposed to scatter them from the ferry’s top deck, just as the fort came into view. He’d visited once in 1984 and never stopped talking about the nurse sharks in the moat. “Hang on,” he said