“What day is it?”

“Thursday,” Taylor offers.

“Ah, Thursday!” Ellen taps her knuckle to the middle of her forehead. “Today is buy one tattoo, get a second for half the price.”

“Why do I feel like you just made that up?” Willa says.

Ellen lifts her arms like a game-show hostess, her bangles clanking. “I own the place, darling. And it’s clear you girls have a story to tell. I would be honored to hear it.”

“You have a deal.”

“Wonderful. Who would like to go first?”

Taylor—the girl most likely to chicken out—opts to get the first tattoo, but Willa goes along for moral support. They look up the coordinates for the ferry dock online, and as Ellen slips on a pair of black latex gloves, Willa begins telling the story, starting with a deathbed promise and ending with a hurricane. By the time she reaches the end, they have matching tattoos—Taylor’s on her inner wrist and Willa’s on her inner arm just above her elbow.

“The lovely thing about these particular coordinates is that it’s unlikely you will ever regret them,” Ellen says. “After all, they mark the spot where you learned exactly how strong you are.”

25.7255° N, 79.2968° W

Reach for the stars.

Taylor

THE INTRACOASTAL WATERWAY IN FLORIDA is different from that in every other state they’ve traveled. Less wild, more populated, and really . . . really . . . long. The farther south they go, the heavier the boat traffic. They see fewer tugboats and shrimpers, more sport fishing boats and mega yachts. The waterfront homes grow bigger and fancier as they pass though Palm Beach and Boca Raton. And there is a ridiculous number of bridges. Most are tall enough for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot to pass beneath, but they have to rearrange their schedule to wait for the drawbridges to open. It takes them an entire week to reach the northern outskirts of Miami.

“Where do you want to stay tonight?” Willa is lying on the cockpit bench with her feet propped on the cabin top, flipping the pages of Getting Loopy. “There’s a good anchorage at Dinner Key that’s closish to downtown, or we could go to No Name Harbor, which is kind of remote, but a good jumping-off point for heading south.”

Taylor is in a weird place emotionally because she’s sick of Florida, but she also isn’t ready to run the final lap. The breeze ruffles the chart book on the seat beside her and the pages settle on a different chart. It feels like a sign.

“Let’s not stay in Miami tonight,” Taylor says. “Let’s make a detour east.”

“There’s nothing to the east except the Bahamas.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you serious?”

“In just a few days this will all be over,” Taylor says. “And this is the chance of a lifetime.”