Sybil unsticks her thigh from the side of the banana boat. She’s been lost at sea with Celeste for sixty-one days now. Sixty-one salty-aired days of morning dips and back floats at sunset. Stolen sandwiches dropped by seagulls into their laps, lunches and dinners enjoyed over chats about everything and nothing. Don’t feel badly for Sybil and Celeste—the old women are coasting.
In the sun, they spread their arms and tan their skin, speaking like sailors. They laugh so loud and deep they make waves. At nighttime, Sybil and Celeste lie down and hug the banana boat—Cary Grant, they call it—their heads almost touching in the middle. When the sun rises, they sit up and say good morning to schools of fish already on their way.
To people on land, Sybil and Celeste are a news story, a sensation. But “presumed dead” would be sublime, they agree. Not everyone cares to be found. Some days, they lament what they miss: screwball comedies, scented candles, omakase. They’ve found, though, that unobstructed stars at night are a panacea for missing.
When they’re feeling especially light, Sybil and Celeste lift the stray oar from the foot area of the banana boat. The one that drifted to them thirty-something days ago. HAPPY CAMPER, reads the blade’s inscription. Sybil and Celeste use the oar as a microphone for karaoke—today, Sybil sings Sinatra, later, Celeste will channel Elvis. The oar takes them to stages big and small, where the main act performs for a one-person audience, each show the greatest on earth.