I recently set sail for the Bahamas from Cape Canaveral, my third cruise and second time on Royal Caribbean’s Monarch of the Seas. I like cruising because I like eating and boozing. Who doesn’t? The first cruise I ever took was aboard Freedom of the Seas, which is most like a moving, floating city. The ship houses a casino, an ice skating rink, a miniature golf course, a mountain climbing wall, a theater, a few night clubs, three dining rooms, 5,000 people and the title of “World’s Largest Cruise Ship” (though it’s been one-upped by a ship called The Oasis already). Consequently, I’ve been disappointed by every other cruise ship since my first cruise, including this particular weekend getaway on the wimpy Monarch. But since I got to eat and drink whenever I want without guilt, it was completely tolerable and almost justifiable.

Regardless of what kind of ship I’m on, the real adventure begins once I depart the boat and make my way onto the land of any of the Caribbean Islands. This is due to the poor planning of third world countries, particularly when it comes to transportation, the lack of ramped curbs and plethora of rickety steps. Not to mention that beaches are surrounded by barrels of soft, fluffy sand that is surrounded by salty water–all things my electric wheelchair frowns upon. Still, I continue to explore new territory.

As we approached the Bahama docking area, I was confronted by a man holding a disabled taxi sign. Imagine my surprise. It had never happened before. His approach was so abrupt that he must have seen me coming way before I saw him. “You need ride, Miss?” he demanded. He was proud. His weight seemed comparable to the weight of my wheelchair, and his skin was the color of charcoal.

“I might,” I answered. You never say yes immediately on an island.

“I give you tour of de island for sickty dollas an hour.”

“What about a quick ride to the Atlantis? And then a pick up later?”

“I can do dat. How ’bout tirty-five each way.”

“What? Why? Every other taxis says $4 a person,” I argued. That was the truth.

“Give me break lady. I need to move a seat for yo chair. I lose money cause of dat.”

He had a point, but in America such a statement is inexcusable. In fact, it’s insulting. While I debated the possibilities, I sent my brother to go see what an islander’s definition of “accessible” meant. He’s used to making adjustments and carrying me places.

Two things would need to happen in order for me to ride comfortably in the van: I would need to be carried to the front seat and the chair would need to be hoisted up the dodgy folding ramp into the back of the van. Who was willing to pay me for my inconvenience?

“Everything is negotiable” is the undeclared Caribbean motto. So I told the fat man we’d think about it while we went and checked out the market. The upon our return, I asked if he could take us to the fancy hotel for $50 round-trip.

“Nah,” he answered. He had found some Americans who didn’t know the motto. “But I help you.” And that’s how we ended up riding with Peter, pronounced Pee-tah, like the Mediterranean bread pocket. His van was brand new, still covered in plastic and blasting cold AC. Already, it seemingly was the better choice.

As we made our way down the streets of Nassau, nearly killing the other tourists who rented scooters that day, Peter praised Jesus, blasted gospel music and held hands with the Bible that sat in between us.  I considered Peter’s intentions: was he actually indeed religious or if he was using props to make us feel safe? I decided the guy was decent at best, and with that decision, said a small prayer for myself.

Then Peter abruptly stopped the van midway up the toll bridge.

Once everyone in the van had settled, I looked to my right and over at the stranger. He had thrown up the emergency brake with such great force, we had become like pinballs whipping around its machine. I peered at the driver. He appeared to be on a mission. He opened his door so urgently, a bus nearly squashed him. Quickly, he leaned back over towards me and slammed the door shut, waited a second, and then tried again. This time, successful, he waddled towards the back of the van until he disappeared.

During this type of situation, there is only one thought that percolates in your brain and then forces it’s way out of your mouth,”What the fuck is he doing.” The next few thoughts were much more rational, and therefore capable of staying in my mind. “Is he leaving us here? Has he found someone to buy my wheelchair? Is he going to open the back door and chuck my chair off the bridge?” I didn’t have the courage to look back anymore and so I kept looking straight ahead, to the future, hoping me, my friend Erin and my brothers would all live to tell this story to our grandchildren one day. Two minutes later, the chubby man returned. I watched him jump into his seat and settle in. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his cheeks like tears. “Look!” he said to me. “Screwdriver! It’s Phillips head.” He was smiling big now. “You hav’ta excuse me. I collect ‘dem … da screwdrivers.” He held it up high, like it was some sort of trophy. I was speechless. He had risked his safety, and ours, to grab something that had clearly fallen out of a work truck.

“How many screwdrivers are out roaming the islands?” I wondered.

And that’s when I saw it. Right in front of my face, on the cubby of the dash, was another Phillips head screwdriver and it got me thinking.

What do I collect?

Sadly, the answer to that question is nothing. In fact, I’m quite the opposite of Peter—I throw things away. I feel no attachment to material things (not even Oliver Peoples after the first two weeks). Although, I’m thinking now maybe I should change my ways. I mean, take Peter for example. He seems pretty happy.

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