I recently set sail for the Bahamas from Cape Canaveral. This was my third cruise and second time on Royal Caribbean’s Monarch of the Seas. The first cruise I took was aboard Freedom of the Seas, which is literally a moving, floating city. That particular boat 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 at that time, was proclaimed to be the largest cruise ship sailing. Consequently, I’ve been disappointed by every other cruise ship since then, including the Monarch (that is, of course, until I found a black jack table).

Regardless of what ship I’m on, for me the adventure begins once I depart the boat. This is partly due to the inaccessibility of most Caribbean Islands, particularly when it comes to transportation. Other issues include no sidewalk ramps, steps and barrels of soft, fluffy sand all surrounded by salty water; all things my electric wheelchair frowns upon. Still, that doesn’t stop me from pursuing new territory.

In the past, we’ve simply found a big van that hails like a taxi, thrown me in the front, and shoved my chair in the back. Then it’s off to the Atlantis hotel to gamble and drink over-priced Kalik’s. As we approached the docking area on this particular trip, I was confronted by a man holding a disabled taxi sign. Imagine my surprise. He must have seen me coming from a mile away because he eagerly approached me. “You need ride, Miss?” the man shouted. He was proud. His weight seemed comparable to the weight of my wheelchair, and like a lot of the islanders his skin was the color of charcoal.

“I might,” I answered.

“I give you tour of de island for sixty dollas an hour.” As he talked at me, I debated whether or not his skin was so dark because of his ethnicity or the consequences of sun overexposure. His skin was just that dark. He was sitting directly in the sunlight, squinting, and so I decided it was the latter.

“What about a ride to the Atlantis and back? Could you leave us there for a few hours and then come back and pick us up?”

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

“What? Why? Every other taxis says $4 a person,” I argued. Any other taxi would have costs us $16.

“Give me break lady. I need to move a seat for yo chair. I lose money cause of dat.” This is when I sent my brother to go see what he meant by “accessible.” Basically, the set-up consisted of a folding ramp that would need to manually be put on to the van, which meant we could roll the chair in the van instead of lift it, but I still would need to do one of the two things in order to get in: get out of the chair or chop my head off. I told him we’d think about it while we went and checked out the market. Luckily, I know the way the system works in the Caribbean: everything is negotiable. So upon our return, I asked the big fella if he could take us to the fancy hotel for $50 round-trip.

“Nah,” he answered. Apparently he had found some Americans who didn’t know the system. “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. It already seemed like the better choice. As we made our way down the streets of Nassau, nearly killing those who rented scooters that day, Peter praised Jesus and blasted gospel music. That’s when I noticed there was a Holy Bible in between us. I wondered if our driver was actually indeed religious or if he was using props to make us feel safe. It was just too much–the Bible, the singing, the praising. Either way, I decided the guy was decent.

And then he abruptly stopped the van midway up the toll bridge.

Immediately, I looked to my right and over at the stranger. He had thrown up the emergency brake with great force, causing us to jerk around the van like pinballs whipping around its machine. He then proceeded to open his van door and was nearly hit by a bus. Quickly, he leaned back in and slammed the door shut, waited a second, and then tried again. This time he was successful and disappeared behind the van. “What the fuck is he doing,” I thought. “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 and so I kept looking straight ahead, hoping me, my friend Erin and my brothers would live to tell this story. Two long 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 in tears. “Look!” he said to me. “A screwdriver. It’s a Phillips head.” He was smiling big now. “You have to excuse me. I collect ‘dem … the 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 of changing my ways and becoming a collector. I mean, look how happy its made Peter.