Ernesto doesn't bother learning hurricane names anymore. Sometimes the tourists mention them—Luisa's supposed to make landfall in a couple hours. We'll be safe here, right?—but they never stick in his head. Hurricanes, like tourists, are all the same: destructive forces converging on his home.

Today, they converge again: the tenth storm and tenth tour group of the season. The bay might be a mess of beach houses battered into splinters and luxury hotels flooded into ruin, but for Ernesto, business has never been better.

The Hanolds and the Fogles arrive eight hours before landfall, plodding along the beach in silk button-ups and leather sandals imported from Europe. The two couples are white—or rather, a shade of coral pink that will redden and blister over the next few hours, no matter how much sunscreen they apply.

"Hello, yes, are you the tour guide?" Mr. Hanold asks Ernesto, brushing sand off the tops of his feet. "Hablas inglés?"

He grins at Mrs. Hanold, as if expecting her to applaud his two words of Spanish.

"Yes, that's me," Ernesto says in English, aware that a Spanish response would only make the man gape like a dumb parrotfish. "Is everyone ready to go? We'll have three hours to spend at the reef."

"And the ghosts will be there?" Mrs. Fogle asks. She smiles and wiggles her shoulders at "ghosts," emphasizing her nervous excitement.

"They will, ma'am," Ernesto replies, refusing to match her enthusiasm. "Now, all aboard."

Storm after storm has pummeled the fixed dock housing his boat, but hurricane-resistant construction has protected both from significant damage. Besides some warped boards and scratched paint, everything works just fine.

Given the advanced age of these tourists, Ernesto offers each a hand as they step into the boat. Both of the men refuse, Mr. Hanold even waving him off, but Mrs. Fogle accepts his help and calls him a gentleman.

"It's hot as hell today," Mr. Hanold says. "Could I get a drink?"

If he thinks he'll get full service—a tequila sunrise made with fresh, locally grown, taste-of-the-tropics oranges—he's dead wrong. Ernesto doesn't have to try that hard to keep customers, not with a tourist destination as singularly fascinating as the ghost reef. Plus, the charismatic bartender was always his husband Gabriel's role, up until he died three years back—a sudden stroke while skin diving at the reef. His ghost will be there today. Ernesto can't wait to see him.

Turning back to Mr. Hanold, he says, "Sure. Grab a beer from the cooler."

Mr. Hanold pauses as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. Grumbling under his breath, he grabs a Corona and plops down portside on a cracked cushion.

When everyone is seated, Ernesto pulls the boat away from the dock and into the boiling sea.

#

"How much farther is it?" Mr. Hanold asks. Already tipsy, he thrusts the lip of his beer bottle at the darkening horizon, amber liquid sloshing onto the deck. "I don't want to get caught in that."

"We won't," Ernesto says from the captain's chair. "Just a few more minutes until we arrive."

The gray, rubble-clotted beach is distant now. Still standing among the ruin is Ernesto's hurricane shelter—a reinforced concrete cube—but it's barely visible from this far away. He dreads waiting out the worst of the storm there with the tourists. No matter how many times he does it, sheltering with these people never gets easier. At least when Gabriel was alive, Ernesto had someone to share the suffering with—and someone who could keep the assholes entertained with fishing tales, mixed drinks, and card games. Like children, tourists always need entertaining, unable to sit with their boredom or accept that waiting out a Category 5 isn't supposed to be fun.

The pale green glow of the ghost reef comes into view. Ernesto brings the boat to a stop, then drops anchor.

"We're here," he says.

Mr. Hanold grumbles "finally" and Mrs. Hanold gives his sunburnt thigh a playful smack.

The Fogles applaud the arrival.

"Some history first," Ernesto says. "A couple decades ago, this reef was fully alive with fish, sharks, crabs, coral, even—"

"No offense," Mr. Hanold says, wobbling to his feet, "but we came here to see the ghosts, not hear you talk. You got goggles, snorkels, flippers, all that?"

Mrs. Hanold frowns and looks away, as if she's both embarrassed of and used to her husband's behavior.

Mrs. Fogle stands, lifts the cushioned lid of her seat, and examines the equipment inside. "Here we go."

Without waiting for Ernesto's instructions, the tourists distribute equipment amongst themselves.

"You got a better snorkel?" Mr. Hanold asks. "This one smells weird."

"Sure, try one of the others," Ernesto says, pointing to a pile of spares.

Mr. Hanold sneers, then sifts through his options.

"Where can I put my clothes?" Mrs. Hanold asks. "I don't want them to get wet."

Nothing stays dry on the open ocean, but Ernesto motions to another seat compartment. Mrs. Hanold takes off her blouse, folds it neatly, and, with some hesitation, tucks it into the salt-crusted, mildewy storage area.

While everyone stores their clothes and adjusts the tightness of their goggles, Ernesto scans the sea for Gabriel's ghost. The glowing reef is still a short swim away, but if he squints, he can make out the translucent fins of makos stalking the water. They're harmless in spirit form, but when the reef was alive, Ernesto and Gabriel always told tourists to keep their distance. Still, Gabriel loved regaling them with fake stories about sharks he'd punched between the eyes to save tourists from becoming lunch. These tales were always a hit with the crowd, even if their self-aggrandizing artifice made Ernesto roll his eyes.

Shifting his gaze, Ernesto spots the appendages of anemones, wriggling like long phantom fingers. Gabriel always loved watching their otherworldly dance. If his ghost is anywhere in this reef, it's bound to be—

There. Gabriel's eyes are wide and hypnotized, his seaglass form shimmering. His ethereal flippers match the anemone's motion, their spirits in sync.

Unfortunately for Ernesto, getting a spirit's attention is tough. Gabriel rarely notices him. The ocean's oily surface sometimes feels like a one-way mirror through which the living can see the dead but the dead see only the faded and fallen. Still, Ernesto wants time with his husband. A chance to pretend they're exploring the reef together again, mutually mesmerized by the organism's stinging tendrils. Sometimes the lovers would return here after the tourists had gone back to their resorts, savoring the magic of this place for themselves. They would kiss in the glow of plankton instead of ghosts, the reef still half-alive. Ernesto has given up hope for another kiss like that, but maybe if he's lucky, his husband will actually notice him today, grace him with a smile. Rare, but it's happened before.

Readying his usual lie, Ernesto addresses the tourists before they can jump in the water. "Some rules," he says. "No swimming on the north side of the boat. The ghosts in that part of the reef are much more aggressive. The ones to the south won't snap at you. Stay there for your own safety. I'll call you all back with enough time to spare before the storm. Understood?"

The tourists exchange a glance. Mrs. Hanold grimaces, looking less sure of herself after this warning. Mr. Hanold snorts like Ernesto is full of shit.

"Got it, boss," he says. He bites down on his snorkel, then takes the plunge on the south side.

With some hesitation, the others join him, each one splashing after the next.

"Oh my, this feels like a hot tub!" Mrs. Hanold says.

Her husband swims off with his goggles pointed at the necroluminescent sea floor. The others follow with lazy dog paddles and asymmetric breast strokes.

When it's clear that a spectral octopus has captivated the tourists, Ernesto lets out a breath. Now is his time to spend as he pleases. Stripping off his sweat-soured T-shirt, he jumps off the other side of the boat to join his husband. Mrs. Hanold is right about the water feeling like a hot tub—an unmaintained one cranked up a few too many degrees. The filmy water clings to Ernesto's skin like shed ectoplasm. A school of barracudas glides beneath him, in no hurry to be anywhere but here.

A few dozen freestyle strokes close the distance between Ernesto and Gabriel. Like every time he sees his husband, he reaches out his hand, trying to touch the intangible. His fingers trace bubbles through the water but pass through Gabriel—still a specter, barely aware of Ernesto's continued existence. Ernesto often wonders if it's better this way, if Gabriel is happier in his state of perpetual marine hypnosis.

He joins his husband in watching the waving anemone. A bonding activity, even if Gabriel doesn't realize it. The anemone's tendrils reach toward hapless fish and the scorching sun beyond. Predation has never looked more beautiful.

Ernesto imagines Gabriel's hand in his own, and though his husband is years gone, he swears he can almost feel the warmth of his callused palm.

A splash behind them dissolves this vision. Ernesto whips around, imagining a mako breaching the surface with prey in its jaws, but of course, nothing lives here anymore. Nothing except tourists.

Despite Ernesto's rules, Mr. Hanold has joined him on the north side of the boat. He's unaccompanied, but the other tourists peek at him from a safe distance. Perhaps they still believe Ernesto's lie about the spirits here being more aggressive.

Ernesto swims to block Mr. Hanold's view of Gabriel, but a quick glance reveals that his husband has vanished. Did Gabriel notice this complete stranger but not Ernesto? Or was the timing of his disappearance coincidental? Ernesto hopes to god it's the latter.

"The ghosts over here don't seem so bad," Mr. Hanold says, pulling his snorkel from his mouth.

"Did he notice you?" Ernesto asks. The question comes out sharp as shark's teeth.

Scoffing, Mr. Hanold squints through his fogged-up goggles. "That guy die out here or something?" he asks, but he doesn't give time for a response. "Whatever, I don't really care. But listen, pal, I haven't liked your attitude today. I paid for this experience and I expect to be—"

Ernesto reaches out and grips the man's shoulder—an interrogator getting answers out of a suspect. "Did he notice you? Did you scare away my husband?"

Either it's the mention of "husband" or the sting of his salmon-colored sunburn, but Mr. Hanold winces and shrugs Ernesto off. He bites his snorkel, puts his face back in the water, and splashes away, back to exploring the reef.

Ernesto wants to grab his flipper, reel him in, and gut him like an ugly fish. But not just him. All of them. Trash floating in the spoiled brine.

Ernesto swims in a circle, scanning other parts of the reef for Gabriel. Ghostly loggerhead turtles float by like they're flying in slow motion, but Gabriel is nowhere to be found. A sob rises in Ernesto's throat but doesn't escape. The air around him boils with the coming storm, nearly as humid as the water itself. Breathing feels like choking. The horizon is blackening—darker than he's ever seen it before.

Barely conscious of his actions, he swims back to the boat and climbs aboard. He operates without thought, as if a single moment of conscious consideration might put a stop to his unfolding plan. He starts the boat's engine, and it rumbles to life.

The tourists look up from the reef, eyeing Ernesto at the wheel. Mr. Hanold throws up his hands in exasperation, and the Fogles grumble to each other.

"You said three hours, not three goddamn minutes," Mr. Hanold says, treading water about fifty feet away.

Mrs. Hanold speaks, her voice nasal and muted through tight goggles: "Is it time to leave already? I wish we had longer, but it's better to play it safe, I suppose."

Ernesto pulls the anchor up, his wet hands moving as fast as they can. Take too long and one of the tourists might make it on board. They're already swimming toward the boat. Not in a hurry, but quick enough to worry him.

Five more pulls and the anchor is back on deck. It's time.

Ernesto eyes the distant but approaching hurricane—a cylinder of churning violence.

"Wait up," Mr. Hanold says, spitting sea water. He reaches the ladder before the others.

Just as the man grabs the top rung, Ernesto kicks him in the chest. Mr. Hanold splashes back into the ocean, passing through a spectral stingray that takes no notice.

Mrs. Hanold shrieks and paddles toward her husband faster. Her eyes go wide when they meet Ernesto's. She's the first to realize what's happening.

Whole body shaking, Ernesto returns to the helm and pushes the throttle. The boat pulls away from the tourists, slicing through the sea as he turns back toward the far-off shore. He'll get there before the hurricane makes landfall, but the others won't, no matter how fast they swim.

Their screams follow him like the wails of banshees. He pushes the boat to its limit. The motor's roar drowns out their terror.

#

Two days alone in the shelter, eating canned tuna and listening to the howling wind. Two nights spent thinking of Gabriel. Of that shithead Mr. Hanold and the other horrible tourists.

When the howling stops and the sloshing storm surge recedes, Ernesto leaves his protected concrete cube.

Somehow, the beach looks like less of a ruin than before. The hurricane has either beaten glass and plywood into indiscernible shards, mixing them in seamlessly with the sand, or it has whisked the rubble farther inland. The evidence that resorts dominated this strip of coastline fades more and more with each passing storm.

The fixed dock nearly succumbed to this hurricane, splintered boards clinging to shore like giant hangnails. Ernesto's boat took a beating too, its metal exterior dented but not pierced. After an hour spent bailing water from the hull, he starts the motor and heads back toward the reef. The next hurricane is already on the horizon, and the ghost reef will be active again. A pit forms in Ernesto's gut—a premonition given physical form. He can feel that the reef has changed in some irreparable way.

As he speeds toward his destination, snakes of heat rise from the ocean in the noontime sun. Silent, he stands at the helm, death-gripping the wheel. No tourists complain from the seats behind him. No gulls shriek in the spraying wake. The surrounding lifelessness allows his anxiety to bubble up and fill the space. A violent feeling like seasickness overtakes him, though he hasn't puked on a ship in years.

When he finally gets to the reef, he finds no tourist corpses floating on the surf. No surprise there. The hurricane probably whisked them away in bits and bloody pieces.

But his premonition proves true. Their ghosts are here. Translucent goggled forms aimlessly splashing around, searching for something but unsure what it might be. Ernesto has sullied the reef with their spirits like an offshore rig spewing oil into the ocean.

Frantic, he scans the waters for Gabriel. He doesn't know if it's better or worse for him to be here—stuck with tourists for all time or pushed out of this place by their very presence. Ernesto looks to the anemones that so often hypnotize his husband.

But he's nowhere to be found. Displaced. No longer even a ghost.

© 2024 Eric Raglin