Cash smiles. The Bellhorns smile back.

Okay, then. Next!

Somehow, Cash gets it done—everyone present, documented, paid up, and on board enjoying the fruit platter and the coconut-banana bread. People are applying sunscreen. Cash puts on Kenny Chesney’s “Get Along.” The ladies from Wichita belt out, “We ain’t perfect but we try!” That’s Cash’s motto today as well. No matter that he’s flying solo, no matter that he’s been on this job only a few weeks, no matter that his father is dead and his mother broke and his dog homeless. He’s in the Caribbean; the turquoise water is smooth, and the emerald-green islands create an artistic landscape. He doesn’t want to leave St. John, ever. He needs to find someone to take Winnie, at least for a while. He needs to find a way to make his life work.

Granger has a business proposition “on the horizon” that Tilda wants Cash involved in. Yes, Tilda has been talking ambitiously about opening a business—adventure ecotourism, which would be right in Cash’s wheelhouse. Boots on the ground, sweat equity. He doesn’t have to front any money; he just has to show up. Cash wishes that on the horizon meant next week or even tomorrow.

Cash is the only crew member and James thinks the planned itinerary—a trip to the Baths, snorkeling at the Indians, and then two hours of merrymaking on Jost Van Dyke—will be too much for Cash to handle alone. Instead, James says, they’re going to Smuggler’s Cove, on the western tip of Tortola, followed by stops at Sandy Spit and Willy T’s.

“Oh, man,” Cash says. “Are you sure about that? I’ve never been to any of those places.”

“They’ll snorkel first thing in Smuggler’s Cove,” James says. “There’s a beautiful beach and they can have lunch at Nigel’s. Then back on the boat to Sandy Spit. Then Willy T’s for an hour, then home.” James starts the engine. “Trust me.”

What choice does Cash have?

He’s afraid the passengers will rise up in protest. Not only have many of them had this trip rescheduled, but now they’re not even going where they were supposed to go. They aren’t going to the Baths on Virgin Gorda, which is an experience like no other, and they aren’t going to the world-famous Soggy Dollar.

He expects a mutiny.

But then he gets an idea.

He heads up to the top deck where the nine women from Wichita are sitting. Midwesterners are nice, they’re helpful—Cash knows this because he is one. When Cash checked the women in—Christine, Stephanie, Kelly, Amy, Jennifer P., Jennifer A., Michelle, Tracy, and Donna—he learned that it was Donna’s fiftieth birthday. Over their bathing suits, the women all wore navy T-shirts that read DONNA, DO YOU WANNA?, which Christine told him was a private joke.

“Ladies,” Cash says. “I need a favor.”

He tells them what the favor is and they fall all over themselves assuring him that they’ve got his back. He’s so cute, he’s so hot, they say, and all they want in return are some pictures with him for their Instagrams and a promise that he’ll hold Donna’s hand as she jumps off the Willy T. (Michelle read on Tripadvisor that jumping off the Willy T is a bucket-list item, which is news to Cash.)

“Yes, I will, I got you,” Cash says. “Thank you, ladies.”

Cash gets ready to announce the change of itinerary over the microphone; it’s his first time wearing the headset, and he has to admit, he kind of likes the authority. “The captain is allowing us a rare and exciting opportunity today, ladies and gentlemen,” Cash says. “We’re heading over to Smuggler’s Cove on Tortola, where we will snorkel in the crystal-clear water and then you’ll have ample time to enjoy the secluded white sand beach. If you’d like lunch and cocktails, you can visit Nigel’s Boom Boom for a taste of the authentic Caribbean. When we leave Smuggler’s Cove, we’ll swing by Sandy Spit for a terrific photo op. We’ll end our day at the world-famous Willy T’s, a decommissioned freighter that has been reimagined as a beach-bar mecca. How does that sound to everyone?”

From the top deck comes the sound of ecstatic screaming and everyone looks up to see Donna, Christine, and company jumping up and down as though they’ve just been picked as contestants on The Price Is Right. The other passengers do high fives and cheer like they can’t believe their good fortune.

Cash relaxes. He’s good at this.

James is right; this itinerary is extremely easy for Cash to manage, even alone. They arrive in Smuggler’s Cove in just half an hour. The beach is a crescent of white sand fringed by palms, and it’s deserted, as though it has been ordered up and is waiting just for them. James asks Cash to drop the anchor and then he runs through the snorkel spiel. Defog your mask with this simple solution of dish soap and water; stay away from fire coral and the spiny black sea urchins, nothing else in these waters will hurt you.

“And after you finish your snorkel,” Cash says, “we’ll open the bar.”

Cheers. Zac Brown sings “Chicken Fried.” There’s no dollar sign on a peace of mind, this I’ve come to know.

The day unfolds without a hitch. Cash joins his new lady friends from Wichita at Nigel’s Boom Boom, where Nigel himself makes the best hot dog with griddled onions Cash has ever tasted. The ladies ask him questions that he avoids answering in detail, but they’re into Nigel’s rum punch, so they don’t really notice. My first winter in St. John, I came down here to be with my mother after my father died (the ladies love this; he’s so sensitive, such a devoted son). I used to be a ski instructor in Breckenridge, then I lived in Denver for a while, but I’ve traded in my ski boots for flip-flops, my poles and goggles for a mask and snorkel, and I’m staying here. Yes, I have a girlfriend, Tilda, the relationship is pretty much brand-new.

“Well,” Amy says, “I hope she knows how lucky she is!”

They leave Smuggler’s Cove and head to Sandy Spit, which is half an acre of pure white sand with light foliage, including a couple of palms, making it look like a Corona ad. Everyone jumps off the boat to swim ashore, and Cash takes pictures with his ladies for their Instagrams.

Then it’s off to the Willy T, properly the William Thornton, the floating bar named for an infamous nineteenth-century pirate. They tie up, and the nine ladies head directly upstairs to the bar and order the shot ski, something Cash is only too familiar with from the bars in Breckenridge. The “ski” has four holes for four shot glasses and on the count of three, four of the ladies lift the ski to their mouths and do the shots in unison. Because there are only four shots per ski, this has to be repeated a number of times so the other passengers from the Treasure Island—including the inconvenienced Mr. and Mrs. Bellhorn—can take turns as well.

The ladies want Cash to do the shot ski—it’s a bar trick that never gets old—but no, sorry, he says, he’s on the clock. He can, however, fulfill his promise to step out onto the jumping platform, twelve feet above the water’s surface, and jump off while holding Donna’s hand. Cash won’t lie; he’s a little nervous, even though he’d think nothing of a ski jump this steep.

He checks in with the birthday girl when they’re standing on the platform. “Donna, do you wanna?” he asks, thinking he’s the epitome of wit, but she doesn’t answer, just flings herself forward, and Cash has no choice but to follow.