Brandon Enns - Islanders

Stefans thick matted hair shifted in a tunnel of wind. The shades of blue and green appeared layered, the ocean water clear as a crystal ball. His yacht carved through the hypnotic water, leaving a wake in its path. He could spot his island in the distance, a mound of green, sitting there, waiting for him. The tidal data recorded over the past twenty years indicated that it was unlikely his island would flood. If so, it was of little consequence. The insurance on his assets on the island came at a reasonable premium due to said data. If insurance ceased to exist, it still would not have caused much worry. Lost millions would be replaced with more millions. As silly as it sounded, he had felt himself changing after the second meditation session he had tried two years ago. It was miniscule, but there was a shift. It was easier to see that now. Throughout extensive meditation training, he had taught himself to supress the satisfaction he would get from feeling secure due to money or the tools that protected his money. No matter how small or minor the situation, it was important to experience things free of assured outcomes: something as simple as cooking a new meal for the first time; walking in a neighborhood with the graffiti, buildings with decaying facades, and the smell of marijuana; going on a road trip without GPS; or investing in a new start-up company because he believed in the owner and not necessarily the business model and its market. Baby steps.

Stefan was the son of a hedge fund tycoon. He rarely made decisions for himself, and if he did, they werent truly made by him. When provided any sort of opportunity, he was paralyzed by his instilled lack of independence. After joining his fathers firm fresh out of Columbia with a business degree, Stefan discovered in a hurry that he was empty and unfulfilled. The business degree was sure helpful though. Itd be a good thing to have as a fail-safe in the event he left the family business or if a meteor larger than the 2008 housing market came and obliterated the US economy. Yes, surely those with degrees would be the only ones to survive the aftermath of that troubling scenario.

His path had been laid out for him to swallow down like yet another dry martini. Suits and meetings with potential clients. Lunches. So many lunches. Then there were the meetings with other A-list Columbian students licking from the palm of his hand like docile house cats. He was their connection. A connection to opportunity; that opportunity being a piece of his dads companys pie, and in turn, a piece of every clients pie. Bring your money to us. We know better than the rest. Twitter news flashtheyre all the same; corporate imagery and sincerity so well-practiced that they almost sound sincere.

Everything about it was unimaginative, uninspired; a waste of breath. It felt wrong. Everyone experiences the feeling. Many ignore it. It takes effort, painful fucking effort, but people ignore it and carry on, telling themselves its the right move, that the feeling will pass. It never really does. It hollows you out, creates dead space inside. Perhaps portions of the soul go missing. Science will explain in due time.

When his dad sold the firm to semiretire and work as a consultant and private investor, Stefan inherited a large chunk of money, strictly for tax purposes, but his money nonetheless. He was to continue in his fathers line of work, marry a beauty, have two kids, maybe a golden lab, pool in the backyard, all-access pass to the finest gentleman clubs where boy-men would gather to drink two-hundred-dollar scotch and talk about the treacherous service on their last trip to the Bahamas. The mai tais would be too sweet, caviar not caviary enough, the steam room not steamy enough, and the massages without enough tug.

No more cigar smoke, stock markets, high-rise suites, boardroom meetings, fancy cars, and most of all, no more fake people. Stefan couldnt fathom a life like that. If he didnt get out, hed drown in it until the day came that it all was good.

So what does a twenty-six-year-old who just had a falling out with the old man and has an unlimited amount of cash do? He buys an island off the coast of Belize to live on remotely and operate as a resort. But this would be no ordinary resort. Stefan had special plans for his island. The bill was $8.2 million. Inconsequential.

Stefan didnt have a name for his paradise yet. Perhaps naming it would be too pretentious.

Hands on the steering wheel, he felt like a very stupid god, creator of his own world. He was confident that with the right touch, it could all become something very special.

Stefan pulled out a captains hat and plopped it on his head. He called out, his voice carrying over the water. Freedom was real. Straight ahead, he could see the perfect circular shape of his island and to his left were massive walls of grass and rock. Southeast was Ambergris Caye where he had come from, which wasnt that far from Belize mainland.

The sight of it all made him laugh. He was giddy. He moved to the stereo and pressed play, his iPhone hooked up via auxiliary. Flooding the speakers was the theme song to Jurassic Park as he hollered again. Da na na na na, Da na na na na.

He was a fool. A very happy fool. Nearing shore, he had to shit in the worst way. Hed pinch it off until he docked, then he would christen the island with a vile NYC dump. From now on, all bowel movements would be balanced and earthy thanks to his supply from the garden and lack of access to fast-food. He would likely steer clear of the beef in Belize. If need be, he would order from a Canadian supplier.

He angled left between the island and the ridges to the left. Up ahead was a docking station. He glided in with plenty of room and killed the engine just as he pulled up to the padded edges of the dock. There was no sign of Arnie, his housekeeper for the time being. Stefan tied off the boat and hauled his luggage off. He stepped off the dock and paused, taking in the view of palm trees and birds circling above.

Walking through the trees with a permanent grin on his face, he entered a clearing; a perfect circle of an opening accompanied by three separate homes. To his left was an old cabin that belonged to Bruce. Up ahead and north was his quarters, a stylish and modern home that he would now refer to as his bunker. Its sleek gray siding was reminiscent of where a sophisticated serial killer might live. Very American Psycho.

If he were to continue east, there was a duplex-style home. It looked as though it was plucked from East Village and plotted on sandy land. Both homes were designed for a luxury stay, which Stefan had gone back and forth on during the developmental stages. He wanted his guests to be impressed, but he was also concerned that it would draw away from the true purpose of his island adventure. The 360-degree area of beach surrounded his circular eighty-five acresa rocky shelf for some of the best scuba diving; snorkeling directly off shore in the bright turquoise-blue water; various campsites and short, but scenic trails; zip-line traversing the entire island; the hot springs; the rocky cliff with a natural smooth-surfaced waterslide (Stefan had a special material installed to make the sliding soft and slick); not to mention the lovers nest out on the water.

He knocked twice and waited for an answer at the front door. He couldnt hear anyone for a while, until finally, footsteps. The door opened, and Stefan assessed Arnies tired face. Arnie was a laid-back hipster living on mainland, but he was from the States, one of the northern ones; Stefan could never remember which. They had met while Stefan was on vacation with some buddies from back home, and drunken conversation led to private islands, which led to Arnie touring him around to view some of them. None of the others compared to this one.