My Tropical Island Corona Bubble

(Author's note: The following story is inspired by an anonymous reader who wrote this to me as a comment to one of my earlier stories: "I have an idea for a story which I think you would be able to make come to life. The story would be of a young woman who houses a tattoo artist who is down on his luck. While she houses him the global pandemic hits and they get locked down together. In this time he spends months tattooing her and gradually covering her whole body as the lust grows between them with each new tattoo." I know that I am not completely faithful to your idea, but I hope you like the story anyway.)

1. The Island

I guess we had both hoped that the week-long stay in March 2020 on the small, tropical island off the South American mainland could patch up the cracks that had emerged in our four-month-old relationship.

My boyfriend, Till, and I had met the previous November and had then, deeply in love, spontaneously decided to go on this exotic trip.

After two months in large South American cities, where Till had proudly demonstrated his excellent command of the Spanish language, we had finally decided to spend some time on the idyllic island a three-hour boat ride off the coast.

On the island we were literally off the grid. There was no internet. Some islanders owned radios, and a satellite dish on the roof of the tienda-hostal at the pier was testimony to the fact that TV signals could be pulled down from the atmosphere even here. The fast Spanish speaking broadcasters, however, remained incomprehensible to me, as I had only picked up a few phrases, only conversed about simple subjects, and strictly spoke in present tense to the extent that I actually used conjugated verbs. I had made the mistake of picking Russian as my second foreign language in school back in Germany and had no clue to Spanish when I first set foot on South American soil. We had met absolutely no Russians on our trip.

I had let Till do the talking, which he obviously enjoyed. All communication with locals had gone through him. This imbalance between us had damaged my otherwise excellent self-confidence as a young, pretty woman.

On a positive note, I had developed a nice tan that went really well with my bright-blonde hair, but I had also gained quite a few extra kilos from eating far too much greasy, deep-fried fast food, and my jeans felt like they'd shrunk two sizes. I had, frankly, become a lot chubbier than I wanted to and felt like a fat cow, which contributed to my depressive mood.

The island had around a hundred inhabitants. We were a handful of backpackers on the ferry and met a couple of other European and North American tourists on the small hostel at the pier that was also the local grocery store. It was the island's only tourist accommodation and I enjoyed speaking English to the French-Canadian couple, the two gay men from Finland, and the two Dutch girls. All were in their early twenties, like ourselves. There were a few other backpackers but the eight of us, who all stayed in the same room, formed a tight-knit community within a couple of days and started spending time together at the beach on the other side of the island to which you could only get via a demanding walk across the hills in the hot sun.

The good company improved my mood as we spent days on the beach and evenings on the pier, grilling fish and eating fresh fruit. It was essential to get back across the hills with their labyrinthine trails before nightfall that came suddenly here as opposed to the lengthy, North European twilight we were used to.

In contrast to my sudden cheerfulness, Till became strangely irritable, and his mood worsened with each day. Maybe he was frustrated because he was no longer my link to the world, maybe he didn't like the others in our group as much as I did, maybe he just wanted to spend time with me, or maybe it was a combination of all three.

Either way, we had our silly arguments about, really, nothing. But the roles were reversed in the sense that I had the upper hand in having the best social contacts in our immediate environment.

2. The Pandemic

After five days on the island the Spanish speakers in our group picked up the worrying news of the spread of this Chinese virus that had still been an exotic and distant third-world phenomenon when we had taken off from Frankfurt Airport in January. People were dying on the South American mainland and in Europe now, and all European Union citizens were encouraged to get to the airport of the capital on the mainland, from where Iberia would evacuate EU citizens to Madrid from where they would later be distributed to their respective home countries.

The ordinary, weekly ferry to the mainland would, apparently, leave from the pier as scheduled at three o'clock two days later. And we were told that it might then be suspended for an unspecified period of time as all small islands were to be in quarantine in order to prevent the spread of the virus.

The disturbing news led to eager discussions in our group. Till wanted to get back to Europe as soon as possible despite the fact that he and I had planned to be on the road in South America for another month. I was on the other end of the spectrum and suggested that we stayed on the island where we would be safe from the virus for the few weeks it might take for it to blow over.

The other six were initially in the middle of this. But after watching the crowded hospitals and the piling coffins in Italy on the TV screen at the tienda-hostal, the majority were persuaded that it was time to part with the paradisiacal island and return to the wet and cold early spring in Europe or Canada.

3. The Ferry

The boat scheduled to leave from the pier at three o'clock on Saturday afternoon. We all packed our stuff and left our backpacks on the wooden luggage cart at the pier where it would be guarded by the island's not-too-busy harbour master.

Then we discussed what to do with our remaining hours on the island.

I suggested that we went for one last trip to the beach. But Till and most of the others didn't find the 45-minute walk across the hills worth the effort if we could only spend a couple of hours on the beach. Nevertheless, I managed to persuade the two Dutch girls, Marijke and Hannah, to come with me.

When we reached the foot of the hills, I realised that I had made the huge mistake of wearing my flip-flops and leaving my hiking shoes in the backpack on the pier. We had wasted a lot of time discussing that morning and if we were to get to the beach at all, I needed to go with Marijke and Hannah. There was no time to go back now.

The climb on the steep trails became a challenge. But my Dutch friends were patient with me. The walk took longer than usual. Finally, we reached the beach, got rid of our clothes and ran across the soft sand into the cooling waves.

Afterwards we laid naked on the beach on hour towels, discussing and reading. At one point we realised that none of us had a watch. We hadn't brought our cell phones that felt so useless on the island and none of us wore a wristwatch. On previous occasions there had always been one of the others who had kept track of time so we wouldn't be caught in the hills after dark.

Anyway, that was not the issue here. The ferry would leave at three when it was still bright daylight, but we obviously didn't want to miss the ferry. We looked at the sun and debated what time it was. We had agreed to meet Till and the others at the pier at 14:30 when there was still half an hour until the ferry left.

In my opinion it was still around noon when Hannah and Marijke got restless and impatient and wanted to leave. I had really fallen in love with this beach and was sad that I would probably never see it again in my life.

They insisted on leaving and I became really stubborn as I didn't want to sit at the pier for hours and argue with Till about unimportant stuff just waiting for the ferry when I could lie on the beach and finish the fascinating paperback novel I had found on the bookshelf at the hostel.

So they left and I stayed back until I thought I could tell by the sun that it was time to go. By then I had forgotten about the flip-flops and the fact that I had never had to find my way across the hills on my own.

I lost my way in the complicated system of pathways where I had to make constant choices between right and left. I managed to get sweaty and a bit nervous and found it really difficult to read the time off the sun by then. It took ages to get across and I kept returning to the same place for some time until I finally found my way and got down to the coastal gravel road I had to follow for about a kilometre before I could see the pier where the others would be waiting.

I kicked off the flip-flops and ran, cutting my feet on the small, sharp stones, until I finally got around the rocky tongue of land just to see the pier being empty apart from the harbour master's shed and the luggage cart with my backpack on it.

Out of breath, I slowly walked toward the pier, realising that I had somehow missed the boat.

Even though I had, by then, clearly understood my situation, I asked the old man, who appeared in the door of his shed:

"¿Dónde está el ferry-boat?"

He simply pointed to a tiny dot far away in the ocean.

"Partió a las tres," he added, laconically. It left at three. I knew that.

"¿Qué hora es?"

He consulted his wristwatch.

"Son las quatro menos diez". Ten minutes to four. No wonder the boat was already far away.

I felt the tears coming out of my eyes, feeling abandoned in a way I hadn't felt since my dad moved out when I was ten and my parents got divorced.

"Hay una carta para ti," the old guy added and pointed to my rucksack.

I saw a piece of paper that was pushed under one of the straps and took it like in a trance.

It was a few lines from Till, scribbled down in German in the minutes before the ferry was leaving:

"Dear Caro,

I'm so sorry but the captain won't wait any longer. He has strict orders to return to the mainland now. It seems that you will now have a chance to sit out the coronavirus epidemic here on the island like you wanted to. The last couple of days have made me wonder if we have a future together. We will find out when we see each other back in Germany in a couple of weeks. Write to me on WhatsApp as soon as you get the chance. Take care!

Till"

I picked up my backpack and started walking toward the tienda-hostal, sobbing and clutching the crumpled piece of paper.

4. The Tattoo Artist

Sebastián, the handsome, tall, heavily tattooed owner of the grocery store and hostel, was missing the outer joint of his right index finger. He stood behind the counter, as usual with an unfiltered cigarette between his lips, apparently arranging some supplies that had arrived on the ferry.

"¡Ah, la chica alemana!" he said with a broad smile that disappeared when he saw the tears running down my grimaced face as I put down my backpack on the floor.

"¿Dónde está su novio?" he asked. Where is your boyfriend?

"Ferry-boat," was all I managed to say.

"¿Tu novio se fue?" he asked. He left?

"No es mi novio. No más."

From the brutal letter and the overall circumstances, I had understood that Till was no longer my boyfriend. And I was even able to express that in Spanish.

Sebastián put down his cigarette in the ashtray and came around the counter. He hugged me and I sensed his smell of sweat and cigarette smoke.

"Estás segura aquí. No hay enfermedad en la isla."

He spoke slowly and I understood that I was safe and that there was no coronavirus on the island. As far as he knew, anyway.

He let go of me an handed me a Kleenex that I used to dry my eyes and blow my nose.

Sebastián calmly resumed his work and let me walk around the shop, calming down and letting the new situation sink in.

In the far end of the small shop I looked at a small exhibition of photos of colourful tattoos.

"¿Quieres un tatuaje para consolarte?" Sebastián asked from behind the counter.

As I didn't understand him, he rephrased:

"Soy tatuador. ¿Quieres un... tattoo?"

"No. No tengo dinero," I replied.

I did have my credit cards that were useless on the island but very little cash in the local currency, the only means of payment on the island. Not enough to pay for a tattoo if I'd wanted one.

"No importa. Es gratis para ti. Para consolarte."

The guy was offering me a tattoo for free. To comfort me because I had been abandoned by my boyfriend. How very sweet.

Till was very much anti-tattoo. He said his mother had always said that tattooed women looked like prostitutes. And he, obviously, agreed.

I decided this was a good time to defy Till's ideal of a woman.

"¡Si. Muchas gracias!" I said.

Sebastián stood behind me as I studied the photos.

"Todos los animales y flores vienen de esta isla, " he explained. All his motives were from the island.

"Quiero eso," I said and pointed to a large, bright orange iguana.

He pulled aside a curtain next to the photos:

"Por favor entra en mi salón de tatuajes," he said with an inviting gesture.

Behind the curtain there was a tiny, but fully equipped, studio with a modern tattoo chair at the centre. All walls were covered with pictures of satisfied clients and their tattoos. Fascinating.

"¿Ahora?" I asked, not prepared to get my first tattoo ever right now.

"¿Tienes otros planes?" he asked back.

I had to admit that I had, at that moment, nothing better to do than to take off my cut-off jeans, sit down in Sebastián's tattoo chair, and have a large, orange iguana tattooed on my left thigh. Which I then did.

5. The First Tattoo

The pain was intense as Sebastián carefully outlined the reptile with his big, yet gentle hands. And increased when he added the colour.

But I enjoyed focusing on the pain that almost made me forget that I was isolated in the far end of the world on a tiny island with people I could hardly communicate with and that my boyfriend had just left me.

The small, windowless room, hardly much more than seven or eight square meters, was soon filled with the smoke from Sebastián's cigarettes. His unfiltered cigarettes only left his mouth when fully smoked and then immediately were replaced by another from his pack. The smoke got into my eyes, throat, and lungs which was unpleasant. But, hey, beggars can't be choosers, and I was about to get a high-quality tattoo, which would have been very expensive in Germany, for free.

"Tú fumas mucho," I commented as he lit his fifth with its predecessor as he had done with last three cigarettes. You smoke a lot.

"Sí," he agreed.

And then, after a while:

"¿Tu quieres un cigarrillo?"

"No gracias."

I didn't want a cigarette, proud non-smoker that I was.

"¿Tu no fumas?" he inquired.

"No."

"¿Quieres una cerveza?"

"Sí. Muchas gracias."

Sebastián picked two beers from the fridge, opened them, and handed me one.

"¡Salud!"

"¡Salud!"

The beer was nice and cold. I gulped it down and it eased the feeling in my sore throat. Sebastián brought me another from the fridge and continued his painful work on my thigh.

Hours later Sebastián had finished not only this big, orange iguana but also the branch it was sitting on and the large insect it was catching with its tongue from the petals of a large, purple flower.

"¿Te gusta?" Sebastián asked.

"Sí. Mucho. Me gusta mucho," I said.

We were sitting on the porch on deck chairs at the faint light of a petroleum lamp, listening to the singing of the locusts and the waves of the ocean. In front of us we could vaguely see the outline of the pier where I had missed the boat.

Sebastián removed his cigarette to drink some beer. We were silent for a bit.

"Mañana te doy otro tattoo."

"¿Un otro tattoo mañana?" I asked. Did he want to tattoo me again?

"Sí."

"Está bien." I said. I'd like that.

I finished my beer, wished Sebastián buenas noches, and went upstairs to the empty eight-bed bedroom where I had slept for a week. In spite of my sore thigh, I slept within minutes.

6. The Full Body Tattoo

"¿Quieres café?" Sebastián asked from the door. It was daylight outside. I could hear the rhythmic sound of the waves hitting the pier and smell Sebastián's cigarette.

I had a bad headache, was sweaty, and badly needed a shower. But water was something you'd get from the village pump 500 meters away. So a shower wasn't really on the agenda. For now, I would have to politely accept the coffee I was offered.

I felt the pain from my tattoo as I moved in the bed. Sebastián had disappeared downstairs and I slowly got up and dressed in my sweaty and smoky T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops from the day before.

Sebastián had put a small table with a plate of delicious fresh fruit between our deck chairs on the porch and served boiling hot espresso.

We ate the fruit with forks and had several cups of espresso while watching the empty pier and the ocean. Sebastián smoked throughout breakfast. Neither of us was particularly talkative. In my case it had to do with my headache and my very limited command of Spanish. I managed to form a sentence:

"Mal en la cabeza," I said. Bad in the head.

"Sí. Las cervezas. ¿Verdad?" he asked, blaming only the beers for my headache.

Yes. And your blowing cigarette smoke in my face in a small room with no ventilation, I would have said if I hadn't been too polite and spoken too little Spanish.

So I just said a simple "Sí".

Sebastián lit another cigarette.

"¿Tienes planes para hoy?" he asked.

He asked me about my plans. I had none really. Apart from waiting for the next ferry to the mainland and this stupid epidemic to end. I remembered an old pop song with one of the only Spanish phrases I had known before coming to South America:

"¿Vamos a la playa?"

Going to the beach was about the only pastime I could imagine on this island with no internet and no friends. Sebastián could probably put a sign on the door and leave his tienda for a few hours.

That was what I had thought. But Sebastián made it clear to me that I shouldn't expose my tattoo to salty sea water for at least three weeks and that I should keep it covered from the sun for even longer. I hadn't thought of that when I accepted his offer the day before. Now I was caught in this tropical paradise without even being able to enjoy the sun and swim in the ocean. And I couldn't get away or even send a text message to my parents or my friends back in Germany.

I needed a shower more than ever. I was sweaty and my T-shirt reeked of cigarette smoke.

"¿Hay agua? ¿Puedo lavar?"

"Claro que sí."

Sebastián got up from the deck chair and I followed him inside to his private bedroom where he poured water from a large plastic container into an old enamel wash bowl. He handed me a bar of soap and a small towel and instructed me to be careful on my tattoo. As if I didn't know myself. It was still red and swollen.

Sebastián left me and I enjoyed freshening up as good as I could with the limited amount of water at my disposal.

When I returned from his bedroom to the shop, Sebastián was standing in front of the tattoo photos on the wall.

"¿Cuál quieres?" he asked me.

He wanted to get me another tattoo and I figured that I had nothing better to do. After a short examination of the local flora and fauna on the wall I pointed to a large red flower.

"Aqui," I said pulled up my T-shirt to point at my left shoulder where the tattoo would conveniently cover two ugly vaccination scars.

Sebastián drew aside the curtain to his studio that still stank of cold smoke from the last session. I sat down in his tattoo chair.