Every Ship-Trap Island experience begins several klicks before arrival.

Surrounded by a darkness so impenetrable it’s like thick black velvet, Ship-Trap Island provides a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

That kind of isolation, however, means that this vacation hotspot can be a bit tricky to get to. If you are counting on traveling by plane, you’ll have to make other arrangements. The area’s unpredictable airflow, hordes of black birds, and incomprehensible electromagnetic pulses mean that no aircraft has successfully landed here. Some crashed on land or in the ocean; others simply vanished.

So with that in mind, please try the following:

Gain passage on a rickety yacht manned by a tough old captain and a crew of hardened societal outcasts whose superlative skill at ocean-craft is matched only by their superstition. In the middle of the night, when the boat reaches an area of the Caribbean unrecognizable to any map and your GPS device stops working, move slowly to the deck and stand there until you hear a gun report three times. Then spring up and move quickly to the rail of the yacht. Don’t hesitate; hoist yourself up on the rail to gain a better vantage and, when your pipe slips from your lips and falls toward the sea below, reach for it quickly. Though you will be alone, be sure to grasp wildly for your pipe and, before you can renege on your dastardly mismeasure, lose your balance.

The sea will accept you, just as it accepted Ajax and all the dead mates of Odysseus. As you cry out to the crewmembers, the Caribbean will take you under, and as you come up to scream again, the wash from the speeding yacht will overwhelm you with its cold, salty spray. You can cry out again—indeed you must cry out again—but as the yacht pulls away you’ll know that with every passing second your cries will grow quieter and quieter to the crew.

Admit it: they are gone. You are alone. But what about the gunshots? Swim toward the booming reports you heard earlier. As you do so, the coldness of the uncompromising sea will enter you, and, like a beetle who’s fallen into a Venus flytrap, you will lose strength. Your stroke will slow, your breathing grow labored, your legs feel like dead weights. Part of you knows it won’t be long now until you meet Odysseus’s crew in the lifeless realm of Hades.

And then? You will hear a creature call out, an animal in extremity of anguish. Do not guess this creature’s identity. Did you imagine it? Soon childhood memories of your mother saying goodbye to you on your first day of school, of going trick-or-treating with a girl named Kate Billboro in fifth grade, and of hitting your first and only home run in Little League will be swimming in your head, and you know that the dark deep is about to welcome one more resident. You’ll hear a whisper, soft, breathy, unmistakable: it’s Kate Billboro asking if you want to go to Old Man Gryson’s haunted house. “Well,” she’ll say, “will you come with me?” You want to go. But you’ll look toward the sound and realize you aren’t hearing the sound of human whispers; it’s the sweet sound of death trying to welcome you to the realm of shadows.

Keep swimming, damn you! Release your memories and live!

After a few more strokes, you’ll see the shore pummeled by waves. With all your remaining strength, drag yourself onto the rocks from the swirling waters. Gasping, reach a flat spot just beyond the sharp rocks and, now at the jungle’s edge, fling yourself down. Breathe. Breathe again. Tell Kate Billboro that today, you aren’t going to succumb to the warm pull of death. Smile cannily and tumble headlong into the deepest sleep of your life.

When you awake, you will be in your room.

Map approximate