Finding Carolina's
Copyright© 2026 by duncan idaho
Chapter 1: The Red Door Opens
The plane banked hard over the turquoise water, and I pressed my forehead against the tiny window.
That first glimpse of St Maarten never got old. The green hills rising from the sea, the white fringe of surf along the shore, the ridiculous blue of the sky that looked photoshopped against the real world.
Thirty-six hours ago, I’d been hunched over a spreadsheet at 11 PM, the glow of my monitor the only light in my apartment. My boss’s email still sat in my inbox: Can you just review the Q3 projections one more time before Tuesday?
I’d closed the laptop, booked the ticket, and sent him a single sentence reply: I’m taking my saved vacation days.
Now the wheels hit the runway with a jolt, and the little prop plane shuddered as the pilot reversed the engines.
The woman next to me crossed herself and muttered something in Spanish.
I just smiled.
We’d made it.
Stepping off the plane the heat hit me first. That thick Caribbean warmth that wraps around you like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The smell of jet fuel mixed with salt air and something floral from the landscape.
My shoulders dropped about three inches from where they’d been tensed for the last six months.
Customs was quick. A bored officer glanced at my passport, stamped it, waved me through.
I grabbed my single duffel from the carousel and stepped outside, letting the sun hit my face. No meetings. No deadlines. No Slack notifications. Just a week of salt water and rum punches and whatever else I decided to get into.
The taxi ride to Maho was a familiar blur of roundabouts and pastel buildings.
My driver, a Rastafarian named Winston who clearly ran this route fifty times a day, pointed out the new construction since my last visit. A casino. A condo tower. The same old beach bars with their corrugated roofs and faded signs.
“What brings you back so soon, my friend?” he asked, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Work ran me ragged.”
He laughed, a deep rumble from his chest.
“Then you come to the right place. St Maarten, she will fix you up.”
The Sonesta Maho appeared on the left, its white facade gleaming in the afternoon sun.
I paid Winston, tipped him well, and checked in.
The room was on the fourth floor, a standard king with a balcony overlooking the pool and, beyond that, a sliver of beach.
I dropped my duffel, kicked off my shoes, and stood on the balcony for a long moment, just breathing.
The same resort. The same island. Different circumstances.
Last time, I’d been here with Marcus, my friend from college who’d first shown me this place. He’d been the one to drag me to the Dutch side, to explain how the brothels worked, to introduce me to a system that felt foreign and transactional but somehow honest in its bluntness.
We’d visited six of the seven. We’d never found the last one. Carolinas.
Someplace near Philipsburg, attached to a Chinese restaurant. We’d driven past the Chineses restaurant twice, couldn’t spot the entrance, given up.
I’d thought about that trip more than I probably should have. Not because of the women, though they’d been memorable. But because of the way Marcus had navigated it all with such casual confidence. The way he’d talked to the girls like they were people, not products. The way he’d made the whole thing feel less seedy and more ... honest.
I wanted to find it this time. Carolinas. Just to say I’d been to all seven. But first, the beach.
I changed into board shorts and a thin t-shirt, grabbed my sunglasses, and headed down.
The sand was hot against my bare feet, that particular heat that forces you to either run for the water or shuffle awkwardly.
I chose the water.
The surf was bath-warm, clear enough to see my toes, and I waded out until the waves lapped at my hips. There. That was the feeling. The one that made all the spreadsheets and late nights and passive-aggressive emails fade into static.
Just water and sun and the distant roar of a jet engine as another plane lined up for its approach over the beach.
I watched it come in, low and impossibly close, the belly of the aircraft seeming to scrape the tops of the palm trees. People on the beach held up their phones, some reaching toward the sky like they might actually touch the metal steed.
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