Two hours at sea brings our catamaran to the dock at Dry Tortugas National Park. Along the way flying fish scatter in our wake, as if they understand we’re on a mission.  

One of our farther flung parks, Dry Tortugas is way off the tip of the Florida Keys, out in what was once pirate territory but has now returned to the solitary plunder of the birds. Like the 100 or so of us, most visitors come by private ferry to the site’s Fort Jefferson, a mid-19^th century brick giant crumbling in the moist, salty air.  Iron windows here have fallen into rust, bricks are going soft.

The isolation of the place is part of its attraction, and the passengers are congratulating themselves on their sense of adventure. Threading in and out of our conversation groups is our guide. He is probably in his mid-20s, bulky and tan, covered in tattooed sea life, his hair paled by a mix of sun and salon. On board, he’s bored. He talks up a pretty German tourist. Invites her to a party when we get back to Key West.

On shore, he leads us into the fort, up the tight stairs into a large open space that once was the prison cell of Dr. Samuel Mudd. Mudd was convicted of conspiracy in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and served his time here. Was he guilty? Historians have debated that for 150 years. What does our guide have to say about it?

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

A woman in our group interjects that she is, in fact, a descendant of Dr. Mudd. Our guide gives her the bored look he has been perfecting all along. He does not need to say, “I don’t care.” I almost – almost – point out that we are here in the cell on April 14, the anniversary of the assassination itself, but the guide has silenced me, as well.

We follow him to the top of the fort. He tells another obligatory story and once again asks a rhetorical question, to which his answer is – and he says it again, without fret of censure or embarrassment – “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

By this time I’ve gained a thorough dislike of this kid. Maybe he hates his job; he certainly seems to hold us in contempt. But a tattooed life of sun and pretty Europeans in bikinis doesn’t seem so bad to me.  I suppose it is tedious to endure the queries of tourists, who might care about what happened here and why, and I suppose that’s why he’s effectively banished all questions.

At some point, I realize, this trip has taken on a personality of its own, colored by the kid and my sense of aggrievement. The fort seems vast and empty, a sad ruin from which every ghost has been burned away by an indifferent sun. I turn a little of my disappointment toward the National Park Service, which has handed its guide duties over to some private firm and its less than accommodating hirelings.

Fortunately, he soon turns us loose to explore the site on our own.

I snorkel, encounter a few little squid hovering like bees above the turtle grass, and afterwards join the German girl on the beach. We knock around together for the rest of the afternoon, marveling at how really big this place is, bemoaning how miserable life must have been for both soldiers and prisoners out here.

I’m a lot older than she is; she’s safe. But the kid sees us eating lunch together. He snorts and goes his way. This is some satisfaction, even if after we return to Key West she ends up going to his party.

After all, I won’t know, and I won’t care.