My sister Suzanne and I have a pact with our cousin Nancy to go snorkeling in Grand Cayman.

Our extended family used to spend Christmas there, and the three of us had a particular love of snorkeling. Our favorite spot was called The Cemetery. From the beach, you could paddle out around fifty yards or so, stick your head in the water, and right below you was a treasure trove of corals, sea anemones, and tropical fish. The water in Cayman is so warm you can stay in it for hours, which is what we did. Nancy, Suzy, and I would strap on our dorky flippers and face masks and snorkels and lose ourselves.

Our pact to return to Cayman was earnest but challenging. Nancy lives in Georgia, so we don’t see each other more than once a year or so. But every time our lives intersect, we renew our vow to get down to Cayman. It doesn’t have to be peak season, we would tell each other. We’ll eat peanut butter sandwiches and camp out on the beach, as long as we can snorkel. That’s our pact.

Suzanne and I are getting on a plane on Tuesday to see Nancy, but instead of snorkeling in Cayman, we are flying to Atlanta, where Nancy has checked herself into hospice care.

As a social worker, Nancy’s life has been about others. Her personal expectations have been modest, and her needs simple. Now even the most basic things, like time and health, are beyond her reach. And then, there’s the pact we made to go snorkeling in Cayman.

This may not be the trip we had planned, but plans have a way of changing. Pacts endure. Even though details may have fallen by the wayside, pacts, though binding, are flexible. Come to find out, pacts extend as far as the human spirit. On Tuesday, Nancy, Suzanne and I will be keeping ours.