It is also covered with rats.

That’s probably a bit of a misnomer. The Web site for the ferry that takes you there says the Dry Tortugas have a “rat population.”

I don’t know what kind of rats live on the island. I don’t know if they’re nice and congenial like Fievel from An American Tail (who, in the interest of full disclosure, was actually a mouse) or if they’re vicious and attack at the behest of some island recluse who, in my mind, resembles Crispin Glover in Willard. I’d prefer it if they were sarcastic, non-threatening and made from felt, like Rizzo from “The Muppet Show.”

The reason why I care about the rat problems of an island 70 miles from anywhere? I’m camping on it for one night. Next month. With my girlfriend.

Her biggest fear? Rats.

I wasn’t going to tell her about the rats. I discovered the rat information on the tour company’s Web site, which blandly says that you should pack all food in airtight containers “to discourage their access to your provisions.” The company implied that if you choose to eat a Twinkie in your tent before bed, be prepared for the Twinkie-seeking army of rats that will gnaw through the fabric in search of leftovers.

My fatal mistake came when I sent my girlfriend a link to the Web site, where she learned about the history of the Dry Tortugas, the purpose of Fort Jefferson, and then, the rat population.

She was not pleased.

It started off with a phone call. “You’re in very big trouble,” she said, then referred me to the three e-mails that I had yet to open, entitled “Ummmmm Not So Much,” “More Rats,” and “Rats!” the last one consisting only of a picture of a rat. She pointed out such passages as:

- “I’ll make it easy on you… I’M DEATHLY AFRAID OF THEM.”
- “Perhaps you were going to wait until one crawled into our tent to find out if I was indeed terrified of them!”
- “Not only could we see one, but they could attack us in our sleep!”

At that moment, I vaguely recalled a conversation from what I perceived to be long ago, in which maybe, just maybe, she had listed rats as the thing she feared most in this world. She asked me if that conversation had anything to do with the fact that I chose not to tell her about the (in her words) packs of rats running bloodthirstily free on the Dry Tortugas.

I told her I had already made the reservations. That did not work.

I told her the rat problem probably wasn’t really a problem at all. I had absolutely no factual evidence to back that statement up. That also did not work.

I told her the rat “problem” was probably smaller than the ones experienced in empty houses, garbage dumps, sewers, or the New York subway system. I thought it would help her put things in perspective. Instead, I conjured up even more images of rats in her mind.

My girlfriend wrote another e-mail after I assured her that I called the ferry company and had been assured that the rats would not eat us as we slept. “I am not entirely convinced you actually asked,” she replied, then asked if I’d seen the rat picture, saying, “I should have found an uglier picture to remind you how gross those things are.”

My attempts to calm her down had actually led to three more questions. How big is the rat population? What were the chances she’d see one? Were they all over the place?

I decided to fight fear with humor. I asked her what she thought the words “rat population” meant. Did that imply the existence of some sort of rat census? Perhaps there was some sort of demographic information available on the rats. Maybe she wouldn’t be so scared of them if she knew about things like their per capita income and average size of household.

Maybe the rats were not terrifying but just mischievous; the kind that wouldn’t eat you but rather move around our campground implements in an entertaining way. Or, we could train the rats, and then hire them as porters to carry our things from the ferry to the campsite.

My girlfriend responded by asking me if I found the bubonic plague funny. After all, it had been carried by rats.

I finally gave in. I apologized.

That worked. I didn’t even have to mention Fievel.

At this point, we’re still going. I was somehow able to remind her of her initial images of the trip: a gorgeous remote island with a giant historic fort to explore, a completely non-commercial beach to enjoy and a night spent 70 miles away from civilization. I’ve also convinced her that I plan to set up our campsite with extreme caution and with any food firmly Tupperwared and placed far away from our tent. She’s going to give it a try.

If anything goes wrong, we all know who the biggest rat on the island is going to be.