But Mr. Myquelson offered me an extra $1,000 to take them and look the other way.
Big mistake.
Huge.
I should have refused them then, but now we were out at sea dealing with the consequences of their reckless behavior.
There’s a reason I don’t like drunk idiots on my ship.
“Skipper?” Decker pulled me out of my wallowing.
He grimaced from the lower deck, his furrowed brow pointed toward approaching lights in the distance.
The Gulf of Mexico was exceptionally tranquil at this time of year. The gentle lapping of the water against the boat's hull provided a soothing rhythm while the air, finally free from the oppressive summer humidity, carried a refreshing tinge of salt. Beneath the catamaran, the bioluminescent fish created an enchanting, otherworldly blue-green glow, casting an ethereal ambiance over the scene.
It would be downright zenlike if it weren’t for the douchebags on my deck.
And the faint strains of grating pirate music grew increasingly louder, drowning out the gentle sounds of the Gulf.
“Son of a pirate whore!” I swore under my breath.
I grabbed the mic on the shortwave radio. It squealed, and I thumped it a few times to get it to work. I hailed the ship, which was only a few hundred klicks from our current position.
“Pirate ship off my starboard side,” I growled into the handset. “This is theNetfish and Chill.You’re too far into international waters. Please return to your previous course.”
I clicked off the handset and waited for a response.
When none came, I repeated my order in a firmer tone.
The radio squealed and hissed. I heard crackling laughter through the speaker and a possible “fuck you” before the radio went silent again.
“Whassssshappening?”
I looked up to see Drunk Dad standing too close for comfort.
“Sir, I need you to return to the lower deck.” I pointed to the steps. “This area is restricted to my crew.”
"Those idiots are scaring the fish," Drunk Dad yelled, waving his fishing rod toward the pirate ship, a menacing black vessel with its Jolly Roger flying, motoring closer to our position. He nearly speared Decker in the face with his loose hook. The cabin lights glinted off the sharp point inches from Decker's nose.
I rolled my eyes. If anyone was scaring the fish, it was thedrunkidiots who thought they would catch marlin after dark. They didn’t believe me when I told them marlin were best caught in the Keys or near Miami. And night fishing was more for red drum and flounder. They had their drunk asshole hearts set on catching a trophy fish.
I had my heart set on paying the bills.
So, here we are.
“Skipper?” Decker joined me on the command deck.
“I thought her name was Ken?” Drunk Dad leaned toward Decker. “The only person we’re missing is Barbie!”
He laughed, nearly singing my nostril hairs with the thick cloud of whiskey that rolled out of him. My heart clenched at the mention ofBarbie.
Yes.Barbieshould be here.
My best friend, Jesse Barbot, and I planned to start a fishing charter right out of high school. I would get the Coast Guard captain license and find a boat. Jesse would be in charge of the marketing end of the business, from the website to ads and commercials. When he got his first wife pregnant, and they got married, he promised we’d still go into business together as soonas his son was old enough for school. So, I kept up my end of the deal, finding a worn-down boat headed for the junkyard. I learned everything I could about the Seeger catamaran and spent countless hours getting her working. All the while taking odd jobs around nearby marinas to pay for parts.
“Old enough for school” then turned into “waiting a few more years until he was in middle school.” I started the charter business and tried to do everything myself, but it was hard. Marketing is not my area of expertise. Joy helped me for a little while before she made her first million, but then she got too busy to continue.
Everyone else left and moved on, but I was still in Pleasure Point, trying to make this business work without my partner.
