My lips curled in response as I settled onto the bench seat. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
He guidedLine Danceraway from the pier and through the channel, the setting sun glinting off the water and turning it to molten gold. The tense, cornered man from the back room of Tidal Hops was gone. In his place was Captain Coleridge, a man in his element, at peace with the vast expanse of the sea.
Once we cleared the last of the channel markers, Austin pushed the throttles forward.Line Dancersurged ahead, the bow lifting as we sliced cleanly through the turquoise water. The wind whipped my hair back from myface, tasting of salt and freedom. Austin stood tall with one hand resting lightly on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He wasn’t staring at the glowing GPS screen or the complex-looking radar display.
“How do you know where you’re going?” I had to raise my voice slightly over the roar of the engines.
He glanced at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if the answer was something he never even thought about.
“See that dark patch over there?” He pointed to a section of green-tinged water about a half-mile off our port side. “That’s a grass flat. Good for bonefish. The channel runs just to the east of it. And that distant smudge on the horizon?” He gestured straight ahead. “That’s Pigeon Key. I’ve known these waters since I was a kid. Don’t need a machine to tell me where I am. The GPS is for fog and tourists.”
The quiet confidence in his voice, the deep, ingrained knowledge of his home, was more impressive than any display of bravado could ever be. Relaxing, I enjoyed the shifts in color of the water and the birds circling in the sky.
After another ten minutes, he throttled back, guiding the boat into a protected cove, the water here an otherworldly, jewel-toned aqua. The silence was sudden and profound, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the hull.
“All right.” He turned to face me, his expression open and at ease in the soft, golden light. “Let’s see if we can do better than a rainbow trout.”
“You’re going to teach me to fish?” I asked, clapping my hands. “After my less-than-impressive story?”
A smile touched his lips. “Consider it an effort to redeem your angling reputation. My first rule of fishing is don’t hook yourself or, more importantly, the captain.”
“Duly noted,” I said with a laugh. “That seems like a solid life rule in general.”
He moved with that easy competence I found so alluring, selecting a lighter spinning rod from the impressive arsenal arranged in the rocket launchers overhead.
Reaching into his back pocket,he pulled out a small, worn canvas pouch. His nimble fingers untied the drawstring and selected a small, sharp hook with a short piece of line attached. He tied it to the rod with a series of swift, intricate knots.
“Ah, a man prepared.” I had to smile. "Do you always carry fishing hooks around in your pocket?"
He glanced at me, a flicker of amusement eyes. "I keep this pouch on the boat. Then in my pocket when I'm on board. It’s kind of a part of me."
He tucked it away carefully before baiting the hook with a piece of shrimp in a few swift, practiced movements. “Okay, come here.”
I slid off the bench seat and stood in front of him at the rail. He stood behind me, his body a solid wall of heat at my back. One of his calloused hands covered mine on the cork grip, the other gently adjusted my fingers on the reel. A hint of his scent wafted toward me. I was intensely, overwhelmingly aware of every point of contact—his chest against my shoulder blades, the rough texture of his jeans against the back of my legs, his warm breath stirring the hair near my ear as he leaned in to speak.
“It’s all in the wrist.” His voice was a low rumble close to my ear. “You don’t need to throw it a mile. Just a quick flick. Bring it back here…” He guided my arm back. “And snap it forward. Like this.”
He helped me with the first cast, our bodies movingtogether in a single, coordinated motion. The line sailed out, the light weight plopping neatly into the water about twenty feet from the boat. It was far more graceful than any cast I’d ever attempted on my own.
He let me try the next few casts by myself. Most were clumsy, landing with an ungraceful splash much closer to the boat. But Austin was a patient teacher, correcting my stance, reminding me to keep my wrist loose, his instructions calm and clear. There was no hint of the impatient, gruff man who had glared at me over a broken sprinkler head. Out here, he was a different person. Calm, confident, and in control.
On my fifth or sixth attempt, something tugged on the line.
“Got one,” he said, his voice instantly sharp, professional. “Okay, reel it in. Steady. Keep the tip up.”
My pulse hummed with excitement. I cranked the reel, the rod bending with the weight of the fish. It wasn’t a huge fight, but it was a battle. With Austin’s coaching, I brought it alongside the boat. He leaned over with a net and scooped it out of the water.
According to him, the fish was a grunt. Maybe six inches long, its silver scales flashed in the setting sun, a jewel from the sea.
“Well, look at that.” The warm approval in his voice made my chest swell. “You’re a natural.”
He showed me how to hold it carefully, avoiding the spiny dorsal fin, his fingers brushing mine as he guided my hands. The fish was surprisingly solid, its life force a vibrant, wriggling thing in my palm.
“Oh, look at him,” I breathed, grinning completely. “He’s kind of small, though. Bigger than my trout, if I recall, but maybe we should throw him back.”
“Yeah, he’s still got some growing to do.”
He gently took the fish from me, removed the hook, and slid it back into the clear, blue water. It gave a flick of its tail and was gone.
