coworker—equally lit, less endowed but with a flatter stomach—joined up. The guys whose beers they had consumed all afternoon gave Phil the evil eye.
Barry pulled the anchor onboard. The Whaler’s bow was aground and the passengers moved to the stern to help it release. A wading Phil pushed the bow. Cale trimmed the engines down, reversed the props, and the sand released. Phil wallowed aboard, head and belly first, his legs kicking in the air. He scraped his way across the bow.
Six boats were rafted to the Ferretti. Several liquor bottles now rolled empty on the deck. Bronzed and burned skin was everywhere. Girls in bikinis or Daisy Dukes pulsed to synthesized rhythms. Shirtless dudes grooved off beat. Three massive bodybuilders with deep tans and permafrowns, guffawed like morning DJs and played cards in the shade of the flybridge.
Blake, Barry, and Van were on the flybridge with two Tommy Bahama types and three girls in sundresses. Despite the dress, Calerecognized his goddess from the beach and involuntarily waved. Her head tilted to the side, but she smiled and waved back. Cale found himself involuntarily smiling. He also found himself wondering about this mix of old Italian men sitting with beautiful women above a ladder where three young mastiffs guarded the approach. He tried to remember whether this size Ferretti cost three or four million.
Cale cut the props and knotted onto a Sea Ray’s stern cleats. Barry crossed the tie-ups to the Ferretti. Phil, Mom, and Mom’s young coworker improvised a dance floor while they waited. Cale, feeling awkward over the wave-and-smile combo, looked for things to fix on the Whaler. Twenty minutes later, Blake and the guys crossed the gunwale with plastic tumblers and the flybridge girls. The goddess smiled at Cale as she boarded. Angst crept over him as he started the engines, cast off, and pointed north.
8
A DESIRE TO avoid the massive expense of hurricane season insurance on the yacht had pushed Joe to take this trip up the eastern seaboard. Now he was docked in Harbor Island, North Carolina, where hurricane-induced ocean swells were too big for cruising. The stop-and-go of the inland waterway drove him nuts, so their trip would make it no further today. Joe was positive Fort Lauderdale was whitecap free.
As Ashley came out of the aft stateroom just after sunrise, his cynical mood lifted and he grinned.
“Happy Saturday, Joe,” she sang out to him.
“To you as well. Did we wake you?”
“No, I had plenty of sleep.”
The poor trainers, Joe thought, were apparently so close but still so far. Since Joe didn’t want to fight Arlene’s waves, he asked the captain to find an anchorage where they could feel the breeze. They cast off, the captain eased from the slip, fast idled less than a mile, and anchored off the north end of a state park. Joe unbuttoned his shirt, knotted the waist tie of his swim trunks, and dove off the bowsprit. He swam the hundred yards to the shallows with his head above water, doing frog strokes. He waded ashore, squishing the clay-like sand between his toes, his seventy-three-year-old lungs only slightly out of breath. Thepredawn fishermen were returning from the ocean side and loading their boats to head home for breakfast.
Joe walked east, then left the trail and climbed a dune. The ocean advanced in long swells. It looked like a Hawaiian postcard filled with mid-Atlantic green water. He looked west and saw Tony standing on the dive platform, tossing bread to seagulls, and chatting up the nurses. No sign of the trainers. He looked to the south. The island was a long, narrow strip of sand, kind of like Fire Island but without the parking lots and volleyball courts. He looked north past the jetty and saw marinas, condos, and boatyards across the channel. Beyond that, he glimpsed the backs of three-story houses on the beach that were built over carports tall enough to protect them from flooding. The breeze felt great.
Two old-timers sat
Barry pulled the anchor onboard. The Whaler’s bow was aground and the passengers moved to the stern to help it release. A wading Phil pushed the bow. Cale trimmed the engines down, reversed the props, and the sand released. Phil wallowed aboard, head and belly first, his legs kicking in the air. He scraped his way across the bow.
Six boats were rafted to the Ferretti. Several liquor bottles now rolled empty on the deck. Bronzed and burned skin was everywhere. Girls in bikinis or Daisy Dukes pulsed to synthesized rhythms. Shirtless dudes grooved off beat. Three massive bodybuilders with deep tans and permafrowns, guffawed like morning DJs and played cards in the shade of the flybridge.
Blake, Barry, and Van were on the flybridge with two Tommy Bahama types and three girls in sundresses. Despite the dress, Calerecognized his goddess from the beach and involuntarily waved. Her head tilted to the side, but she smiled and waved back. Cale found himself involuntarily smiling. He also found himself wondering about this mix of old Italian men sitting with beautiful women above a ladder where three young mastiffs guarded the approach. He tried to remember whether this size Ferretti cost three or four million.
Cale cut the props and knotted onto a Sea Ray’s stern cleats. Barry crossed the tie-ups to the Ferretti. Phil, Mom, and Mom’s young coworker improvised a dance floor while they waited. Cale, feeling awkward over the wave-and-smile combo, looked for things to fix on the Whaler. Twenty minutes later, Blake and the guys crossed the gunwale with plastic tumblers and the flybridge girls. The goddess smiled at Cale as she boarded. Angst crept over him as he started the engines, cast off, and pointed north.
8
A DESIRE TO avoid the massive expense of hurricane season insurance on the yacht had pushed Joe to take this trip up the eastern seaboard. Now he was docked in Harbor Island, North Carolina, where hurricane-induced ocean swells were too big for cruising. The stop-and-go of the inland waterway drove him nuts, so their trip would make it no further today. Joe was positive Fort Lauderdale was whitecap free.
As Ashley came out of the aft stateroom just after sunrise, his cynical mood lifted and he grinned.
“Happy Saturday, Joe,” she sang out to him.
“To you as well. Did we wake you?”
“No, I had plenty of sleep.”
The poor trainers, Joe thought, were apparently so close but still so far. Since Joe didn’t want to fight Arlene’s waves, he asked the captain to find an anchorage where they could feel the breeze. They cast off, the captain eased from the slip, fast idled less than a mile, and anchored off the north end of a state park. Joe unbuttoned his shirt, knotted the waist tie of his swim trunks, and dove off the bowsprit. He swam the hundred yards to the shallows with his head above water, doing frog strokes. He waded ashore, squishing the clay-like sand between his toes, his seventy-three-year-old lungs only slightly out of breath. Thepredawn fishermen were returning from the ocean side and loading their boats to head home for breakfast.
Joe walked east, then left the trail and climbed a dune. The ocean advanced in long swells. It looked like a Hawaiian postcard filled with mid-Atlantic green water. He looked west and saw Tony standing on the dive platform, tossing bread to seagulls, and chatting up the nurses. No sign of the trainers. He looked to the south. The island was a long, narrow strip of sand, kind of like Fire Island but without the parking lots and volleyball courts. He looked north past the jetty and saw marinas, condos, and boatyards across the channel. Beyond that, he glimpsed the backs of three-story houses on the beach that were built over carports tall enough to protect them from flooding. The breeze felt great.
Two old-timers sat
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