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Reymundo Cruz sat on the aft deck of his newly purchased fifty-five-foot Cheoy Lee Trawler enjoying a cold beer. Not only was the beer refreshing, but it calmed his nerves a bit. He’d just paid seventy-five thousand dollars for a boat easily worth three times as much.
He had answered a Craigslist ad, assuming the listed price was a misprint. A trawler was not what he was looking for, but if he could get it for a reasonable price, he would grab it. The seller explained that the price was not a misprint. He was selling the boat cheap because the proceeds were going to his soon-to-be-ex-wife.
It only took a few hours to inspect the boat and complete the transaction. To transfer the title, register, and pay the taxes at the Broward County Motor Vehicles took just as long. Each step had gone smoothly, but Reymundo could not shake the feeling he’d been conned.
The seller gave a good enough reason for selling the boat cheap. All the paperwork seemed in order. The slip was even prepaid for three months. One red flag was that the deal had to be done right then. If not, there were other buyers lined up waiting for the opportunity to buy the big Cheoy Lee. The second red flag was that deals like this didn’t happen to guys like Reymundo Cruz, fishing charter deckhand.
“What the hell,” he said aloud to himself. A slight grin turned into a wide smile as he admired his boat.
“What the hell is right,” said a female voice behind him.
A slender woman stood in the door to the aft deck. She looked to be in her early thirties, no more than a couple of years older than the twenty-eight-year-old Reymundo. Blond hair, tanned legs, small breasts. Her eyes were as blue as the Caribbean. In a floral sundress with spaghetti straps that hung loosely from her shoulders, she was stunning. Reymundo suspected she was not wearing a bra but didn’t want to stare in an attempt to confirm it.
“What are you doing on my boat?” the woman asked.
“It’s my boat. Would you like a beer?”
She scoffed at him. “No, I do NOT want a beer. What do you mean, ‘your boat’?”
“I just bought it.”
The woman’s demeanor softened slightly. “Oh. I knew my husband was selling it. I didn’t think it would be so fast.” Her eyes welled with tears as she glanced around the yacht.
“Yeah, I closed on it earlier today. How ‘bout that beer?”
“Can I ask how much you paid for it?”
“Seventy-five,” Reymundo replied. He knew the number might not sit well with the woman, but he wasn’t going to lie. She would likely be happy that the boat was sold since she’d be getting the money from the sale, but he was sure the price would tick her off.
The next few minutes were a blur to Reymundo as the woman unleashed a fury of F-bombs. “What the Fuck?” “Motherfucker.” “Seventy-five thousand fucking dollars.” “Are you fucking kidding me?” There were more.
The woman calmed down slightly when Reymundo asked again if she’d like a beer. That started another two-minute cuss-a-thon. She paced across the deck, haranguing him. Reymundo could have told her it was not his fault and to get off his case, but he rather enjoyed watching the beautiful woman strut across the aft deck of his new boat.
When the soon-to-be-divorced goddess paused to catch her breath and maybe think of additional ways to use the “F” word, Reymundo said, “I saw the ad for the boat on Craigslist and paid the full asking price. It’s obvious you were expecting more. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t blame you. You got a hell of a deal on my boat. You’d have been crazy not to jump on it. How ‘bout that beer?”
The woman guzzled several beers between obscenities directed at her husband. Reymundo was surprised that such a classy-looking woman could have such a foul mouth – even more so when she took him by the hand and asked if he’d seen the queen-size bed in the captain’s cabin.
The beautiful blond was out of her sundress before they made it to the cabin – and she was not wearing a bra. She slowly slid her fingers under the sides of her panties and pushed them off, all the while murmuring something to the effect that since her husband had fucked her, she was going to fuck Reymundo. The caveat was that she would tell her ex what she’d done – every graphic detail.
All Reymundo’s past girlfriends were, at minimum, cute. Most were considered attractive, but none were in the league of the woman who had led him to the captain’s stateroom with the sole intention of having sex. She was exquisite. She reminded him of a professional cheerleader – only older, with less makeup and smaller breasts.
The fact she promised to tell her soon-to-be-ex about their exploits didn’t deter Reymundo. If anything came of it, he would deal with it. This was the chance of a lifetime. He wouldn’t worry about a man who may or may not give a shit about the woman he’s divorcing having sex with the guy who had bought his boat. He might say, Well, she got fucked twice.
As soon as her clothes were off, the beautiful woman wondered if her impulsive decision to have revenge sex with her boat’s new owner was a great idea. He was tall, just over six feet, broad-shouldered with biceps like hammers, and fair-skinned, his arms and legs darkened by years in the South Florida sun. He looked more Irish than Puerto Rican. If grabbing her clothes and running entered her mind, it was quickly replaced by the feeling of pure pleasure.
Reymundo wanted the tryst to last. It would not be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am affair. He was going to please this woman as long as possible. All night, he hoped.
As daylight began to fill the small cabin – just large enough for the queen-sized bed, a nightstand, and a small dresser – Reymundo was awakened by his overnight companion returning from the head. She sat on the edge of the bed.
“This was a wonderful evening. I can’t remember when I’ve had a better one, but I should be going,” she said. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not saying a word to my husband.”
Reymundo caressed the woman’s perky breast. “By the way, I’m Reymundo. They call me Rey.”
“I’m Jana.” She blushed slightly and held out her hand to shake his.
“The pleasure was all mine.” Reymundo ran his finger around her pink nipple. “Do you have to leave?”
“Maybe I can stay a little longer,” she said, giving him a lascivious leer. She crawled back into the bed and on top of him.
Time passed much too quickly. Jana said, “Rey, this has been great, really, but I do need to leave. I’d like to come back sometime, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay. Come anytime.”
“I’d love to come again,” Jana said, handing him a card with her phone number. “Call me.”
Reymundo placed Jana’s card on a small nightstand next to the bed and walked her out. He wondered how long he should wait before he called and invited her back to the boat. Or should he ask her on a date? A date would be expensive – this was not a girl who would be happy with a cold beer and some peel-and-eat shrimp. This was a stone crab woman. And not just any stone crab, she’d want colossal stone crab claws – the expensive ones.
As much as Reymundo loved his new boat, a sensation attributed in no small part by last night with Jana, common sense dictated he should sell it. He knew he could flip it for a nice profit, easily double his money. Three months of slip fees were already paid so he only needed to buy insurance, but he was in no hurry to decide what to do with the big trawler.
Reymundo spent the next two days cleaning and inspecting the Cheoy Lee. The engines ran flawlessly and all the electronics worked properly. He could find no evidence of dry rot. He checked the transom and found the boat’s name, Miss Jana. If he saw the name when he initially inspected the boat, it hadn’t registered. Now it did. His mind wandered to the beautiful Miss Jana. He was tempted to give her a call but assumed she was in Palm Beach, maybe riding around with some hot guy in his Bentley, Porsche, or Ferrari, all of which were abundant in Palm Beach.
Reymundo had positioned himself at his five o’clock location, the aft deck, and was on his second beer, thinking about Miss Jana – the woman, not the boat – when he was interrupted by two young men on the dock, yelling up at him. He wondered if Jana’s husband sent them to explain that he should keep his distance from her. He hoped it would be a verbal warning and not turn physical.
Once Reymundo got a good look at the two men, his worry turned to bewilderment. They didn’t look like tough guys sent to deliver a message. Both were white – lily-white – and wore khaki shorts with pressed polo shirts and new boat shoes. They looked to be in their late teens, maybe early twenties.
“Is this your boat?” one of the young men asked.
“It is,” Reymundo replied. He didn’t mention he’d only owned it a few days. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking to charter a yacht for a weekend cruise. Do you do charters?”
Although it wasn’t something he’d considered, it was an option. “Yes, I do.”
“Cool. How much?”
“It depends on what you’re looking for. Are you interested in a half-day, full-day, weekend? Were you looking to tour the Miami waterways or did you have a destination in mind? Come aboard, we can talk about it.”
It was apparent the men had never been on a yacht before when they gazed at the main salon, mouths agape. Both guys gladly accepted a beer and they all moved out to the deck to discuss the charter.
The taller of the two went into great detail about how they had recently graduated from Boston College, moved to Florida, and landed great jobs in the mortgage banking industry. A frat brother from Boston was getting married, and they wanted to show him a great time. The party was still several weeks away, but they wanted to have a cruise booked. They’d like to get on the boat on a Friday morning, cruise for the weekend, and return Monday morning.
Knowing what was happening in the Florida real estate market, Reymundo figured these guys were rolling in cash. “If you stay until Monday morning, that’s four days. I’d have to charge you for a full day, even if you depart early on Monday.”
The details didn’t faze the men. Reymundo told them he would supply everything but booze. He didn’t want to be responsible for alcohol. It could be a pain in the ass providing copious amounts of various alcoholic beverages. If they wanted a bareboat charter, he’d drive the boat, but they would be responsible for everything else.
The men wanted the all-inclusive, minus the booze option. Reymundo knew an equivalent fishing charter was around fourteen hundred dollars for a ten-hour day. At that price, he stood to make a decent profit. To be safe, he rounded it up. Fifteen hundred dollars per day for four days. Six thousand for the charter. Cash. They didn’t balk.
The shorter of the two mortgage bankers stumbled for words. “Um, what about women on board?”
“That’s fine. This boat’s fifty-five feet, but it only has three guest cabins. It sleeps six comfortably. Any more than that and it will be tight.”
“I think what my friend is asking is...uh, could you maybe have girls on board that, I don’t know, look like crew, but in skimpy outfits and provide like...other services?”
Reymundo said he could find such a crew, but there would be an additional charge of five hundred per “crew,” and tips would be required for any service “above and beyond” regular shipboard duties.
The guys pondered their options, likely attempting to determine how many girls six guys would need for four days. When asked about the tipping, Reymundo said it would be strictly between the charterer and crew. The amount would depend on the “service.” Also, he added, the girls would demand some respect.
For two guys who fancied themselves big-time mortgage bankers, Reymundo felt they seemed wimpish when it came to asking about hookers.
“We were thinking something along the lines of a strip club,” the taller of the two said. “The girls might end up naked and flirting with the guys, like sitting on their laps and performing lap dances, but they would find a cabin when it came to actual sex. I think most of us, except Paul, the groom, want to have sex. Five of us for four days, do you think they could handle it?”
“Isn’t that their job?” his friend asked.
“I suppose it is. I really don’t know.” Reymundo knew about hooking fish, not hookers. He was apprehensive about turning his boat into a floating den of iniquity.
The frat boys, almost wetting themselves with excitement, agreed to pay for four extra female “crew.” Any extracurricular activities would require an advance tip. The last thing Reymundo wanted to let the guys know was that if anyone got drunk and got out of line, either with the girls or the crew or messed up his boat, he would take them out and feed them to the sharks. He popped a fist into his open hand, flexing his biceps in the process to drive the point home. The boys got the message. Although they were only a few years younger than Reymundo both replied with a loud and clear, “Yes sir.”