CHAPTER 6

FRIDAY MORNING, BERG BIKING along the 1, his feet sore, his back sore, the specter of a headache on the horizon. The 1 ran north to south along the bay, and from there forked inland for a bit until it nosed its way out to Jensen Beach. After that it continued south, disappearing into the city, only to emerge, miles later, along the cliffs of Pacifica. Cyclists often cruised the 1, wending their way up to Talinas, where they stopped to buy coffee and pastries and admire the feed barn. On the weekend, they swarmed the town, and you would see them meandering from shop to shop, walking in the funny way the cyclists walked, on their heels, like penguins.

Berg had gotten a headache around the same time yesterday, as he was biking to work. It had lasted the whole day and into the night. The headaches made sleep difficult and, this morning, he had woken up feeling unrested, foggy, as if he’d been drinking whiskey the night before. He reached for the glass of water next to the bed, took a sip, and then spit out the water. It tasted terrible, like a dirty puddle. He’d forgotten that he’d left the glass there for the past three days. He got up and threw the rest of the water into the potted fern by the bed, walked to the kitchen. The sun was already up so he made coffee and toast. While he waited for the coffee to brew, he washed a few dishes in the sink, lathering them in lemony soap.

He thought about calling in sick, but he’d already done that a couple of times earlier in the month, when he’d taken too many Lortabs and slept through his alarm. After Nell’s visit, he’d started taking more pills again. It wasn’t until he missed multiple days of work that he realized his tapering project had failed. He decided he would quit cold turkey instead.

The next two weeks, without any opioids at all, were excruciating. Constant headaches, his whole body in a state of general discomfort. He took a lot of acetaminophen and ibuprofen but it wasn’t the same. He had very little energy and he suffered from diarrhea and nausea. At work he was always sneaking off to the staff outhouse by the water or running to the head if they were on a charter. One day Garrett saw him leaving the outhouse for the third time that morning and he gave him a pitying look.

“Whatever Chinese restaurant you’re going to,” Garrett said, “I would stop going to it. That’s my advice to you.”

So here he was today, another headache looming, biking toward Fernwood. They were scheduled to do a charter out of Pier 4 at 11:00. It was BYO, which meant that Berg would have to serve whatever kind of food and drinks the clients brought. BYOs could work in your favor or they could be terrible. Sometimes people brought almost no food and drink and Berg was able to help Simon sail the whole trip. Other times people brought twelve bottles of rosé and got drunk and Berg had to clean vomit out of the head. One time, a woman brought an elaborate fondue setup and Berg found himself heating cheese in a cauldron on the cabin top.

Berg and Simon refueled the boats in the marina and then began prepping Blown Away for the charter. They put the deck gear on deck, tested the engine, clipped in the halyard, secured all the hatches. By 10 a.m. they had cast off and were en route to Pier 4. Simon was steering the boat and Berg and Garrett were sitting below the dodger. Garrett seemed to be in a particularly buoyant mood.

“Going to the Oysters game later tonight,” he said.

The Muire County Oysters were the local minor-league baseball team. Their mascot was a talking oyster that looked more like a frog than an oyster. People around the county had signs in front of their homes that said SHUCK ’EM UP. GO OYSTERS.

“Who’s pitching?” Simon asked.

“Santorini,” Garrett said.

“Oh yeah, Santorini. He’s good.”

“He’s really good. He’s probably the best Oysters pitcher of all time. If not the best, then at least in the top three.”

“What about Lew Brown?” Simon said.

“He’s in the top three, too.”

“Who else is in the top three?”

“There’s one other. That’s why it’s a top three.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not going to feed everything to you like a baby bird, Simon. Go get a history book. Educate yourself.”

“You’re not going to tell me ’cause you don’t know.”

“What?”

“You just made up this arbitrary list.”

“Is the galley clean, Simon? Berg, come steer for a bit. You need the practice and Simon needs to clean the galley.”

When they got close to Pier 4, Garrett took the wheel and Berg kicked over the fenders, draped the dock lines along the lifelines for easy access. Garrett brought the boat in at an angle and then threw it into reverse, using the prop walk to swing the stern around. After Berg had made fast the dock lines, he came back on board and began placing life vests on deck.

“How many people are we?” he asked Garrett.

“Twelve. So fifteen life vests. Make sure you text Mangini after we’re underway, too.”

Once Berg set up the life vests, he gathered the liability waivers and stepped off the boat onto the pier. Garrett was sitting on top of a dock box, talking to the client on his cell phone.

“What did you say? You’re at Pier 1½? Why are you at Pier 1½? Yeah, we had you scheduled for 12:00 at Pier 4. Two-hour cruise. You guys said you were bringing an ice cream cake. Right. There’s a boat there already? You must have double-booked. Yeah. I don’t know how. We don’t pick up at Pier 1½. What’s the Captain’s name? Billy? Yeah, okay, and how many people are you again? Twelve. Perfect. Thanks, Todd. Well, you head off with them. We’ll settle this up tomorrow over the phone. Okay. Enjoy yourself. Yeah, no problem. No, no, really it’s no problem.”

He hung up and pumped his fist.

“Yes, yes, yes!” he shouted. “We are going to nail those fuckers. I am going to nail Billy. He’s been doing this for years.”

“Doing what?” Berg asked.

“Chartering out of Pier 1½ with a six-pack license. He is not licensed to carry twelve passengers. Do you know how much it cost us to get Blown Away to pass Coast Guard inspection? And these guys are fucking stealing charters out from under our noses with insufficient licenses. But oh, we ’re gonna destroy ’em. We’re gonna destroy ’em. I am so pumped.”

He climbed down into the galley and called the Coast Guard. A young man picked up and Garrett put him on loudspeaker. Garrett always put calls on loudspeaker.

“United States Coast Guard Sector Eleven,” the man said.

“Good afternoon. I want to report an illegal charter that is happening right now, departing from Pier 1½.” Garrett was rubbing his jaw, pacing back and forth in the small galley.

“Okay, sir, what can you tell me about the charter?”

“It is motor vessel Chico Rico, that’s M/V Chico Rico, and it’s departing from Pier 1½ as we speak with twelve passengers and the captain is only licensed with a six-pack, and I know this because they were supposed to be my charter but they were taken out from under my nose.”

“Sir, we currently have a rescue taking place along the coast. We will probably have to handle this administratively. Or we’ll board the vessel next time we see it. In any case, we’ll have an investigator give you a call tomorrow.”

“But they’re gonna deny it,” Garrett said. “There will be no evidence.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have the capacity to address the issue at this time.”

The Coast Guard officer hung up.

“Motherfuckers,” Garrett said. “We’ll go it alone.”

“What?” Berg said.

“You heard me. We’ll go it alone.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not scared of anyone, man. I’m not scared of anyone. Cast off the dock lines, Berg.”

“Oh yeah,” Simon said. “We’re gonna get these fuckers.”

They motored over to Pier 1½ but by the time they got there Chico Rico had departed. There was nothing around except an abandoned orange motorboat with a broken windshield and a seagull pecking at fish guts. Berg’s headache was steadily emerging. He did not want to chase down M/V Chico Rico so they could narc them out to the Coast Guard, but Garrett and Simon were galvanized, and Berg sensed that the trip was far from over.

“They probably went to Horse Island,” Simon said. “Probably doing a little spin around Horse Island.”

“Good idea,” Garrett said.

They motored southwest toward the island. Simon steered and Garrett scanned the bay with his binoculars. Berg went to the bow, held onto the forestay, and surveyed the bay. There were a few other boats out but no sign of Chico Rico. A platoon of cormorants flew low along the shore and Muire birds dipped their heads in and out of the cold water. The shiny back of a seal appeared and then slipped below the surface. At the bow, Simon and Garrett could not see him, and Berg was able to close his eyes. This held the headache at bay to a certain extent. He was able to keep his eyes closed for several minutes, until Simon shouted.

“Over there!” he said. “It’s them.”

Chico Rico was a thirty-five-foot motorboat with a small galley. There were grooves running along her hull to present the illusion of wooden planking but she was made out of fiberglass. The boat was heading straight at them, slightly to port. Simon throttled down as the vessels neared each other.

“Get your phone ready,” Garrett shouted at Berg. “We’re going to take photos when we pass them.”

A few minutes later the boats passed each other, port to port, and Garrett and Berg casually took photos. Berg tried to act like he was checking something on his phone and not photographing the other boat. It was hard to say if there were twelve people on board but there were certainly more than six. Once they passed the boat, Berg looked back at its stern: there were two men sitting in wooden chairs, drinking white wine from stemless glasses. Berg waved at them and they waved back.

“Beautiful day,” one of them called.

“It is a beautiful day,” Garrett answered. “It is so beautiful.”