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With the forward camera snug in its mount, Nigel watched for whales or other obstructions as they motored rather quickly back toward the bay. Tyrone perched nearby, scanning further ahead with the binoculars. They both spotted the stranded vessel at the same time, a fishing boat wedged into the sand of one of the barrier islands. Arryo slowed as they approached, and when a figure emerged from the shade of the vessel, waving his arms, the crew leapt to the task
Gator and his team worked to dig out and right the vessel while Nigel tended to the fisherman and his daughter who'd been caught on their way home, racing the storm. He had brought along a few kettles of the collected rainwater, deploying it now both for their thirst and cleaning their injuries. Flick proved to be an able field medic, setting the young woman's broken arm for Nigel to splint. They shared a nod, then the scarred man returned to Gator. The six men, with Devi shouting direction, hauled the boat to where it could float freely and be towed back into town.
The beach rang with cheers and high-fives when they succeeded, and the weary fisherman expressed his gratitude in flowing tears to each of the men. Gator took it in stride, head held high as if he expected such accolades. Smitty sang—of course—and Monty ducked his chin, hiding his smile. Devi's glance strayed toward him, especially since he'd removed his shirt for the tough bits.
Assisting the young woman aboard Arryo's boat as Devi brought over a line to tow the fishing boat, Nigel observed, "You do like him, don't you."
Devi shrugged that off, expertly looping the rope. "The American military spent a lot of money training me to make people believe what I want them to."
"Really." He watched her: head down, hair flipped to one side, her strong arms quick and precise, her gold-flecked eyes staring back at him. Daring him.
Arryo settled the young woman at the bow, speaking with her softly in Spanish.
"Honestly, I doubted their intention to help, but they seemed eager enough to give aid when the chance arose, and your man, in particular, does so with grace."
She snorted, and returned to her knot. "He's a Marine. Semper Fi."
"He's a kindred spirit."
"Oh, for—Just stop, all right?"
"Very well." He sat back.
She braced her hands on the gunnel, up to her waist in the shallow water. "Don't know what he carries in that sling bag of his, but this is the first time I've seen him without it."
So that was the excuse for ogling the man's bare, buff chest. It did make sense, though, from the investigatory standpoint. The men had piled their shirts, and some shoes, on the other boat.
Near the fishing vessel, Monty called out, "What's the word, Jess? We ready for this?"
Nigel cocked his head. "'Jess?' That seems rather intimate."
Her head rose. "He reminds me of someone. That's it. The ink, the eyes. Maybe the attitude." She tossed back her braid. "It won't interfere with my judgment."
"Ah." He folded his hands.
She aimed a finger at him. "Enough."
Turning away, she raised her arm. "We're good. Arryo?"
Their guide returned to the stern of the vessel and Devi stepped back as he started the engine nice and slow. The rope played out and went taut, then the fishing boat bobbed a little further, the fisherman and Smitty on board to manage their end. The rest of Gator's crew cheered some more, then parted from the boat under tow.
Monty leaped like a dolphin into the water, sweeping his arms back and skimming beneath the surface. Joe started to walk back, only to be tackled by Flick. Both men plunged under the water, Gator laughing uproariously. When Tyrone edged toward him as if to do the same, Gator followed Monty's lead, swimming powerfully back to the lead vessel. Truly, they sported like the restless young of so many species, so many cultures. Why be suspicious of such men? Why did Devi's watchful eye on Monty both fascinate and worry him?
Nigel switched seats, clearing the path for the men's arrival, then shifting to balance the boat as they surged aboard like so many otters, their fit bodies readily obeying their every whim.
Envy? Not precisely, but something of that same longing he'd once felt around cricket pitches or rugby games—the longing of the uncoordinated for just a few moments of that unattainable model of physical virtue. In the water, he might briefly pretend to be that sort of person, supremely fit and capable, so long as no true specimen arrived to show him up.
Certainly, Nigel was not without skills. He could sing, and picked up tunes, even in unfamiliar languages, with alarming speed. He could waltz a ballroom well enough to please the king or observe the social cues of a tribal gathering well enough not to be summarily executed. From the random detritus of an antique kitchen and a pair of rucksacks, he could prepare three meals for nine people, meals that were not merely acceptable, but rather tasty. What sort of virtue was this? Not the sort that turned heads or cued much admiration past the dining room. Certainly not so far as the drawing room, nor yet the lawn.
It had been years since he'd know this precise form of isolation, but it never entirely left him. Devi and the men were kindred spirits, indeed, and he was not of that kindred.
"Let's go!" Gator shouted, gripping the gunnel and leaning into the wind as they set out again, bringing the crippled vessel and its occupants back to shore.
The dock itself survived well enough, and most of the town's boats lay well up on the beach, inverted and defended from the worst of the storm by those barrier islands beyond. Toward the south end of town, people accumulated as if they trickled through an hourglass, and the wailing indicated tragedy.
"I'll investigate while you get the boats secured," Nigel volunteered. He jumped to the dock and drew the bow line around a bollard.
"Joe, go with him—we got this!"
"Aye-aye." Joe hustled alongside, and Devi emerged afterward, trailing them a step behind.
"That was pretty cool, huh? How we got that boat up!" The young man's enthusiasm bubbled over. "Never had to do something like that before."
"Indeed. Excellent work. I take it you've fully recovered from your ordeals of yesterday?" Nigel led the way right as they reached the edge of town. Their Jeep sat precisely where they'd left it—wet, but apparently undamaged. Excellent. Storms and dangers frequently resulted in desperate people. Or those who merely took advantage of chaos to perform underhanded acts of vandalism, theft and violence.
From the shop doorway he recalled, Hortensia appeared, her head swiveling, as if she caught a sound that intrigued her, then her blind gaze focused on the shore, drawn, perhaps, by the low rumble of her son's motor. The dawn lit her face from without, and her relief let her glow from within.
At the corner, they found a house with shattered windows, flooded to a few inches' depth. Outside, a woman wailed, clasped in the arms of another. Two children clutched at her, and Nigel sensed that their grief could not be assuaged by any work of Gator's or his own. Several other houses in the ocean-facing strip showed signs of battering, with collapsed porch roofs and blasted doors.
Then, beyond, a child came running, waving both arms and calling out, "Ayuda! Ayuda!"