Off Track: An Off Series Novella

by Glen Robins

  Off Track

  An Off Series Novella

  By Glen Robins

  www.glenrobinsbooks.com

  Copyright 2021

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Before you Go

  Prologue

  One month before Collin and Emily’s wedding day

  Little Cayman Island

  “You have come a long way just to listen to an old man tell a story,” I say to my two visitors as I pour the lemonade I made especially for them. It is dusk. The sun is nothing more than a dark orange orb resting on the watery western horizon. The turquoise waters of my beloved Caribbean stretch out before us as we face each other on the deck of my newest, finest sailing boat—a boat their dear friend, Collin Cook, bought for me to replace the one he wrecked.

  These two are curious young men. Bold, unafraid, deeply loyal. They want to know about me because Collin Cook has told them much about our time together. They say anyone who is a friend of Collin’s is a friend of theirs. Anyone Collin respects, they respect. And since Collin told them they needed to get to know me, they arranged this long weekend for the three of us to meet and talk and do some fishing together. I am always agreeable to such arrangements.

  Those things were side lights, actually. The main reason they used to set up this rendezvous was to finalize the arrangements for Collin's wedding, which will take place here in a month's time.

  The one with the golden-brown hair that looks like an organized mess is called Rob Howell. His dress and grooming appear to be the casual elegance I have seen amongst the wealthy tourists I have catered to my entire adult life. The way he speaks, the way he acts, tells me he has been dealing with people for many years. He is charming, yet sincere. Engaged and engaging, yet genuine.

  The other is hobbled. He holds a cane and speaks with a soft voice that carries a Germanic accent. With hair as blond as any I’ve seen and a square jaw, I know he’s European. His eyes reveal a keen intelligence. I can tell those eyes have taken in everything around and have made assessments about those things. Yet, he is eager to listen, eager to learn from me and about me. I’m intrigued immediately by his demeanor. His name is Lukas Mueller. He asks the first question, and it has nothing to do with our common friend. “So, you grew up here? What was that like?”

  “I guess we have all weekend,” I say. “Why not start at the beginning?”

  We all settle into the padded lounge seats, set our drinks in the cupholders, and grab a handful of the snacks I have laid out. There is fruit, nuts, cheese, crackers, and an assortment of finger sandwiches—all compliments of the only resort on my island, Little Cayman. The stern of the Admiral Ristier is pointing west, thanks to the current. A warm breeze carries the scent of the tropics. It is the perfect setting for a comfortable evening with new friends.

  Chapter One

  Thirty Years Before Meeting Collin Cook

  Cayman Islands

  Lukas Mueller’s questions prompt me to explain where I started. It is important for him and his friend, Rob, to understand a few minor details about where I came from and how I became who I am today so that I could help their friend, Collin Cook. So, my story begins as I wave my arm toward the island behind us.

  “There may be a dozen babies born here in a year. Maybe.

  “There may be two-hundred-fifty people living here at any given time. Maybe.

  “Half of them are transient foreigners come to work with the tourists or in phosphate ore extraction, which is used for fertilizer and is found in abundance on our tiny island.

  “There may be one-hundred square miles of land. Maybe. And almost as many iguanas as people.

  “This is where I was born, Little Cayman Island. We are some fifty miles east of Grand Cayman Island,” I say as I wave a hand in a general westerly direction, “which is home of world class scuba diving and is a vacation hotspot. This island, however, is home primarily to the remaining descendants of three families who settled the island three centuries ago.

  “Blossom Village, this tiny hamlet on the western side, is where I was raised and where most of the population of the island dwells. Our little town is dependent on tourists, coconuts, and phosphate ore. Strange things upon which to base one’s livelihood, no? But the people here are a hardy bunch, survivors with the composition of prize fighters. No wind, no storm, no devasting turn of circumstances can overwhelm people so used to adversity, trial, and difficulty.”

  Lukas nods his head. “It is a beautiful place I never knew about. Seems like paradise to me. It is fascinating to realize the difficulties they face. What about your family?”

  “We were always very poor. This is a beautiful place, but making a living here is no paradise. My parents had six children; I was the eldest. Four of us lived to adulthood. The other two were claimed by disease and by the ocean before they reached the age of four. When I was only eight years old, I began contributing to the family’s financial welfare by fishing, by selling trinkets to the tourists, and sometimes by begging. I went to school when I could. I learned what I needed to learn: how to count and add and multiply; how to speak well enough to sound intelligent; how to read and write and figure out the essential things; and, most importantly, how to deal with people.”

  Rob Howell, the one I would have figured to do most of the talking, asked his first question at this point. “What did your father do? Was he involved in the phosphate mining or in the tourist trade or what?”

  “My father was a boat captain. He took tourists from the local resort out to sea to scuba dive or fish or sightsee. He was a warm and friendly man, the kind people like instantly. His business grew because his clients told their friends back in their own countries about him and those people came to him. Then they told other people. His business flourished at times because of his reputation alone. He worked hard, but since this island has far fewer tourists than Grand Cayman, he never made much money. That, and it is common knowledge that the tourist industry is a fickle one. Trust me, I know that from my own experience. When the economy is bad, people don’t come to the islands. When they don’t come, they don’t pay for scuba trips or sightseeing. When they don’t come and pay, the bank comes and takes your boat. When the boat is gone, so is the money. I learned that outside of school.”

  “Why didn’t he go to Grand Cayman and work the tourists there?”

  “I think he was afraid. George Town is a crazy place compared to here. Everything is more expensive, those vying for supremacy in the tourist trade are much more aggressive—cutthroat sometimes, even. Getting started there, he figured, would be more than he was able to do. He was a simple man, but not a wildly ambitious man. His fears and his worries prevented him from going too far beyond his comfort zone.” I pause here as I reflect upon my father. He was a good man, humble and honest, but his lack of vision always perplexed me. “May he rest in peace.”

  “Did you ever work on his boat with him?” Rob asks. “Seems like you took after your father in many respects?”

  “Yes. He needed help, so when I was fifteen, I began to work with him. He taught me to sail. He taught me how to please the rich tourist
s and how to negotiate with them. This wasn’t his strong suit, however. I had to practice and get good at that on my own. He also taught me to fix and clean and maintain the boat. There’s more to being a captain than just sailing around for fun, you know.”

  “So, what happened after the bank took his boat?”

  “I was nineteen years old when that happened. I watched how it devastated my father. He and I were forced to work for other boat captains, doing the dirty work for them. It was unpleasant and very humbling. But, eventually, that work dried up, too. There wasn’t enough to keep us both busy, so I went to work for Little Cayman’s only resort, doing odd jobs at first. I eventually became a busboy at the restaurant there. But I wanted more. My father was content staying on Little Cayman. He loved Blossom Village and never wanted to leave. I loved it, too—still do—but I had to find a better way. I wanted a better life.

  “So, when I was twenty-two years old, I moved away. George Town seemed the logical place to go. I knew it well enough from our many trips there. There seemed to be much more opportunity for someone like me in a place like that. So, I caught a ride with one of my father’s friends on his boat. I had one small case with a few clothes and necessities. That was it. I said good-bye to my family amidst tears and pleas for me to stay, and I walked to the docks and hopped on his boat.

  “My parents were heartbroken, but they knew it was for the better. I needed to spread my wings, try a different life. I wanted to do something important, something meaningful. Abasing myself for the amusement of demanding rich people held no appeal to me. I had watched my father grovel all my life and I did not want to be like that. But I had no formal education, so I took the first job anyone would hire me to do and went to work in the mail room at one of the big hotels in George Town, on the island of Grand Cayman. I lived away from home for the first time, in a tiny hut with a dirt floor and a piece of tin for a roof because that was all I could afford. In the mail room, I earned about three dollars a day, every day of the week. Sometimes, I would be asked to run errands or do special favors for the hotel guests. They would pay me tips. Sometimes it was a quarter, sometimes a dollar, sometimes much more.”

  I pause and take a long sip of my lemonade. It’s cool and the glass is sweating. After a sigh of satisfaction, I shift gears so as to keep their interest.

  “Those rich white tourists taught me many things,” I say as I smile and look at each of them. “Much like I would imagine your fathers did for you.”

  Lukas nods his head in agreement. Rob turns up his lips and says, “Not my dad. He was long gone by then. But I had Collin’s dad. I learned a lot from him.”

  I absorb that information as I remember Collin telling me that his friend spent much of his time at his home, that he was like a brother to him. I tip my head to show my understanding, then continue.

  “I think they shared with me mainly because I showed an interest in them. They weren’t just wealthy customers to me. They were sources of information—like walking libraries. I saw them as people who had what I wanted, people who could teach me things. I asked simple but searching questions about how they made it, how they found success. My curiosity and genuine interest allowed a few of them to share valuable insights with me. They helped me see the bigger picture. I learned from them to dream big; to earn interest, not pay it; and make my own opportunities if I wanted a better life. They triggered in me a thirst for knowledge, which led me to read. Reading led me to new curiosities and to new places and to another level in my thinking.”

  My two-man audience seems intrigued, so I take another sip and keep talking.

  “I sent much of my money home to my family in those early years. They needed it more than I. My father was a broken man, a boat captain without a boat, relegated to fishing from the rocks, cleaning others’ boats, or mining phosphate. My mother did laundry for the tourists and the shopkeepers and merchants. She sewed and made the trinkets that my younger siblings would sell in the streets. They survived, but just barely, as long as they remained healthy enough to work all day every day.”

  I survey the faces of my captive listeners. Sympathy shows through each of their expressions.

  “I worked hard and saved my tip money in a coffee can hidden under one of the rocks that ringed the fire pit in what one might call my kitchen—the corner of the room where I cooked my fish and rice over the flames. My table was a flat rock, about the size of a book, set atop another stack of rocks. My savings grew each week, and my dreams grew along with it.

  “The more I saved up in my tin can, the more I wanted to save. A co-worker of mine, who became a friend, always wore nice clothes. I knew he earned less than me, so one day I asked him how he could buy such things. He told me he sold fish to the local market in the mornings before work.

  “That day, I bought myself a fishing pole and tackle. Each morning after that, I would rise before the sun and fish from the shore or from the rocky jetties near the harbor. Sometimes I would catch several fish, sometimes none. I sold these at the fish market before I went to my regular job at the hotel. Soon, I had to find a second coffee can to keep my money in. Even though I was always tired, I was happy. Happy to have money and happy I could help my family.

  “After a year of saving tips and selling fish, I had four cans full of cash. I thought about what the rich people told me. ‘Invest your money wisely.’ ‘Set yourself up for future success.’ ‘Own the cash-generating assets.’

  “The cash-generating assets,” I say as I snap my fingers to signal the realization that came to me, “were the fishing boats that came into the harbor and unloaded buckets full of fish. Even the small boats had far more fish than I ever caught. I knew about boats and I knew about fishing. I needed to find myself a cash-generating fishing boat.” I use my hands to help tell the story.

  “At first, I dreamed of a small skiff so that I could go out past the harbor and catch more fish than I could from the shore. I could make more money that way, just like the men I watched at the market. When I had finally saved enough, I bought an old, weathered heap that was just barely seaworthy. The fifteen-horsepower outboard needed some serious work. I pointed it out and made the owner lower the price. It was a happy day.” I toss my head back and smile at the heavens as I recollect that moment and celebrate it all over again.

  “Seems you’ve always been one to drive a hard bargain,” Rob says with a chuckle. Collin must have told him about our negotiations.

  Lukas smiles back at me. “Sounds like that was the beginning of something special.”

  I nod my head, the satisfaction of that early success still fresh in my mind. “That skiff and those fish that I caught and sold spurred another, bigger dream—a dream that included a larger vessel and a crew. I would follow my father into the business of captaining a boat, but I would learn from his mistakes. No bank would be involved in my business. No bank would take my cash-generating asset from me.”

  “Brilliant,” says Rob. “I love hearing stories like this.” He takes a sip of his lemonade and leans forward. “Success stories are so fascinating. Everyone’s is different, but there’s always this common thread of hard work, dreams, and plenty of grit.”

  I like this guy. Something about him clicks with me. I like Lukas, too. He is very polite, very engaged, but Rob also possesses a certain panache that I find endearing.

  “How did your father feel about you following him into the business?” Lukas asks.

  “At first, I did not tell him. I just bought my little skiff and began fishing before and after my regular job. I had no time to call or write or visit. But then one day, things changed.

  “After my early fishing run one morning, I rushed into work just barely ahead of starting time, out of breath because the catch was my best yet. I was still buttoning up my shirt as I ran through the employee entrance at the side of the hotel. My boss caught me by the arm and said, ‘Gordon, come with me to my office.’

  “I was sure he would fire me. Though I was rarely tardy,
I was always pushing the limit and timing my arrival to work closer and closer each morning. “I promise, it won’t happen again,” I blurted out, hoping to dampen the punishment.

  “He laughed a bemused laugh. ‘No? Are you sure?’ We reached the end of the hall where his office was located, and he opened the door for me. ‘Please. Join me,’ he said as he showed me a chair across from his own.

  “I did as I was told, swallowing hard as I took my seat. My mind was racing, thinking of anything I could say to keep my job. I still needed it and the income to support my parents and continue building the wad of bills in my coffee cans. The concern must have shown on my face because he smiled warmly and chuckled again. ‘Don’t worry yourself, man,’ he assured. ‘I have something special for you.’

  “I cocked my head and knit my brow. ‘Something special?’ I said, wondering what sort of sick punishment my boss had in mind.

  “‘You are being promoted.’ His grin opened up widely and he extended his hand to congratulate me. ‘You are a fine worker, Gordon. You are dependable. You are quick to observe what needs to be done and you do it without being asked. That is the mark of a good man. Not only that, but you are nice to the customers and very polite with them. You have shown that you can be trusted. No more mailroom for you. I would like you to be a bellhop.’”

  “My wage was doubled and my dream of buying a larger fishing boat moved closer to becoming a reality.”

  Lukas and Rob exchange a glance, as if sharing a moment of relief. Yes, they had grown tense. They were an excellent audience for a storyteller such as myself.

  “With my promotion came a day off each week. I used one of those days to go visit my parents. My father remained silent when I told him what I was doing and the dreams I had for my future. At first, I thought he was angry with me. Then I saw the tears in his eyes. They were tears of pride. He hugged me and wished me well and told me I would be a far better boat captain than he was. I just had to follow my dream, he told me. I had to be better than he was, he said. He hugged me again, a very unusual show of affection from a man like him. My heart swelled with satisfaction. I had made him proud, not disappointed. That was a happy day for me—and, I think, for him as well.