by Ellie Rowe
Fuck it. Enough with the parties and the hookers and the Mid-Western girls looking to sleep their way to the top. I want a woman who gives as good as she gets. The woman in the boat obviously has that kind of moxie in spades.
I suddenly wish this yacht really did have a dingy that I could commandeer away from this party and back to her.
Five
Veronica
I’m not saying I’m an expert in all things boat-related, but for someone who only recently got her sailing license, you can call me fucking Ishmael. Beside for a few soggy ropes and remaining seaweed décor, my little vessel had recovered nicely. Nothing I couldn’t handle anyway. Nothing I couldn’t handle without the help of that good for nothing celebrity sonofabitch.
I toss the bailing bucket down with such an aggressive force, the handle flies off and splinters. Alright she-hulk. I stew as I collect the bits of wood now strewn across the deck. Never really loved that phrase, ‘sonofabitch’. Placing the blame on a woman, for something that’s entirely a man’s fault? Of course.
If I had a nickel for every time my ex-husband blamed a woman for his piss poor behavior, I would’ve bought a bigger fucking boat. I’ll revise. Good for nothing, pompous chauvinist? Too long. Good for nothing jackass? That’ll do, plus I can’t imagine donkeys would care.
I give up on the bucket and move on to adjust my rigging. I hope my little run in with Neptune didn’t take me too far off course. The sky finally looks clear, so I decide to take another look at my coordinates. “Smooth sailing!” I beam to my spread of charts and look up to the sunny horizon. A perfect time to finally check in with Sheila.
I scoot around my excuse for a desk and reach for the radio to get a line out to shore. Can’t imagine my cell phone would do a fat lot of good all the way out here, but I was given every assurance that contact with the outside world would be only a radio call away. After an unfortunate shrieking noise, the radio crackles alive and I pull out my laminated instructions for a radio link to shore.
“This is Sailing Vessel Triumph radioing for the High Seas Operator? Triumph for the High Seas Operator, do you copy?” After a moment a gruff voice on the other end connects me to the operator. I’ll take that over the ridiculous laughter from SS Dickbags.
Where did he get off? Parading about like he actually believed he was one of his stupid movie characters. ‘Little lady. Come on up.’ Has anyone ever said no to him? God, I hope he gets sunburn.
“Triumph, this is the High Seas Operator, we need a landline number for the connection?” Oops. How long has he been asking me that?
There are only three phone numbers in existence that I can always remember. My mother’s, my best friend Kara’s from high school, and Sheila’s. Sheila required that I memorize hers. In fact, I’m contractually obligated to memorize her number. Psychopath, I know. I’d never admit it, but it’s saved my ass on a number of occasions.
I give him the number and after some indiscernible crackling I hear the familiar sound of a dial tone. I can’t fucking believe this rinky dink technology can put us in touch from an ocean away. From an ocean away. That’s good, must remember that for the article.
“Babe!” Sheila Preston’s shrill voice bounces about the cabin as I quickly reach for the volume.
“Sheils you’re not gonna believe what the fuck just happened to me.”
“Oh my GOD tell me everything!!” I laugh and turn the volume down again, but it really is great to hear her voice, especially after that shit show of a storm. And that even bigger shit head of a yacht captain.
“You’re gonna love this you sick woman, I got caught in this terrible storm! Bailing out the boat, rain pelting down, holding onto the rigging for dear life, the works.”
“Oh shit is the boat okay? It’s company dime, but it’s worth—”
“Could you pretend for a moment you’re concerned for my life?”
“Of course, I’m concerned for your life, you’re my best writer babe!” She coos through the radio. I groan.
“I appreciate the sentiment but I gotta tell you Sheils….” I pause, almost afraid to admit it out loud, “It really shook me up. It was terrifying.” And it was. Sure, I’m a big girl, and I’m used to my fair share of danger. You don’t get to be a ‘top adventure writer’ without a little threat to your very existence.
There was a point on Kilimanjaro where I truly thought my lungs would implode and I’d never reached the top. But I always knew I’d make it, I was in control. The sea is different. I am now frightfully aware of the reason that bitch gets such a bad rap. There were a couple moments there where I wasn’t sure how I’d keep up.
“Then my goddamn SOS call gets picked up by this idiot playboy yacht rock douche bag. Completely useless, assumes I need help as a ‘damsel in distress’ and all that crap.”
“But you were in distress…”
“But!” I cut her off, not needing the reminder, “by the time he bothered to show up I had it pretty well under control so I told him to fuck off.”
“Charming, Veronica. And who was this yacht rock douche bag?”
“Some D list celebrities, Hank Wilder.” The radio is silent for a minute, and I worry we got cut off. “Hello—?”
“Hank Wilder are you kidding me?!” Nope. It’s working. She’s just pissed. “Veronica, he’s not a D-List celebrity, he’s a movie star!” My face heats up, thinking about that asshole’s cut jawline across a giant movie screen.
“I don’t care who the fuck he is, I didn’t need his help! Too little too late!”
“You passed up a movie star, are you hearing me? A literal STAR. Veronica are you insane? Can you imagine how great that would be for your article?”
“Whatever happened to empowering and self—”
“Veronica Swift, saved from a storm, swept off her feet by dream-boat yacht owner Hank-fucking-Wilder!”
A gunshot cracks through the air and I jump from my seat narrowly avoiding hitting my head on the low ceiling. Sheila continues her tirade and I stretch the cord as far as it will go to peek through the window at the horizon. Holy shit.
A jet-black vessel is off in the distance on my starboard side. It’s unmarked and even from a distance I can tell it’s heavily armed. Is that a rocket launcher? It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on here.
“Hank Wilder, though you may not care to know, is a millionaire Veronica. Hell, he may even be a billionaire! Are you even listening?! Our readers would DIE—”
“Hey Sheils.” I cut her off as the vessel starts to speed toward me, the wind helping it to slice through the water. “I’ve got one better. Looks like I’m about to do battle with pirates.”
“Veronica. Veronica are you fucking kidding me right now.” I grin as I start to make out the gruff figures locked on the sight of my boat. So maybe I shouldn’t be so excited about the threat of murderous pirates, but this story would sell like crazy! If the low-key trip was out the window, at least this would be my most thrilling article to date.
Still, this elation was probably something else to discuss in therapy. I miss my therapist. She also fucking hates my ex-husband.
“I’m gonna have to call you back Sheils.” She starts shrieking on the other end but I click off our connection and scan about for a weapon. It may not be a low-key article, but this could still be an empowering kind of article. Assuming I wasn’t killed.
I start to open cabinets, looking for anything that might stab or shoot. There’s a hell of a lotta rope and some matches. If I felt like wasting booze, I could prep a Molotov cocktail but that really isn’t my speed. I look out again and my earlier glee of a pirate escapade starts to fade to dread. The vessel is really gaining on me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I slam open drawers and cupboards. There’s got to be something in here? Finally, my fist closes on a gun. It’s a flare gun. But what the fuck else am I supposed to use? Maybe the pirates won’t know the difference.
I look to the radio again and a thought
strikes me, even more dreadful than impending bandits. I have to radio for fucking help. Again. Snatching up the receiver I try to keep my voice from shaking.
“SOS! This is Sailing Vessel Triumph! Again. Does anyone copy this signal?! SOS I’m being overtaken by pirates! I repeat, I’m being overtaken by pirates! Does ANYONE COPY?! Maybe HANK FUCKING WILDER?!”
The boat is so close now I can make out the salt stains reaching up the sides of it. And several other stains that look an awful lot like blood. I’m hoping it’s rust.
“Fuck this.” I throw the receiver down and flee to the back of the cabin, hunkering down under the cabinets to prepare for trouble. Here’s hoping that party boat didn’t actually get too far away.
Six
Hank
I’ll admit I’m starting to feel sorry for myself when Rene Moreno sidles up alongside me at the rail. Skipping any pleasantries, he blurts out in his slightly accented voice, “What is wrong with you, dude?”
I chuckle. I guess my mood is pretty easy to read. Count on Rene to try and shake me out of it. Maybe it’s his Spanish roots that make him so happy-go-lucky. Guy exudes Mediterranean charm. He’s one of the few people on board that I genuinely like. We met at a blackjack table in Vegas a few years ago and hit it off. Recently, he’s been looking to invest some family money – made in the fruits and nuts trade, I think – into a picture he wants me to star in and direct. He’s a good guy and I’m seriously considering a collaboration with him.
That consideration begins to fade the moment I turn to face him. His usual, European zest-for-life is clouded over by some serious disappointment. No, worse than that. He actually looks pissed. His smooth, olive skin is tense, his heavy black brows furrowed. Who knew there was something he actually cared about that would cause him to get this worked up?
“What do you mean?” I ask him, my guard suddenly up.
“You treated Yvonne like shit.”
Seriously? This was about her? “She told you that?” I ask.
“Yes, she told me that! Of course she told me that. She is my guest! I’m the one who brought her here!”
“Then why isn’t she down there with you?”
“In good time, chaval.” He throws his hands up in frustration. “At least, that was the plan. Now she’s pissed at me because of how you treated her.” He stabs a finger first into his own chest, then mine.
I don’t like people stabbing their digits at me. Hopefully that’s apparent as I respond, “All she wanted was to fuck me into giving her a part.”
“What’s wrong with that? Look around at this party, tio. Who here is not using someone else to get something?” He poked me again. I really wanted him to stop doing that. “Including you.”
“I’m just hosting a party.”
“So you can stay relevant among the up-and-coming crowd and maintain your ‘wild-guy’ image,” he declares.
“You’re welcome,” I say flatly, turning back to look at the ocean. My stomach turns to hear his words echoing my thoughts. “Enjoy the free booze.”
“C’mon, Hank. Apologize to the girl.” He drops the accusatory tone and goes for a more playful one. “Throw her a bone… after you’ve thrown her a bone, you know what I’m saying to you?” He throws some soft punches at my arm, hoping to egg me on. I like it even less than the finger jabs. “I bring you a little action, you help make her a star, it gets me a little action, everybody goes home happy, no?”
The horrible thing is, there was a time when I might have made that argument to someone who was behaving like I am now. It makes me want to hit Rene right in his full Spanish lips. Only I know it’s not his fault. I know I’m as much a part of the game as him and Yvonne. Hell, I helped write the rules to the latest version, didn’t I?
Instead of hitting him, I turn to him, standing up to my full height. It puts me a good five inches above Rene’s eyeline. Looking down at him, I end our conversation with a succinct, “I’m getting a drink.”
I don’t really want to feel a need for more liquor, but it’s as good an excuse as any to get away from him. The only problem is, anywhere I go here I’m still vulnerable to the vipers and leeches I’ve brought on board.
If only there was someone I could talk to. Really talk to. Not Doc – he was ‘wizened’ and clever, but he was just a close professional friend, not a confidante. I tried to think of who in my life I could have a heart-to-heart with. Except I think the last intimate conversation I had was with a late night talk show host in front of a live studio audience and ten million TV viewers.
That can’t be healthy, right? Surely I have actual friends.
So why didn’t I invite them to this shindig? Why didn’t I invite someone like…
I drew a blank. Let me tell you, there’s very few things as pitiful as a man who struggles to call to mind the name of a true, personal friend. Maybe if I had my phone I could scroll through the contacts and jog my memory. I could also look at my ‘friends list’ on Facebook. But the truth is, that account you probably follow? It’s run by some college intern at my manager’s office. I don’t even know what gets posted there, unless it then hits the tabloids.
If I’m being honest – and it seemed like that was the theme of the day –I think it’s been years or more since I had a real friend.
Real friends, for people like me, are usually the ones who knew us before we became someone always referred to by our full names. People who knew us before personal trainers and personal chefs and publicists and handlers and trysts with girls like Yvonne. Where were those friends?
You dumped them, buddy, a rueful inner voice reminds me. Thought they were just hanging out with you to get a taste of your stardom and all the perks that came with it. So you cut ’em loose.
Now here I was. Literally surrounded by people who wanted nothing to do with me except get a taste of my stardom and all the supposed perks that come with it.
What an asshole I am.
I spy Yvonne, back in her bikini, hanging by the bar. She’s trying to hide her anger under a look of hopefulness. Her eyebrows rise, expectantly.
How far a swim is it to shore? I wonder.
Pretending I haven’t seen her, I turn and head up the three steps to the bridge. Rik is pleasantly drunk at the wheel. I should probably be worried about that, but in my darkened mood, a crash seems like a welcome way to end this disaster cruise.
Then I swear I hear my name. Now, when you spend half your days getting your name shouted at you by eager fans and preying paparazzi, sometimes you start hearing it even when you’re alone. This time, I swear I really do hear it.
It’s coming from the radio. I hear a voice cut through with static.
Holy shit. It’s her.
I can only make out every couple of words because of the interference or whatever. “SOS… --is signal?! SOS… --irates! I repeat, I’m being… by pirates!” Another buzz of interference. Then, distinctly, my name again: “—HANK FUCKING WILDER?!”
The lady who spurned me and wormed her way into my thoughts is now calling out to be my name. More or less. Yes, I’m flattered. Sue me.
I grab the radio and press the button to talk. In my best silky-smooth ‘mission control’ voice, I say, “Uh, roger, this is the Let’s Do This. We are receiving you. Over.”
The voice on the other end sounds far away and muffled. “Hello?!”
“Who’s this?”
“Veronica Swift.”
I’ve got a name, now. Nice. “Y’know, Veronica… for someone so independent, you sure seem to call for help a lot.”
“Wilder! Is that you?” I can’t tell if she sounds angry or relieved. I opt for relieved.
“That’s a roger, little lady. Over.”
Her next words get garbled by static again. I manage to make out, “Wilder – serious this ti – ucking pirates!”
Uh-oh. That definitely sounds real. And as much as I’d like to flatter myself, Veronica is not the kind of woman to play damsel-in-distress just to lure me back.
/>
I drop my schtick and call into the radio, “What’re your coordinates?” No answer. “Veronica. Can you tell me your coordinates?”
All I get is static. Shit.
I look at my navigator, Rik. He’s staring at me with blitzed eyes. My guess is that he’s drunk and coked out enough to make 1980s jealous. “Mind if I take the wheel?” I ask charmingly. He teeters back from it and lifts his arms in a vague ‘be my guest’ sort of gesture.
As I whip the wheel and engage the throttle, I take some mild joy in the shouts of alarm I hear from the deck behind me. I hear some bro shout, “again?” followed by what I’m pretty sure is a “yee-haw” from Doc.
I don’t care about them. This is a second chance to connect with Veronica. This time, she’d owe me one. It’s always nice when someone owes you one.
I goose the throttle even more and once again hear some cries of protest from the deck. I grab the radio and, shouting to be heard over the roaring wind, let her know: “Just hold tight, Veronica. I’m coming for you.”
Fucking-A. I may be getting bad at the whole movie-star-playboy routine. But I still know how to play the hero.
Seven
Veronica
In case anyone was wondering, pirates do indeed know the difference between a flare gun and a real gun. Not that I could’ve done much with it anyway. It was like bringing a knife to a gunfight. When a group of men with AK-47’s jump aboard, MacGyver bravado fades pretty quickly.
I have about five minutes from the time their speedboat hits my vessel before I’m found out. Every scenario is running through my head as the gravity of the situation hits. Should I take the offense? Get all rootin-tootin American cowboy on them and blast their leader with a flare? Jesus Christ that would be great for the article.
I peek up for a moment as a body crawls up the ladder and stomps onto the deck. Followed by another, and another. My what large weapons you have. I swallow hard. Oh no. No, we will not be heading down the cowboy route.
