Rogue Wave

by Isabel Jolie

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, he’s that way.”

  “Is that right. Now, how old did you say he is?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Mid-thirties.”

  My dad coughed into the phone.

  “What?”

  “You realize he’s closer to my age than to yours.”

  “Yeah, but since when does that matter? You and Mom raised me to look beyond race and age.”

  “Hhmm. I remember raising you to be colorblind. I don’t remember saying anything about age.”

  “Well, you should’ve. And in a way, you did. You always told us to have an open mind. To go with the flow. You’d say we have the sun and the sea, and that’s enough.”

  “Your mom always told me that one was gonna come back and bite me in the ass.”

  The man could groan all he wanted, but in his soul, he was a free spirit. He’d like Tate as much as I did if he met him.

  “I’m not sure I like this guy.” He sounded stern. Unnatural. Even though he couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes.

  “Because of his age?”

  “Maybe I need to come visit you.”

  “Dad, you can’t even leave the house. Tell me what shows you’re watching.”

  A commotion carried on in the background. I stepped out onto my back porch and sat down on the step, staring out over the dunes. Whitecaps sprinkled the dark landscape, luminous for seconds before disappearing.

  “Luna, is that you?”

  “Mom? What’re you doing home?” It was midmorning, time to clean up from the breakfast crowd and prep for lunch.

  “Came home to check on your dad. Did I overhear correctly? You’re dating someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is your dad shaking his head? What did I miss?”

  “He’s a little older.” I grinned, mainly because I had a crystal clear vision of Dad tugging on the strands at the top of his head. He’d be bald sooner than nature planned if he didn’t drop that habit.

  “Tell me a bit about him.”

  “I already told Dad.”

  “But now I’m on the phone.”

  “Fine.” I huffed but still smiled. “You guys are gonna love him. Really. His values are aligned with ours. He’s dedicated his life to environmental causes. And he surfs. You always told me—”

  “They’re mellow and thoughtful. You remembered?”

  “You said it all the time when we’d go out on the beach. ‘Pick a surfer, Luna. Surfers are the best.’”

  She chuckled. “Oh. My. Goodness. Luna has fallen in love.”

  “I never said the L word.”

  “You sound it.”

  “Mom, I’m twenty-two. I promise you, this guy isn’t my lobster. I know where you’re going in your head, and he’s not the lobster.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Your voice didn’t get all sing-songy when you talked about Brandon.”

  “I’m gonna hang up now.”

  “I told you. You’re more like me than you care to admit. Your heart was bound to fall young.”

  “You read too many romance novels.”

  “I know my girl.”

  “Love you, Mom.” I loved the woman, but she was dead wrong about me being anything at all like her. No way, no how would I get tied down and remain in one sleepy town for the rest of my life.

  Chapter 17

  Tate

  * * *

  The low hum of crickets, toads, seagulls, blue herons, and an unidentifiable mixture of sea life coming in on the high tide merged, lifting into a chorus. The sun cast a golden glow over the acres of marshland.

  One of the nature groups built a long wooden path through a section of the estuary, connecting the island to a raised strip of uninhabited land. As a kid, I’d ride my bike out here and look for alligators. Spotting two lumps above the murky water had been a favorite pastime.

  Not many island visitors explored the marsh. Most wanted to head to the beach. A few bird watching enthusiasts were known to canoe or even paddle board through the winding creek during high tide. But those trespassers were rare enough the marsh remained one place you could go and find solitude.

  I sat out on the extended dock, swinging my flip-flopped feet, watching the shifting colors of the horizon, and listening for the popping of snapping shrimp.

  “There you are.” She found me.

  “Hey.”

  Luna sat down beside me and caressed the back of my neck like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I leaned into her touch.

  “I couldn’t find you all day. I’ve been worried.”

  “Because of this morning?”

  “Yeah, because of this morning. Who was that guy?”

  I scratched the scruff on my jaw and stared at the distant setting sun. “No one you need to worry about.” The words stung as I said them.

  “Why are you doing that?” Her hand dropped from my neck.

  Her shimmering brown eyes hinted at hurt. Windblown hair lay tangled down her back, and her well-lotioned skin glistened, smooth, fresh. In comparison, my skin bore a weathered appearance, like the wood we sat on, worn down from too many seasons exposed to the elements.

  She reached for my hand and intertwined her fingers with mine. A better man would push her away.

  “Where have you been all day?” she asked, tackling the gap between us from a different angle.

  “Spent most of the morning in the business center behind the coffee shop. I needed to use a computer and have reliable Wi-Fi and phone service.”

  “Did you get a lot done?”

  “Some. Got some balls rolling.”

  “Tate, who was that guy this morning?” A mosquito sting stabbed my calf, and I slapped at it, the sound barely registering against the backdrop of the evening marsh symphony.

  “I’m turning into lunch meat. Want to go back to my place? We can stop at the market and pick up something for dinner.”

  She twirled one long blonde strand around a finger and considered my offer.

  “If I come over, will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you.” She deserved that much.

  She decided to swing by her place for a shower since she’d been in the ocean earlier in the day, and I picked up a frozen vegetarian casserole from the market, some cheese and crackers, and two bottles of wine. All the fixings for a date night. Something that probably wouldn’t have been a strange event for most men my age, but the last time I dated, I’d been in college. When I returned to the States, I supposed I expected to transition back to a normal life.

  The struggle to return to normal reminded me of what they called land legs. People always thought of seasickness when they thought of side effects of the sailing life. All sorts of pills and pressurized wraps around pulse points existed to help with it. Land legs equaled the flip side of sea sickness. With enough time on a ship, your body evolved to need the roll of the waves. Your physical being melded to the rhythm of the sea. When you found yourself back on land, your feet thudded against the ungiving earth. It wasn’t unusual to see a seaman vomiting into bushes the first few days after landing.

  My days of vomiting into bushes were over, but there were other ongoing adjustments. Almost thirty-six years old, and I had no career, no passion, no sense of what I wanted to do with my life. Day by day, working on my grandmother’s cottage and surfing were the only two activities keeping me going. And when winter came and I’d fixed the beach place up, what then?

  The screen door snapped open then slammed against the frame. She wore a sundress with thin straps, and a small black cardigan that fell off one shoulder, leaving it bare. The top of the dress sloped down into a V between her breasts and draped around her soft, slender curves.

  In two steps, I captured her lips and pressed her body against the door. A fresh floral scent wafted around us, so different from the coconut. She gasped as I explored her body, massaging her perfect breasts, tweaking her nipples into eager peaks, and working lower as I li
fted the hem of her short dress. My fingers led the expedition through her slick folds, and she spread her legs further, making room as she writhed against my body and fumbled with my shorts. As I pumped my fingers in and out, she gripped my cock. I wrapped my hand around the base and lifted her dress higher and pulled her panties to the side, out of the way. I drug my swollen head through her slick folds, and my whole body tensed, completely turned on, on edge, ready to erupt.

  Her hips edged forward, welcoming me inside as we both watched my tip, entering, in and out.

  She tugged on my hair, and I tore my gaze away, my hand still gripped around my base.

  “Not against the screen door.”

  “There’s something I saw once that I’ve been wanting to try. You game?”

  She whimpered, and it sounded like yes.

  “I’m going to lift you, and when I do, wrap your legs around me.”

  I lifted her body, every muscle in my chest and back flexing, and I slid her down onto my ready and waiting cock. Her warmth tightened around me.

  “Fuck, you feel good.”

  She gripped my hair and tugged as I held her and moved her up and down my shaft. Soon, all my muscles burned ever so slightly from the strain of standing and lifting and owning her body, using it exactly as I needed. I pivoted, seeking the reprieve of a wall, and my shorts fell around my ankles. I stepped out of them as her muscles squeezed and pulsed around my cock.

  I slammed her back against the wall and pounded into her. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room until I spiraled out of control, pulsing my release deep within her. Panting, I kissed her forehead then found her lips again, still inside her, at peace.

  She slid her feet to the floor, and I held her tight, tasting along her neck and below her ear.

  Finally, I backed away, picked up my shorts from the floor, and found my way to the bathroom. When I came out, an undeniable red dusting remained on her cheeks.

  “Is that how you greet all your dates?” She handed me a glass of wine and didn’t wait for my answer. “I checked, and we’ve still got at least forty-five minutes before that casserole is ready. Why don’t we go outside and talk?”

  The tips of her fingers found mine, and she led me onto the back porch. She went to sit in the far Adirondack chair, and I tugged her back to me.

  “Uh-uh. Sit in my lap.” I needed to feel her skin. I wanted her close. Even if I should’ve been pushing her away.

  It took us a minute of adjusting to find a comfortable position, but we ended up with her legs draped over one side and her relaxing against my arm, the top of her head just below my chin. The hum of the waves crashing beyond the dunes filled the air, and the warm breeze spread goosebumps across Luna’s arms. I wrapped mine around her, holding her tight, recognizing the reverberations of her beating heart. I closed my eyes, reveling in the perfection and the easy way my body responded to her, falling into her rhythm, letting tension go, breathing easier, freer and deeper, as if she herself were the oxygen I needed.

  She broke the peaceful silence. “Now would be a good time to tell me.”

  I kissed her forehead. “It’s a long story, Luna. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Who was the guy?”

  “I don’t know him. He works for the same guy I used to work for. A repo guy. You see, at sea, fisherman don’t always own their boats. Fishing companies don’t always own their boats.”

  “They fall behind on payments. I know what a repo man is. I was in second grade when the repo man came and took my dad’s Trans Am.”

  “Really?” I asked, amused for some inappropriate reason. “Were you guys…did that happen a lot?” It occurred to me I really didn’t know much about Luna. She was in graduate school, so I’d assumed her background was like mine.

  “Only time the repo man came. My mom refused to pay that bill with her money. She’d been mad when Dad bought it. He said it was a splurge and didn’t seem too upset when they hauled it off. But we’re not changing the subject. Tell me about the repo man of the sea.”

  I sighed, not really wanting to admit what I had evolved to, going from man on a mission to save the planet to man getting paid by an industry without regard for life.

  “Well, I worked for him. At first, I saw him as being an effective arbiter of the ocean. The governments can only monitor two hundred miles from the coastline. That leaves a lot of open waters for all kinds of…crap.” My fingers combed her hair, snagging on a tangle every now and then. “Some of the fishing boats he was going in and reclaiming were some of the worst offenders. Breaking all kinds of laws or agreements. Some of the captains had some of the worst working conditions for the crew. For years, we’d follow boats, trying to put an end to some of it, and I mean years. When I was with Greenpeace, we once followed one single offender for almost two years. Then this guy comes along. There’s no following. He’s like his own military operation. Smooth by night. Board the boat, take over. Drive the boat back to a country where new owners can take over, often a new fishing company. Only took me a few times to see that new didn’t mean better. Different fishing company, same practices. Slave labor, dangerous, inhuman living conditions, two-mile nets. Catching anything, throwing back what won’t sell.”

  “Slaves?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

  “Slaves. Maybe not on paper, but it’s indentured servitude. Some men literally bound in chains when not working. They sleep in the bowels of the ship with the rats and sludge. Ocean water for bathing and a plank over a hole for a toilet, sometimes. Some captains rape the men.” I balled a hand into a fist. “I can still hear the sounds. It was…bad.”

  Her fingers scratched along my days old growth, and I caught her hand and kissed her open palm.

  “I went too long cashing in, closing my eyes. It felt like it was a battle we couldn’t win, so why try, you know?”

  “What happened to make you leave?”

  “One day, after we delivered a ship to Somalia, I watched the crew. Gave them some money, hoping they could get out of that circle. Most of them, when they come to work on the ships, they don’t know what they’re signing up for. They’ve only heard stories of good money. But a lot of them need to borrow money to get to the gig, or maybe to send back home until they’re earning money. It’s a trap. Captain makes up additional charges. Some countries are getting smarter, half-assing an attempt at checking that they are staying of their own volition, that they’re getting paid. But it’s corrupt, and like I said, it’s half-assed. Ships change paperwork to belong to a different country all the time. Fishing is an important industry to most governments. Regulation might harm the business, make it less profitable. Can’t have that. Money over lives, every damn time.”

  I rambled on. She listened, then pushed. “Something must have gone wrong?”

  “The Rising Tide. I delivered it to Haiti like I was supposed to. And the captain acted like the men were a possession. Directed them to another rig. The new captain, and the new company, hadn’t arrived yet. The captain was one who raped the smaller of the men, almost daily. I couldn’t handle it. The cycle. That night, I took the boat out of the marina, way offshore, jumped into a dinghy, and set explosions to it. Sank it out in the middle of the Atlantic.”

  “Good for you.”

  “One boat out of commission. We didn’t get paid for that mission. Zane, the guy I worked for, has no idea I’m responsible. Now, he does believe I should’ve stayed with the ship until the new crew arrived. But he has no idea I’m the one who sank the ship. I quit. Thought I’d never hear from him again. But that guy, he came to let me know Zane wants me to come back and work for him.”

  “Will you?”

  “No. Absolutely not. There’s not enough money in the world.”

  “So…that’s when you came home? Back to the States?”

  “Well, yeah. My grandmother died. It felt like it was time.” Truth of the matter, it had been time for a long time.

  “That guy looked scary. Do
you think he’d hurt you?”

  “Nah. The repo guys, they carry guns, talk a big talk. Intimidation is definitely a negotiation tactic. But I don’t think Zane would ever break the law. Especially in the States.”

  “Why’s he so desperate for you to come back and work for him?”

  “That’s a good question. There aren’t many who are in this line of work. He trained me. Probably thinks I owe him. For the training, and for the last boggled project. It’s that whole indentured servitude mentality. He’s been on the ocean too long.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I’ve told him no. Not much more to do. But Zane’s henchman’s visit has inspired me. I’m pulling together my experiences, and I’m going to submit it to the Times. There’s a reporter there who has been covering the ocean. It might help him paint a clearer picture of what’s going on out there. Gabe is helping me with connections. Contingency plans. You know, it’s like surfing. Always be prepared for the rogue wave.”

  “My mom says that, too. Always be prepared.” Her lips brushed my cheek, and she ran her fingers through my hair. I closed my eyes as tingling sensations filtered down my back. She gently tugged on a strand, and after I opened my eyes, asked, “Have you ever considered finding an advocacy role? There are lobbyists and environmental groups who would love to have your experience.”

  I nodded, familiar with the roles out there. Something like that would give me a chance to continue making a difference, but Stateside.

  She lurched forward and slapped a palm against my chest. “Alice told me to fill an empty bucket of water and place it in your cottage.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes. Something about it gets rid of bad spirits. She knew this guy was coming. We need to fill a bucket.”

  She jumped off my lap and scanned the perimeter of the porch. “Do you have a plastic bucket? Like one of those you use to collect shells?”

  “Ahm, maybe there are some underneath here? I think I saw some of the buckets we used as kids.”