Page 2 of Forget Me Not

I used to keep a pistol on deck for birds that tried to start shit, but lately, I’ve been leaving it in the cabin for fear of getting my ass hauled to jail.

I fish bottom feeders for a living.

Then, I sell them to the docks who turn around and sell them to rich people with a taste for the ocean.

It’s not glamorous, nor does it pay well, but life on the water is the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

Just not covered in seagull shit.

“Fuck off, bird.”

I flip him the finger. He stares at me like I’m an idiot.

Hauling a heavy wire cage to the surface, I wrap the rope tethering it to the buoy around my pot hauler, which drags the pot up onto the boat so I can filter through the contents.

It might seem boring to some, but to me, it’s life. It’s exciting in it’s own dirty way.

I’m content.

Most people don’t understand life. They think they need the next best thing. Their egos force them to fit in everywhere they go, so they’re afraid of doing what they really want because God forbid, they stand out from a crowd of a hundred.

They aren’t built for change any more than I’m built for life the “traditional” way. I’m a fisherman. A traveler. I don’t have a home because I take it with me everywhere I go in the form of this boat.

I sleep where I dock and I don’t bother trying to make lifelong friends because, well, when you’ve seen the world, you tend to move before you’ve had time to be solidified in their minds as more than a passing thought.

I’ve just finished my trap for the day when the sun is starting to set low over the horizon.

This is my favorite time of day. Right at the cusp of night when the sun turns the sky bright orange, reflecting off the water and basking everything in a warm glow.

I’m not sentimental, but something about being out on the water when it fades to dark is special.

Shit just gets peaceful out on the water. Even if the rest of the world isn’t.

Unfortunately, today is not one of those days.

I start the engine of the old boat, Hope’s Grace, to take me back to Portland. Mainland is some hour and a half back to the coast and it’s getting dark as it is.

I stayed out too late, again.

Not that I’m not accustomed to sailing at night. I’m just not supposed to. I know the moment I come puttering in after dusk, the coast guard will be breathing down my damned neck as if I’m the next greatest world threat, delivered on a thirty-five foot, thirty-year-old lobster boat.

As soon as the engine starts to come to life, the most gut-wrenching sound fills the open air and a rumble vibrates the boat from beneath.

Well, shit.

The old motor sputters and starts, but she doesn’t like it and when I slide it into gear, it putters through the water like it’s crawling to it’s final resting place.

“Goddamnit,” I snap, gritting my teeth hard at the sounds coming from below deck. “Anything else want to break, today?”

The universe thinks I’m a fucking joke. I know it’s a fact, because the moment I say that, my favorite coffee mug—my only coffee mug—crashes to the floor, shattering with a wave that rocks against the boat.

“Fine,” I growl at the old boat, as if it’s a person. Sometimes, I wonder if it is and it just likes to fuck with me. “We’ll make port closer.”

I check the map stapled to the wall behind me. The only place between here and Portland is Port Nova—some little rundown island with a shitty fishing village located about an hour out from Portland. I’ve never been there. I’ve never really wanted to go, but they should have a mechanic. It’s a fishing island, after all.

I nod, setting a new course to the island that sits just eight miles from my current position.

“Port Nova, it is.”

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