Page 67 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
“Shit! Sorry!” A grimace twists my lips at my unfortunate use of words. “I suppose I can see why that’s not helpful.” As gently as possible, I add, “Uh, should you maybe have mentioned thisbeforewe arrived?”
“Probably yes. But I packed some motion sickness meds and figured I’d power through.”
“Oh, okay, well, that’ll help, right?”
Ben shrugs, opening his eyes and blowing out a long breath. “Maybe if I’d remembered to take them.”
“Youforgot?”
“I was a little distracted with everything that happened last night and then rushing to get out the door this morning.”
People shuffle around us as we stand in the middle of the dock, very much beingthose peoplewho block the pathway. “Okay, it’s fine. We don’t have to do this. We’ll just pull another ‘Fuck the itinerary’ and skip it.”
Peering past me again, Ben seems to take my suggestion under consideration, but before he can respond, a cheerful American accent says, “Good morning, friends! Are you two perhaps Benjamin Carter and Mona Miller ofAround the Globe?”
I turn my attention to a thirtysomething woman with strawberry blonde hair and a dusting of freckles scattered over both cheeks, clad in a heavy jumpsuit similar to the ones we wore snowmobiling. “I’m Cassandra with Húsavík Sailing Adventures,” she continues. “I’ll be your tour guide today. We’ve got theentire boat reserved just for you two!” She pauses. “Assuming you are Benjamin Carter and Mona Miller.”
“Yes! Sorry,” I say. “That’s us. Did you say theentireboat is reserved?”
“Sure did. We wanted to make sureAround the Globegets A-plus treatment.”
This isn’t what I prefer; as a writer I want to view any experience as I would through the lens of a typical tourist. However, sometimes this preferential treatment is unavoidable. (Although the most it ever got me as a Local was a front-row VIP ticket to Jersey City’s pumpkin-carving contest.) In this specific case though, I’m more concerned about Ben. And I know from his stiff nod when I glance over my shoulder that he isn’t going to sit this one out when they’ve reserved the entire boat for the two of us.
“Thank you, Cassandra,” I say with a broad,No Worries!smile to hide my very real worries. “Lead the way.”
As we make our way down a row of wooden vessels, Cassandra tells us that the boat we’ll be using for our excursion today was primarily a fishing boat until about thirty years ago when it was converted for the specific purpose of taking tourists out into the bay to experience close encounters with sea life. Ben keeps swallowing hard in my peripheral vision, and I can only hope he doesn’t end up hanging over the back of the ship spewing last night’s cold pizza into the bay.
On board the ship, we’re lulled back and forth with the gentle waves while Cassandra sizes us each up before handing over two more jumpsuits from a rack stuffed full of them. “These should work. The wind can be fierce out on the water.”
Ben and I slip our jumpsuits on over our clothing and followCassandra to a built-in bench along the front of the vessel. Around us, a few other crew members tug on ropes and fidget with levers, doing all the important boatly things, I imagine.
Right as I ponder why one crew member in particular looks somewhat familiar, he comes closer and…oh shit.
“Fridrik?” I question with a nervous glance back at Ben. Our overly truthful snowmobile guide isn’t what he needs right now. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be snowmobiling?”
“Ah. Yes. Snowmobiling volcano glaciers is my one true passion,” Fridrik proclaims with a far-off look and wistful shake of his head. “But alas, my father owns this vessel and was injured in the line of duty two days ago, so I’m here to help out this week. Today, I’m your captain.”
Fucking hell.
“That’s great!” I say at the same time Ben asks, “Injured how?”
“He fell overboard.”
“Oh my god!” I exclaim. “Is he okay?”
Fridrik’s expression remains blank, as if we’re talking about the weather forecast. “Of course. He’s a man of the sea. Very strong swimmer.”
“That’s good. He’s fine,” Ben mutters, more to himself than to me or our blunt Icelandic friend. “He’s okay. Strong swimmer.”
“Notcompletelyfine,” Fridrik corrects. “Nasty bite wound to the leg.”
Jesus.
“Bite wound?” Ben sinks onto the wooden bench, complexion slipping one shade closer to the green spectrum of the color wheel. “From what?”
Fridrik shifts the weight of the ropes he carries and shrugs.Beside him, Cassandra’s wide-eyed stare indicates she might be witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. “Large fish. Small whale. Maybe a seal. In these waters, who’s to say?”
Ben drops his head between his knees.
