Page 2 of These Rough Waters

It was a clear day, a little windy, making the seas around me choppy but nothing I wasn’t used to by now. My boat, which was used for fishing alongside the transportation of supplies needed for the town of Ravenpeak Bay, was built for the rough ocean and could take the ire of the sea on most days.

“That’s it!” Mannie, the port worker hollers as he adjusts the cap on his head. I tip my own ballcap back and head into the cabin to sign off on the paperwork. Rita, an older woman with silver-streaked hair and laughter lines, smiles warmly at me as she hands me a coffee in a take-out cup, “Just as you like it, honey,” she coos, “As black as your soul.”

Chuckling, I scratch my signature at the bottom of the piece of paper and accept the coffee, “You know me so well, Rita.”

“You should smile more, honey, might actually get a date if you didn’t look so grumpy all the time.”

My stomach tightens.

“Going to waste, you are,” she tuts, continuing on, oblivious to the discomfort the mere thought of being near another woman has me in. “You’re not getting any younger, ya know?”

“I gotta head back,” I grumble, hand tightening around my cup, “Don’t want to be on the water at nightfall.”

She purses her lips and narrows her eyes, “Yeah okay, honey. Don’t be a stranger, ‘kay?”

I didn’t talk to many people, preferring to remain alone, but I did enjoy my conversations with Rita. It was more her talking and me listening, nodding when I needed to, but she didn’t know what happened five years ago. Doesn’t know who I used to be and how it was my fault a woman and a child lost their lives to the sea. I’m sure if she did, she wouldn’t be talking to me the way she does now. Just as the people of my town don’t talk to me, not that I blamed them. I was hardly worth having a conversation with.

Heading back out to the boat, I lift a hand to Mannie and reboard to begin the process of pulling up the anchor, and loosening rope so I can head back to my island, ensuring all my cargo is secured at the same time.

Ravenpeak Bay is a small town, situated on a tiny island off the coast of Maine. As it was coming into fall weather, winter just around the corner, the demand to bring in stock to last the harsh colder months is high and I’m thankful for the work. Grateful for the distraction the journeys back and forth between the mainland and the island provides.

With everything secure and tight, I pull away from port, the wind whistling as I slowly increase my speed when the waters become clear of other boats. It’s a ninety-minute journey between the island and the port, and I could drive it with my eyes closed since I’ve been doing it every week for the past five years. I should have left Ravenpeak when Grace and Leo died but the location and the silence of the island gave me what I sought.

Isolation.

Ravenpeak Bay has a population of about four hundred, mostly a retirement town and loyal locals, that got busier in the summer months with tourists that island hop and like to hike in the forests that surround my small town. Or they swim and go boating in the bay and surrounding waters when the ocean permits it.

It was ideal and had been five years ago too when I decided to retire from thefamily businessand settle down with Grace.

But then she died, and I never left.

Scrubbing a hand across the scruff of hair around my mouth, I slow, turning my face to the setting sun that set the peaks of the waves ablaze, turning the dark water orange and red and yellow. Sea birds squawk loudly overhead and the crash of the water against the side of my boat lulls me, helping to push away the lingering nausea that had churned in my stomach at the thoughts of Grace and Leo.

Something at the back of the boat thuds loud enough I hear it over the engine and water. Turning the boat to idle, I head back there, checking over the cargo on the top deck to ensure nothing had fallen or come loose, but then another thud sounds beneath me.

A range of scenarios rush through my head. Stowaways perhaps or thieves? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to steal the boat from me on one of these runs.

He’d ended up at the bottom of the ocean.

Grumbling, I reach behind and withdraw the gun, checking the clip before I take the narrow few steps down into the hold.

“Show yourself,” I holler, gun poised out in front of me, “I’m a shoot first, ask questions later kind of man,” I tell them.

“Stop!” A feminine voice pleads a second later and I swing my gaze to the box sized cabin room that has a very small single bed and a closet that barely gets used.

Dark hair, tanned skin and wide eyes, the color of the leaves when the sun shines on them, a mix of greens and ambers that swirl together, meet me first. One side of her face is bruised, this deep purple that shadows across her cheek, temple and jaw line. Fear keeps her plump mouth set in a downward grimace but the way her body is positioned, arms behind her, legs braced, tells me she’s hiding something.

“What’s behind your back?” I growl. I don’t take my gun from her, no one could be trusted, especially women that stow away on boats.

“P-please,” She stammers, the lilt in her accent gives away that she isn’t from around these parts, it wasn’t obvious but when you hear the same accent every day, you can tell the difference. “I don’t mean any harm. I just–”

“What’s behind your back, lady!?”

She startles at the loudness of my voice and carefully, she moves slightly, and I see a mess of dark curls around a little girl’s face, her blue eyes wide and glazed with tears. I do drop the gun this time, only to my side and readily available, but I won’t point a weapon at a child.

There were some boundaries I would never cross, even five years ago, when I had very few rules.

“What are you doing on my boat?” I demand, “Stealing?”

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