Page 87 of Weathering The Storm

And many, many memories with all the people who have come out to help get theMerlininto working order.

Perry, Orlov, and Jorgensen have all taken up other gigs here and there, but in their free time they come by to lend a hand. There’s always work waiting for them—painting, grinding rust, hauling equipment, scrubbing at questionable stains and stubborn gunk.

I wasn’t sure if they’d ever want to head out on a boat again, let alone with me, after what we went through. But then again, we all have to be a little crazy to do what we do. Apparently thefood’s not as good on other vessels, and that’s more than enough motivation for them to help me get mine up and running.

Jorgensen declared early on, with all the confidence of someone whose brain isn’t fully developed, that near-death experiences happen once in a lifetime and he’s glad we got ours out of the way.

That’s not quite how it works, but I admire his optimism.

And my dad—he’s been with me and Seth every step of the way. I told him there was no need to come back to Alaska and pull himself out of retirement. But four days after I got the boat, he showed up with his tools and his thermos and a wealth of opinions about the work we’ve done so far, and two months later, he’s still here.

Truth be told, his experience has been invaluable when it comes to running into snags we’ve never seen before. Things that were done way differently four decades ago than they are now.

I’m sure part of it is that he wants to make sure the work’s done properly, that I’ll be safe out there. But I can also tell how much he missed being out on the water. How much it means to him to leave his mark on the future I’m rebuilding as a captain.

I watch him sometimes, completely at home in every room of the ship, and I don’t know if I can picture myself giving up this life in thirty years either. I’m not sure whether that’s comforting or not, but some people spend their whole lives searching for a purpose. I’ve known mine all along.

And then there’s Seth, who’s worked beside me all these early mornings and late evenings. Sometimes in easy silence, but mosttimes full of long talks and laughter.Everytime involves chasing after Squid. She’s more interested in rubber-handled tools than she is in any of the toys we buy her.

“Squid!” My father shouts somewhere on the deck above. Right on cue.

Seth and I shoot each other a glance from across the engine room while I check the new battery and he tops off fluids. Laughing as we hear a set of paws and a set of footsteps thumping overhead.

“Think we need to intervene?” Seth asks.

“Nah,” I say as a few more people start shuffling around and shouting. “I think they’ve got it covered.”

Everybody came out today for the first engine start. Perry, Orlov, Jorgensen, my father. So hopefully we can manage more than an unsuccessful attempt.

We’ve got our work cut out for us with everything else, especially the cosmetics. We’ll be lucky if we make it out of the harbor by spring, but the engine’s been our biggest, most expensive project. With the structure finally in order, we can move on to the more tedious items on the to-do list.

Seth sets down the empty jug of oil, walking me back against the ladder while I watch the memory play out in his eyes—that time on theSuoja.“Guess this’ll have to be the first room we christen, if it’s the first room we get finished.”

“We don’t have to christen the live well or the cold storage, do we?” I joke, hoping it comes out as light and breezy as I intend.

I’ve been on edge around him all day. Thank God there’s been plenty of excuses to put my head down and focus, because every time he looks at me the way he is right now—open, honest brown eyes and that damn smile—my lips start to twitch and my palms get clammy.

He laughs and presses his lips to mine. He tastes like a mix of sweat and the cherry coke he’s been drinking while we work. I’d just managed to calm my nerves again, but his kiss has me tucking my hands in my pockets before he sees the way he makes me shake.

Thankfully, we’re saved by the grinding squeal of someone opening the door to the engine room.

“Everything almost ready down here?” my dad calls out. “Chum”—Squid’s alternate name, when she’s in trouble—“ate my sandwich and tore up my tool box.”

“Yeah. Coming up! We just finished.”

Seth sends me up the ladder with a smack to my ass and follows behind, the three of us heading to the bridge.

Below, the others have gathered on deck and are popping caps on a round of beers. Squid is peering over the side of the boat, her paws hooked over the bulwark.

Jorgensen starts a countdown almost immediately, only to become the punchline himself when nothing happens. I haven’t finished running the blower yet to clear out the lingering fuel vapors.

It’s weird seeing them down there again, shooting the shit, even though that’s business as usual. I don’t know what to make of it until it hits me. For the past nine months, they’ve only been my friends. Now, I have a crew again.

“Wanna do the honors?” I ask Seth, pointing down to the key.

“No way.” He backs up, hands raised. “That’s all you.”

I turn the key.