Page 4 of Unmoored: How to Fail at Hating the Boss

I go through three stages of grief over what I thought was going to be the best summer ever. What stage is the “oh shit” stage?

This guy. Again.

I knew this job was promising too much fun.

Two

Reef

“Okay, Pete! You’re all set!”

Quincy is very…perky.

And good with the customers. A little too good. And a little too cheery, I think, as I watch Pete Hutchinson slip her a tip as she finishes pumping his gas on his sporty new vessel.

When I showed up at the Minnow Bucket this morning, she seemed just as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

“I know who she is,” I said to Susan, who’s worked here for several years, one of a few year-round employees.

“You do? Well, I already showed her the ropes. Haha, get it?”

I addressed Susan, but stared at Quincy because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her legs. “That saying comes from ships, originally. So it’s not actually a pun,” I said.

Both women frowned at me.

And that pretty much sums up how my morning went. A lot of staring. A lot of frowning at my reaction to things.

The part where we shook hands was nice. I think I shook her hand a second too long though, because I got another one of those looks from both of the women.

At least Quincy jumps into action when she’s given a task to do, which is more than I can say for a lot of the seasonal helpers.

Pete guns the engine and starts to push off, which has me realizing something is off, and I run in their direction, cursing under my breath and waving him down. Fortunately, Pete sees me and idles the engine. Quincy stares at me, her brow furrowed, obviously wondering what she did wrong.

“Hang on,” I say to Pete. “You know you gotta run the bilge blower before you leave.”

Pete sheepishly reaches for the piling, and Quincy grabs on to the side of the boat as I explain, “With an inboard motor you have to do that, or you risk an explosion.”

The color drains from her sun-kissed cheeks. “Oh no, really?”

She turns to Pete. “I’m so sorry!”

While her back is to me, I retie her whatever-the-hell knot into a proper figure eight on the cleat of another boat in the next slip.

“No worries, darlin’, I should’ve known. I’m anxious to take her out on her virgin voyage, you know?” Pete says.

Maiden voyage, I think to myself. I know he means no harm, but I don’t like the way he says “virgin” around Quincy.

He’s off soon enough, and I show Quincy how to do proper figure eights on the dock cleat with a spare bit of rope.

“You got it. Now practice that twenty more times.”

Quincy blinks up at me. “But you said I got it.”

I nod. “Yes, I did. Do it twenty times, and you’ll have muscle memory.”

She blows a loose lock of hair out of her eyes, and why is that the cutest thing ever?

“You know, as long as the knot works to keep the boat tied to the dock, what does it matter?”