Page 5 of On Dry Land
Having not slept at all last night and spent the morning organizing a tow for the Maiden Seas, my patience is at an all-time low. My muscles ache with the kind of pain I’ve only experienced after the single time I ran a marathon. My neck hurts so bad, I can barely turn my head. Even so, I can’t bring myself to care about any of this as I watch my boat pulled from the water for dry docking and repairs. I love this boat. Honestly, I think if I had to choose between her and any member of my family, I’d choose the Maiden and kiss my blood relatives goodbye.
I lose track of the man with the backpack as we dry dock the Maiden in the boat shed I rent. I’m glad we don’t have to take her far. If I have to listen to any more talking from these people, I’m going to drown one of them.
“Thank you for your help.” I don’t bother trying to tone down the snap in my voice as I cut off Brent. The man truly cannot pick up a signal, no matter how obvious it may be, and will happily stand and talk from sunrise to sunset if you let him.
“That’s all right, then,” he replies, cuffing me on the shoulder. I stiffen. I do not like it when strangers touch me. When anyone touches me, to be honest. But he did answer my call when I asked for help towing in the Maiden, so I suppose it’s my duty to suffer through. I hated having to ask for help, and I’m sure they all hated having to accept. I do not have many friends in this town.
It takes another twenty minutes before I’m left alone in blessed silence, a low-grade headache throbbing at the base of my skull. I need a drink. Water for health followed up with a neat whiskey as a treat for dealing with the public and not committing a felony.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I murmur to the Maiden as I climb on board, the door to the shop propped open to let in a cool breeze. I don’t hold much hope that I’ll be able to fix her. Possibly, I won’t even be able to figure out what went wrong. I hadn’t been able to yesterday when she died on the water.
The deck is soaked, water pooled in several places and dripping down the glass. At first glance, everything else seems to have fared pretty well, nothing immediately sticking out as missing or obviously damaged. I’ll have to replace all the rescue equipment Cody and I used, and the possibility of us getting those missing traps back is seeming less likely with each passing day. I could ask Shiloh, I suppose, since the Drifter is back on the water, at least for the meantime.
I won’t, though. I’d rather take the loss in profits than ask him for a favor. I glance again at my phone, wondering if he’s replied yet and feeling immediately disappointed that he hasn’t. I’m going to have to drive to the hospital and figure out what’s happening with Oliver myself, apparently.
If there were parts of my body that didn’t hurt from the mess that was yesterday, I’m feeling them by the time I leave the boat shed. The Maiden is as good as I’m able to get her, and a hell of a lot better than she was hours ago. Locking up behind me, I glance around for the man with the backpack. Gone, looks like, which is just as well. It’s dark and cold and damp this close to the water; it would be a miserable place to spend the night.
I give Shiloh the length of time it takes me to drive home before I call him. No amount of telling myself not to worry and that it’s not my problem can make me stop thinking about Oliver, and I have long since passed what little tolerance I am allotted in a day. Letting the front door fall closed with a slam behind me, I peel off my wet jacket and drop it in a heap on the floor. My boots follow, kicked carelessly toward the mat as I call Shiloh. Ewan answers.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling the phone away from my ear and tilting my head back, eyes closed. These past two days aren’t anywhere near the worst days of my life, but boy are they giving it their all.
Ewan snorts. “Butt dial?” he asks, giving me the opportunity to bail if I want to.
“Unfortunately, no. I’d like to know what’s happening with Oliver. I was told he went to the hospital last night, which I’m assuming has something to do with what happened yesterday. I’d like an update,” I repeat, and then, because I do know what manners are, even if I often forget to use them, I add a clipped “Please.”
“Ouch,” Ewan comments. “Don’t hurt yourself on my behalf. I don’t expect you to be polite.”
“Can you answer the question? This is painful for both of us.”
Another snort before he clears his throat and sobers up a bit. “Nils is at the hospital with him. Last update we got was internal bleeding requiring surgery. Shiloh and I are headed over now to deal with the insurance and check in. We called and were told not to visit right away—let him rest for a few hours after surgery.”
Closing my eyes, I breathe in, hold it, and slowly exhale through my nose. Ewan is silent on the other end of the line, but I imagine I can hear the thoughts he’s keeping to himself. It’s my fault. If those traps hadn’t gotten lost and I hadn’t taken Cody out to grapple for them; if the weather hadn’t turned and the Maiden hadn’t gone dead in the water; if Shiloh and his crew hadn’t been the first to answer the distress call and Oliver hadn’t been out on the water yesterday, none of this would have happened.
“Fuck,” I repeat, more vehemently.
“Yeah,” Ewan agrees, and for the first time since I met the man, I find something to like about him. He isn’t telling me Oliver will be fine, or that everything will work out, or even that none of this mess is on me. He’s simply agreeing that this day is not our day and leaving the platitudes for someone else to lap up.
“Please give me another update after you see him at the hospital,” I request, trying to modulate my voice and make it sound less like I’m speaking the words through clenched teeth. I am truly in a foul mood.
“Will do.”
With that, Ewan hangs up, and I can’t help but huff an incredulous laugh. Perhaps there are two things to like about the man.
Chapter Three
SPENCER
It turns out I picked the perfect place to spend the afternoon on my first day in Siren’s Point. I hadn’t meant to linger so long, but as soon as the boat got close enough for me to see that it was towing another boat, I couldn’t help but stick around. I’d figured they’d park it alongside one of the other boats, but instead, they pulled the whole thing from the water and stored it in one of the sheds scattered along the shore. I got so much good footage, I’m giddy. How many people can say they’ve seen that? Not many, I wouldn’t think, and talk about a hell of a way for me to start my vlogs about Siren’s Point.
Some viewers follow me for the short-form videos—the quick, one- to two-minute captures of my walking days. Some prefer to put me on their television and watch a thirty-minute vlog like it’s a weekly TV program. Others still only look at the static imagery I post on my grid and don’t watch any of the video footage at all. Recently, people have started asking for written blogs to be posted on my website, as though my content could be used to plan travel itineraries. Or, in some cases, advice on what not to do.
I have a feeling, no matter what flavor of content it’s posted as, everything I got of the boat being towed to shore will be a huge hit. I can’t even be annoyed about the amount of time it took for them to do it, essentially eating up every daylight hour that was left and leaving me with no time to find a suitable place to hunker down for the night. I’d been planning on sleeping rough no matter what the first night and using tomorrow to further scope everything out and find a more suitable long-term option. I don’t know how long I’ll be here before I move on, and available accommodations might be the deciding factor on that timeline. I don’t think these locals are going to be the kind to let me sleep on the street without having something to say about it, but I’m also a little worried about other options. B and Bs and hotels are available, but I can’t—and won’t—use all of my limited money on them. It’s possible that one or two nights will be the only thing I can manage in Siren’s Point, so I have to make them count.
Sitting on a bench next to a little shack thing near the end of the pier, I rest my legs and watch as the men disperse. All but one eventually get in their cars and leave, headlights swooping across the parking lot and briefly illuminating my shadowy little corner. I’ve always hated the winter months for how early it gets dark, and hate it even more on the nights where I’m sleeping rough. Nightfall at four in the afternoon is fine if you have electricity and a cozy house available. Not so much when you’re sitting on a bench, cold and tired, and rapidly nearing that cutoff when exhaustion sinks its teeth into you and you feel as though you can no longer move at all.
Eventually, the little rectangle of light spilling through the open warehouse door turns off, and I watch the shadow of the last man step out. I’m thinking he must be the owner of the boat that had to be towed in, since that’s where they pulled it into and he hasn’t reappeared since. He must also be the owner of the Porsche I saw parked in the lot. I can only imagine the type of wealth required to possess both a boat and a Porsche. I wonder if those other guys were his employees.
I keep making up stories in my head about him as I carefully wander the marina in the dark, seeking out a place to spend the night that’s both out of the wind and where no motion lights can detect me. It’s a habit I’ve picked up these past few years on the road, making content. I come across so, so many strangers. Well, everyone I come across is a stranger, to be fair. And there really isn’t anything to do to pass the time walking for miles and miles per day. Filming can only take up so many minutes. The rest I spend in silence, dreaming up scenarios and lives for different people I meet. It’s a fun little game and keeps me from falling asleep with my eyes open when I’m wandering down a lonely stretch of road.
