Adrift

out his response as it thundered down on the top of our golf cart. Water cascaded out the sides of the wheels as Tate pushed forward through the downpour, driving us presumably back to Nana Pearl’s cottage.
My mom filled in some blanks. Nana Pearl passed a few months ago, so it’d be Tate’s cottage now—if he could convince Gregg, his older brother, to stop contesting the will. Something I really couldn’t help with if he didn’t talk to me. He stared at the ocean, ignoring me. I shoved his arm.
“Silent treatment? I come all the way down here and you’re not talking?”
“I’m gonna talk. Keep an eye on the waves as we pass by, okay? I saw one nut job out there by himself.”
“On this side? I thought surfers went to South Beach.” Surfing wasn’t really my thing, a bit too slow of a sport for my taste, but I’d done plenty of it during all those summers right here. Plus once in Costa Rica, where I almost died. Those Costa Rican waves were righteous.
“South Beach is where the surfers who know what they’re doing go.”
Shit. I shifted in the seat and kept lookout for a suicidal idiot out on the waves. As we approached his place, complete darkness fell over the island.
“Ah, fuck. We lost electricity,” Tate muttered.
“You got beer? We can sit on the porch and watch the storm.” I loved a good storm over the ocean. And it would give me a chance to dig into Tate. Work some magic and get him to make amends with Gregg. Whatever the disagreement, Tate had to be the one at fault. If I could get him to apologize, it would all blow over, and I’d make my mom happy, the whole damn reason I flew here.
“How do you feel about going to Jules for a few beers and dinner? My treat. They should be on a generator.”
“Jules sounds good.” It had been a long time since the pack of peanut butter crackers I ate earlier in the day. He slung the wheel and turned us back toward the marina.
He pulled into a spot in front of a familiar wooden building. The narrow restaurant overlooking the marina had changed owners and names since I’d been here last. But Tate said the menu hadn’t changed that much. They still sold seafood. Steamed peel-and-eat shrimp dipped in melted butter with an ice-cold beer sounded pretty fucking fantastic.
I followed Tate past the hostess, through the restaurant, to the back room that housed the bar. The storm outside raged, and I guessed that was why the place wasn’t packed. The front tables were full, but the stools along the long wooden bar remained empty. Tate and I each pulled out a stool and sat.
We ordered beers, and I searched for the team names on the nearby television screen playing a college football game.
The bartender slid our beverages of choice over to us. I swallowed the golden ale, set it on the bar, then dug in.
“I’m serious, man. I don’t get it.” I tapped the bar for emphasis. “You went over a year one time with no contact. Your dad didn’t know what to do. Why’d you do that? I’d get it if it was just me. But your dad.” I didn’t mean to harp, but I liked Mr. Tate. He’d died a few years ago, but my parents had shared plenty about his concern and fears. He’d been one of those topics they used to fill dinner conversation when we got together.
“Believe it or not, there are places on this planet without signal.” He rubbed his forehead and avoided looking at me. Typical.
“So, what? You were out on these ships for years? Don’t you have to dock at some point?”
“Sometimes. You can get gas from ships that come out to you.” He closed his eyes, and I sipped my beer, studying him. Wrinkles lined the corners of his eyes, indentions into his leathery skin. Upon closer inspection, he had aged. The sea life hadn’t been his friend. Tate and I were only a couple of months apart, but I’d wager he hadn’t yet discovered facial moisturizer. Or sunblock. I waited, and he eventually continued. “Even when you dock, the places we docked, they were third world.”
“Like what? Where? If you needed money, I would’ve sent it. Your dad would have too.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. But the issue wasn’t money. When we docked, it wasn’t for long. And it’s not like I was twiddling my thumbs. Or we were around people I could ask to plug my phone in for a charge.”
“Ten years.” I sipped my beer, set it down. He watched the game. “You’d go months with no one hearing from you. What’d you end up doing? CIA? Were you kidnapped? Like, we had a million theories.” CIA. Say CIA.
“I’m not sure where to begin. I started out on the Panglossian.”
“Greenpeace. And we all got it, at first, that you didn’t have a way to call home. And tracked boats that were violating international fishing law? Did you catch any bad guys?”
“We stopped two of the big offenders.”
“So, you saved lots of fish?”
“These fishing ships nowadays. Did you know they have nets that can trail two miles back? Freezers that let them haul catch for months? They’re depleting the oceans.” As he went on, it occurred to me he may no longer eat seafood. But he’d recommended this place. “It doesn’t matter. You stop one boat, another three set sail. Until governments care, and someone tries to police the ocean, it’s…and even if they care, it’s not something that can be solved easily.”
“You giving up on our planet?” He didn’t look like a happy man, that much was certain.
“No. Not giving up. Well, maybe. I don’t know. Aside from the fish, which I know you don’t care about—”
“Hey, I care about the planet. Just because I didn’t join Greenpeace doesn’t mean I’m an ass.”
“Aside from the planet, it’s the living conditions. The