OLD FISHERMEN NEVER DIE, THEY JUST SMELL THAT WAY: Yellow-and-black sign attached to the cabin of a geriatric fishing boat docked behind Nick’s Boatyard. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

Chapter 15

I find out what Lucky has in store for me when I meet him behind the boatyard again. It’s early evening, but summer heat is still warming the dock boards when Lucky coaxes me down a couple of steps into the belly of a beast.

And by “beast,” I mean the Nimble Narwhal.

And by Narwhal, I mean a cabin cruiser fishing boat, circa before I was born.

Maybe even before my mom was born, if the carrot-orange color scheme of the boat’s interior is any indication. Below the main part of the boat, it has an underdeck living space big enough for a hermit serial killer, with a teeny, tiny kitchenette, built-in sofa, and a matchbox bathroom that’s pretty much the same as an airline toilet.

The boatyard and the Nook are both closed, and I pretend like I’m interested in the tour he’s giving me, pointing out all the boat’s features, but honestly, my mind is halfway between the gutter and a sliver of golden skin I keep seeing above the waistband of his charcoal board shorts when he reaches to switch on lights in the boat’s low ceiling. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up high enough to show off his bronze arms, and his shorts aren’t just low, they also have a bonus strategic rip exposing one muscular thigh. I mean, come on. He switches the lights on. Off … I signal for him to show me again. He gladly complies. His hips have that weird boy muscle that makes a V shape on either side of his stomach, pointing toward greener pastures.

Kind of hard not to look.

And we haven’t been alone since that day my mom watched me take pictures of the boatyard. Some of them turned out pretty good. Kat is happy, so that’s what’s important.

“So that’s the Narwhal tour,” Lucky says. “How’s your queasy factor so far?”

“Ugh. Don’t say that word, p-wease,” I say around a ginger-flavored lollipop that I’ve been sucking for several minutes in preparation for boarding. I also have a tin of candied ginger in the pocket of my shorts.

“Ginger is proven to help with seasickness,” he assures me. “So does getting back on the water. Practice and practice again. I researched this thoroughly and asked a bunch of hardened, salty old boaters. You’re going to beat this. Mind over matter. We’ll make a sea-loving lass of you yet.”

I pluck my lollipop out of my mouth with a soft pop. “Really don’t know how you talked my mom into letting us do this.”