The boat’s sudden heel puts a rise in my stomach. That wind—out of the east—is an omen. It snaps at the mainsail, ushering a deep sough in the rigging.
Night is coming, yes, but the storm will arrive sooner. And it holds a different darkness. The Pelican, twenty-four feet in length and twelve at the beam, is a sturdy craft, but she’ll be tested.
Running cocaine, despite its evils, has been good to me. Paid the mortgage. Fed the kids. No matter what, I’ll get that rock in the hold past the looming breakers and authorities who’d destroy everything.