Captiva

Tullock around.

'Yeah. Why, you know him?'

It wasn't so unusual to hear Tullock's name mentioned twice in the same day. Florida's fishing community is large, but intricately connected. Still, I found the coincidence striking. I asked, 'Tullock's the one who talked you out of voting for the ban?'

'That officious little prick couldn't talk me into anything. He's the guy that lifted my commercial sticker because I told him I didn't have time to fill out his damn forms. What fish we caught, where we caught them, how much they weighed. He'd come around the end of the month if you didn't mail them. Hell, I about had my boat repossessed because of him. No, Tullock wasn't against the ban. He was for the net ban. He'd say, 'I shouldn't be tellin' you this, but—' Or, 'Don't tell anyone you heard this from me.' I figured whatever Tullock was for, I was against. But now. . . after seeing what we just saw. . . well, sometimes you have to throw out the good to get rid of the bad. Know what I mean? I kind'a regret not voting for the damn thing.'

I was beginning to feel the same way.

When we got to Cabbage Key, I asked Garrett to write his name and number in my notebook. I wanted to talk to him when we weren't beer-bleary and sullen, and when it wasn't one o'clock in the morning. I watched him swing cat-footed aboard the Hatteras and disappear into the cabin.

Then, just as I was pulling away, I heard a whoop and a holler, and turned to see chunky, blond Farrah waving at me. She was calling, 'Is that your boat? I love that boat,' as she hurried along the dock in her tight black dress, moving with the exaggerated self-control of someone who is very drunk. When she was close enough, she slowed to a dignified pace, flashed me a sloppy grin, and reached to steady herself on a piling . . . but missed. Then I watched her grin broaden into a wild leer of surprise as she cartwheeled off the dock into the water.

The gallant thing to do would have been to leap into the water, scoop her up, and carry her to safety. But I am not gallant. I swung the boat to her, and as she came clawing her way up on the casting deck, I held her

motionless until she answered some questions. Did her neck hurt? Any tingling sensation in hands or feet? Drunks have been known to hobble around sprightly while internal bleeding or the leakage of spinal fluid drains the life out of them.

'Damn right I'm tingling, ya big horse. 'Cause I'm freezing. Lemme up!'

She sat groggily. Used her fingers to strip the water from her hair as I tied the boat. I took my bomber jacket off, wrapped it around her, and helped her to her feet. She was weaving badly. I wondered how many more margaritas she'd had after I left.

'You bazzard, you went off and lef' me. Tol' you not to go, but did you listen? Nope, nope, nope, nope.' She was wagging her finger under my nose. 'Don' lie to me. Do-o-o-on' you lie to Farrah.'

I looked around, hoping to see her girlfriends, hoping to see Charlie. But the big Trumpy was quiet at its mooring. I looked up the mound toward the bar: no movement, no music, no noise. The party was over.

'Hey! You know what I wanna do? Less go for a ride in your boat. How 'bout it.' She banged her hips against mine. 'Scooch over. I'll drive. Don' you worry. You ever hear of the Miss-pippi River? I drove boats all over the Miss-pippi.'

It took maybe ten minutes to talk her out of the boat ride. You can't reason with a drunk, you have to barter with them. Yes, I would take her for a boat ride. Yes, I had heard of the Miss-pippi, and yes, she could drive. But first she would have to go back to her cabin and get into some dry clothes.

'We ga' lots of boats in Illinois,' she said solemnly, just before I hefted her up onto the dock.

The Trumpy was about a sixty-footer. We entered through the main salon. It smelled of marine varnish and synthetic fiber. There were courtesy lights glowing from behind the mahogany bar. I tried to turn Farrah loose, but she stumbled as she was going down the companionway steps, and insisted that I help her.

Her stateroom was forward, just behind the master stateroom. I looked at the door of the master stateroom, all the brass fittings, and wondered if Charlie was in there with the aloof brunette. If so, I wondered if the aloof brunette had bothered to take off her wedding ring.

'See! Just me, all by myself.' Farrah had the door open, a light on. It was a tiny cabin with bunks. There was a collapsible table, a stainless steel washbasin, and a combination shower and head. The layout reminded me of an Amtrak sleeper. I guessed it was designed to be the children's quarters, handy to the master stateroom.

'No, don't you leave! I'm keeping you with me till I get that boat ride.' She had me by the hand, trying to pull me into the cabin. Then she stopped suddenly, touched fingers to her forehead, and said in a softer, more articulate voice, 'Whew, I feel a little dizzy. Don't go. Please? Not till I feel better.'

I sighed, shrugged; stepped into the room. Turned around to pull the door closed, and when I turned back, Farrah was stripping the wet dress over her head . . . found a hanger . . . had to arch her back to reach the simple white pearl necklace she wore . . . placed it on the vanity.

'You mind waiting while I jump in the shower? I'm freezing,' she said.

'So I see.'

'You do?'

I did. Very clearly. Farrah wore only a transparent nylon bra and blue bikini panties. The wet material clung to her, showing the mounds and pink circles and curling pubic folds of her body. She was not nearly so bulky as the tight dress had made her appear. She held the pose for a moment, grinned, then hip-wagged her way into the tiny head, and closed the door. I took a seat on her bunk; sat there breathing in steamy, fragrant odors, telling myself I should leave . . . wondering why I didn't.

A friend of mine once made me stand back and look at a wall map of the United States. 'Do you see it?' she kept asking. 'Do you see the subliminal message? Students grow up staring at a map just like this.' Her theory being that the testicular and penile shape of Florida caused those students, as adults, to suffer a feverish subconscious libido on their Florida vacations. Over the years, I had observed enough tourist behavior to believe that her weird theory had merit. Maybe Farrah was another example. Or maybe hers was a drive more complicated.

Whatever Farrah's reasons, they weren't good enough—that's what I told myself. I had no interest in one- night stands—right? Why intentionally diminish myself—right? Nor did Farrah strike me as the type to engage in that kind of destructive behavior. She had been drinking, I told myself. Her reasoning was fogged—right?

Well. . . right.

Even so, I sat there debating it, wanting to stay, trying to ferret out an acceptable excuse. . . . Then I didn't have to debate or rationalize anymore because Farrah came stumbling, naked, out of the head, a towel clutched in her hands, her face as pale as her milkmaid breasts, saying, 'I . . . feel . . . sort'a sick.'

Then she was sick. Not just once, either. I helped her as much as I could. Helped her get cleaned up and into bed; then I sat there patting her back, making comforting noises, feeling old and far more chivalrous than I actually am. I also felt relief. . . and a curious sadness, too. Farrah was one of the winners. Her employer had acknowledged that. She had a nice car and nice apartment. She had the dental and medical and retirement plans. She had a fitness program and vacation getaways. She had joined the team, so the corporation was providing for her every need. Lately, I had been meeting more and more team members—but fewer and fewer individuals. It was beginning to worry me.

When her breathing became a steady series of soft poofing sounds, when I could feel the involuntary muscle-twitch of legs and hands, I stood and found a blanket. Covered her from toe to head, tucked her in tight. Leaned to kiss her forehead and, as I turned out the light, said, 'Have a good life, lady.'

Then, as I snuck out of her stateroom, I nearly collided with what turned out to be Charlie. He was in the process of sneaking out of his stateroom, headed for the main salon to get a snack. I followed him up the companionway, prepared for the chummy locker room winks and nudges that he would offer. Hey, we got laid, buddy! The aloof brunette was none of my business, but I felt an unreasonable animus toward him because of her.

Instead, Charlie said, 'These corporate junkets, they can wear you out, you let 'em. Lot of craziness down here in Florida.'

I said, 'Yeah, Charlie, it's just a crazy mixed-up world.'

He seemed a little surprised by my tone, but pressed on. 'So what I did this time, I had the wife fly down.