Chapter 7 - The Harbor Meltdown
Down at the Destin East Pass Marina, the salty air was thick with the smell of diesel exhaust, fish chum, and sun-baked fiberglass.
George’s center-console fishing boat bumped roughly against the wooden pilings of the slip, sending a spray of brackish water over the dock.
Rodrigo stood at the bow, balancing with the unsteady swagger of a man who had downed four high-gravity beers under the blistering Florida sun.
His polo shirt was soaked through with sweat, his face was burned a bright, lobster-pink, and his white sneakers were splattered with bait blood.
"I'm telling you, man, tomorrow on the big Viking sportfisher is going to blow this out of the water!" Rodrigo shouted over the low rumble of the outboard engine.
"Forty-eight feet of pure luxury, twin diesel engines, and an open bar with top-shelf bourbon."
"We're going to hit the deep rigs sixty miles out and reel in yellowfin until our arms give out."
George tied off the stern cleat with a loose, sloppy knot, wiping his brow with the back of a calloused hand.
"You're sure Daniela won't look at the bank statements before Monday?" George asked, his voice betraying a sliver of nervous anxiety.
"Because if the leasing office doesn't see that three thousand in their account by nine in the morning, they're posting the sheriff's lockout notice."
"I told you, George, relax!" Rodrigo scoffed, grabbing his insulated tackle box and stepping onto the dock.
"Daniela lives for rules and schedules. She’s probably already scrubbed the whole house, bleached the tubs, and made the beds."
"Right now, she's standing over your stove seasoning those prime ribeyes for dinner."
"She's a caretaker, man. She complains, but she always folds."
"I'll buy her a cheap silver bracelet at the harbor gift shop, take her out for ice cream tonight, and she'll forget all about the money."
Lauren stepped off the boat behind them, shaking sand out of her straw hat and applying another thick layer of lip gloss.
"She better have kept Mason and Carter quiet," Lauren muttered, adjusting her designer tote.
"Brenda was supposed to drop them off at two. If Daniela let them destroy my patio furniture, I'm going to have words with her."
Rodrigo reached into his board shorts and pulled out his iPhone, which had been off while they were offshore to save battery.
He pressed the power button, waiting for the screen to light up.
The moment the cellular signal locked onto the Destin commercial towers, his phone erupted.
A barrage of notifications poured across the screen like an out-of-control slot machine.
Six missed calls from Brenda.
Four missed calls from an unlisted local business number.
Eleven urgent text messages.
Two critical priority banking alerts.
Rodrigo frowned, his drunken smile slowly freezing into a mask of confusion.
"What the hell...?"
"What is it?" George asked, turning around while slinging his cooler over his shoulder.
Rodrigo opened the first text from Brenda, reading it aloud in an increasingly frantic stammer:
"Your wife is completely insane! She refused to take the boys! She locked me out of the house and threatened to call the police on me!"
"I had to drag my kids to my tennis club and sit in the lobby for three hours like a stray dog!"
"What is wrong with that woman?!"
Lauren gasped, her sunglasses dropping an inch down the bridge of her nose.
"She refused to watch my nephews?!"
"Wait, that's not even the worst of it," Rodrigo said, his voice cracking as his thumb rapidly tapped into his primary email inbox.
Sitting at the very top of his messages, highlighted in urgent red, was an official communication from Capstone Marine Holdings:
"NOTICE OF IMMEDIATE CHARTER CANCELLATION & REFUND PROCESSING."
"Dear Mr. Silva, Please be advised that Charter Reservation #8841-B for the vessel The Silver Marlin scheduled for July 26 has been successfully canceled per the direct instructions of the primary account holder, Daniela Silva."
"Due to the unauthorized ACH electronic transfer flag, the full balance of $2,716.00 has been credited back to Mrs. Silva's personal account."
"Your reservation has been forfeited and the slip reallocated. Thank you."
Rodrigo’s jaw dropped so low his beer can slipped through his fingers, tumbling off the edge of the dock and splashing into the oily harbor water below.
"No... no, no, no, that's impossible!" he roared, shaking the phone as if physical violence could rewrite the text on the glass.
"What did she do?!" George yelled, dropping his heavy cooler onto the dock with a loud clatter that made several nearby tourists turn to look.
"Rodrigo, what does that email say?!"
"She canceled the charter!" Rodrigo yelled, his voice turning shrill with rising panic.
"She called the yacht brokerage behind my back and reversed the wire transfer!"
"The money is gone!"
George grabbed Rodrigo by the collar of his sweat-stained shirt, hauling him forward until their faces were inches apart.
"What do you mean the money is gone?!"
"That money was supposed to be transferred to my sublease balance on Monday morning!"
"You promised me you would divert the charter refund to my account after we finished the weekend trip!"
"I told you I was two weeks behind on the rent!"
Lauren let out a high-pitched screech right on the dock.
"Are you telling me we're getting evicted?!"
"Shut up, Lauren!" George snapped, his face turning an apocalyptic shade of purple.
"Rodrigo, you said your wife was a pushover!"
"You said she was an office mouse who wouldn't notice three thousand dollars missing until we were driving back to Atlanta!"
"I thought she was!" Rodrigo stammered, pulling wildly at George's hands to break his grip.
"I don't know how she found out! She didn't have the login to the charter portal!"
"Call her right now!" George bellowed, shoving Rodrigo backward against a wooden piling.
"Call her and tell her to wire that money back right this second, or I swear to God I will leave your bags on the side of Highway 98!"
Rodrigo’s hands shook so violently he dropped his phone onto the splintered wood.
May you like
He scrambled to pick it up, his screen smudged with fish scales and sweat, and dialed my number with frantic, desperate speed.
Across the bay, five miles away on the serene fifth floor of the Henderson Resort, the device on my glass table began to chime.
