Chapter 11
After quickly dousing my face in ice-cold water and bracing myself over the sink until I am mildly certain I am not going to throw up, I get myself in gear.
I manage to change into a swimsuit and stuff a backpack full for our boat ride before meeting Anya and Mari in the lobby.
We make it down the winding stairs to a small marina under the glow of moonlight, and I have to admit, the fresh air is doing me good.
I give myself a tiny pep talk: I can lay out on a boat and suntan.
Hungover or not, I could do that. I will make the best of it.
Nico will hopefully have packed one of those sparkling Pellegrinos.
Fizz has always settled my stomach. I can recline on my towel in the sun. Sweat out the alcohol.
Do nothing.
Chill.
Relax.
We walk down the long dock, rickety planks echoing under our footsteps.
But something feels off. There is row after row of industrial fishing boats, with large nets and huge rods affixed to the sides.
In fact, there are so many that the stench of fish overpowers the air.
There are even small tables set up for cleaning the fish, with bags hanging over the edge for the discarded remnants.
What is this place? What am I missing here? This entire excursion feels spooky—how the moon ominously shines down on the water, tinting everything in deep purple. It hits me that even though we’ve had a few conversations with Nico, we hardly know him at all.
I splay my arms out like a crossing guard. “Wait. Remember what I just said the other night about Nico potentially being a murderer?”
“Here we go.” Anya rolls her eyes.
“Checks out.” I look toward the dark sky and desolate sea, the lack of witnesses.
“Wouldn’t you say? One, easy to dispose of bodies.
Two, no DNA evidence—the water washes it all away.
It’s literally the perfect crime. Didn’t you guys pay attention at all when they covered stranger danger in school?
What do we really know about him? Absolutely nothing.
” Sure, in my few interactions with Nico he had been perfectly nice and normal, other than accosting that majestic girl at the beach with his absolutely terrible sunscreen application skills, but isn’t that exactly what neighbors of serial killers say in their TV interviews?
He just seemed like the boy next door! “I have literally seen at least ten Dateline episodes that start exactly like this.”
“Nico is not a murderer, Sora,” Mari says, gently pushing my arms aside and continuing to walk toward the boat. “I think you’ve been bingeing too much true crime.”
“Maybe so, but you’re too nice, Mari. You’d say that about anyone. I hate to crush your dreams, but you’d never get picked for a jury. You only see the good in people.” Mari hands out the benefit of the doubt like it’s a basket of unlimited breadsticks from Olive Garden. Well… except to Wes.
As we walk up to Nico’s boat, I see him lift in a giant bucket of bait and a handful of fishing rods. All at once the horror of my reality sets in. This is no leisurely sunrise cruise.
“Wait—this is a fishing trip?”
Their sheepishness gives it away. “I mean, we’re still going to see the sunrise,” Mari says.
“Nope.” I secure my feet firmly on the dock, crossing my arms in protest. “No way. I did not sign up for this.”
“You’re so dramatic, Sora. What’s the worst that could happen? You have fun?” Anya asks.
I could think of lots of things. Namely, puking up five to six glasses of champagne and then hurling myself overboard into a school of sharks and a very gruesome death.
“I’m not really up for this, you guys.” My stomach lurches as I watch Nico’s boat getting manhandled by the gentle waves.
Mere hours ago, I was peaking, immersed in Italian luxury, and now I was to get in this tiny rusty boat and expected to survive? No, thank you.
“You’ll be fine.” Anya dismisses my hesitancy. “Plus, what else are you going to do?”
I bite my lip. I could think of a few things.
Nico overhears the tail end of our conversation. “Come on, Soraya. You’re on vacation. Live a little.”
“Exactly. That’s why I would like it to feel like I’m on vacation.”
“Fishing is vacation. Relaxing, being connected to the sea, practicing patience, and honoring nature. You’ll see.” Nico grabs my bag and throws it in the boat. “Time to go.”
I glance toward shore, toward my escape, then at my doe-eyed best friends.
They would be so hurt if I bailed. So I exhale dramatically and begrudgingly board the boat.
“So, Nico—do you take lots of young women out on boats, unsupervised, in the dark?” I cast a knowing look to Mari and Anya. They know the angle I’m working here.
Nico’s face scrunches. “Does my cousin count?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. Is she still alive and well?”
“What?” Nico studies me, confused, before his face relaxes into a grin. “Ah, I get it. Irritabile. You are not a morning person.”
“Understatement of the century.” Anya rolls her eyes.
“Here you go.” Nico tosses me a life jacket. “Murderers wouldn’t give you a flotation device.”
I stand there, stunned, holding the life jacket in my hands.
“Voices travel much farther over water.” Nico winks.
Oh, shit. Mari and Anya burst into a fit of giggles. For once in my life, I have no rebuttal.
The motor hums to life, sputtering the air with gasoline that burns my nostrils.
I cough, praying my vomit finds a way to stay south of my esophagus for the next six to eight hours.
Soon we’re moving and the coastline shrinks as sprays of water mist against my face.
The cliffsides are speckled with tiny flickers of light, entranceway lanterns left on overnight or kitchen pendants being switched on for breakfast. There is no turning back now. I am a literal hostage.
The bottom of the boat slaps against each wave we hit as we journey toward deeper water.
Nico and Mari stand up front, talking, pointing off in the distance at what looks to me like nothing at all.
The wind is loud, though, and I can’t hear what they’re saying.
I press my eyes closed, willing time to speed up, and suddenly I’m on the dance floor with Wes again, his face dipping inches from mine, heat radiating between our bodies.
Until I am hit with a wall of ice-cold water. My eyes flick open. “What the—!?”
Anya got smoked by the wave too. Nico throws us a towel to dry off. “Sorry!” he shouts over the motor. “A bit of rough water!”
“Well, I’m awake now,” I mutter. I wipe my face and chest before handing the towel to Anya.
“It’s not like he did it on purpose,” Anya says, mopping the water off her arms and legs.
“I wouldn’t blame him, though. In the space of less than a week I’ve managed to insult his family’s B and B and accuse him of being a murderer.” I’m cringing just thinking about it.
“Touché,” Anya says. “At least you realize it. Step one of curing yourself of being a Karen is admitting you have a problem.”
“You’re funny.” I pull a face at Anya. “Be honest. Do I apologize? I don’t really want to, but I also would like to not be so awkward.”
“It’s always worth the effort.” Anya’s only somewhat joking.
“You’re probably right,” I concede. “But we should make sure his cousin is alive and well before I do. Due diligence.”
Anya laughs, and I’m proud to have coaxed it out of her.
The boat slows and Nico throws out an anchor, his biceps flexing. I’m pleased to find that it’s a calm day out on the Mediterranean. Maybe I can lie back and relax while everyone else fishes. But Nico, of course, has other plans.
“You want the full experience,” he says, handing me a rod. “First, we fish for the bait.”
“What? There’s double fishing?” I ask, horrified. This deal continues to get whatever the opposite of sweeter is. Double sour.
“You want everything to come easy, but I promise it’s much more rewarding this way. It will make you appreciate things on an entirely new level.”
I decide to shut up after that.
Marisol is a natural at fishing. She holds on to her fishing pole and casts it out into the sea like she’s a promo girl for Bass Pro Shops.
Her lure soars through the sky and lands with a tiny splash.
The water ripples as she gently reels her line back in.
I watch as she makes subtle jerking movements, reeling slowly, then twitching her wrist, then reeling again, until her lure is dangling back up in the air.
She notices me studying her. “You want to mimic the actual movements of the bait in the water. Fish are much smarter than you realize.” Mari sends her lure flying through the air again.
“I did not know that. But more importantly, how do you?”
“My grandparents taught us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten up at the crack of dawn to go fishing with them. Every time I say we’re going to visit, this is usually what we’re doing.”
“You have never once told us that,” Anya says.
“I definitely have.” Mari recasts her line.
“Mari—you got one!” Nico exclaims. And sure enough, her line has gone taut. She expertly and calmly reels in what she’s caught.
“What kind of fish is this?” Mari asks.
“Pezzogna.” Nico helps her remove the fish off the hook. “Queen of the Gulf—the most common fish we have in these waters. It’s not what we are looking for, though, so you can throw it back.”
“It kind of looks like a red snapper.” Mari holds the fish up, posing for a photo.
It has a peach tail and fins and large black eyes, and it wiggles back and forth as she immerses her hand in the water, gently releasing the fish.
“You don’t want to toss it back in, you want to lower it beneath the water and let it swim off, so it knows what direction is up. ”
“Spot-on. You’ll be doing that a lot because it’s catch-and-release today,” Nico explains. “We only keep what we are able to eat.”
Anya, meanwhile, is struggling. There’s no fluidity or grace as she flails around, trying to control her line. “I got something!” she yells, and Nico rushes over.
“Ah, it’s only seaweed.” He leans over to gently free it from the hook and then tries to guide Anya’s form as she casts again.
I am also not a natural fisherman. My lure gets caught on the side of the boat, and I wildly thrash my rod up and down to get it free. When it dislodges, it flies through the air. Mari and Anya duck, but the hook comes within millimeters of Nico’s face.
“Careful! Dio mio, woman!” Nico lunges for my lure, securing the hook. “You almost took out my left eye!”
“You’re very dramatic. I had control of it the entire time,” I lie, forfeiting my weapon.
“Oh, did you?” Nico puts a hand over his chest to steady himself. “Took about three years off my life. Remind me to never go to a shooting range with you.”
“Har, har. Your English is very good, you know. Too good.” I pivot, pointing an accusatory finger. “How did that happen?”
Nico squints at the place where it touches near his heart, an expression I can’t read in his eyes. “Took you a minute.”
“I noticed the second I met you. I was just a little distracted.”
“How could I forget.” Nico quirks his lip, fixing my rod near the back of the boat. “Schools here start teaching English in the first grade. Plus, I watch a lot of American television.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
Nico opens a cooler and hands us each a glass bottle of water. “We break for the sunrise.” His tone suggests this isn’t a part of the itinerary that’s up for debate.
That’s fine with me. The truth is I’m grateful for a respite. It isn’t yet six a.m. and I’ve done more than I sometimes do in an entire day. I take a seat on the side of the boat and chug the bottle in seconds, still dehydrated from last night.
“It never looks the same,” Nico says as he sits next to me. “The sunrises and sunsets.”
“Like a snowflake?” Mari asks.
“That’s a good way to describe it. Sometimes the colors are similar, but they’re rearranged differently. A new painting every single day, with the sky as a canvas.”
“I guess I don’t pay attention to it,” I realize out loud. In Savannah, I could go see the ocean and the sunrise everyday if I wanted. My house is less than two miles from the beach. But I hardly ever do. It’s so accessible that I take it all for granted.
“That’s why on vacation you should always see the sunrise and sunset. You may never know what kind of masterpiece you’ll miss if you don’t. The sky on the Amalfi Coast is unparalleled, but I’d like to see other ones too.” Then: “Easier said than done,” he says, so quiet that only I hear it.
We are all silent as the midnight sky starts to get lighter. I sneak a sidelong glance at Nico, curious. What had he meant by that?
Soon, a half apricot of sun peeks out over the water.
Powder blue and blush pink streak across the sky.
A wash of vibrant orange lights up the coastline, setting it on fire.
It casts a neon glow onto the rippling Mediterranean.
What was flat darkness mere moments ago has transformed into a dazzling mosaic of color.
“This is that magic you were talking about, Mari,” I say. “From the unexpected bits.”