47. Storm
STORM
The marina always woke before the city.
Long before the tourists wandered Fisherman's Wharf.
Before the ferries crossed the bay.
Before the first cup of coffee was poured in a downtown office.
The docks belonged to us.
The water was smooth enough to reflect the lights dancing across San Francisco Bay.
A light blanket of fog drifted across the harbor, softening the outlines of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.
Gulls argued overhead while halyards tapped gently against aluminum masts.
The familiar scent of saltwater, polished teak, diesel fuel, and fresh coffee wrapped around me like an old friend.
Home.
Some people inherited houses.
We inherited an ocean.
I ran my hand along the gleaming teak rail of Sea Whisper, our flagship yacht.
My grandfather had built her by hand nearly thirty years ago.
She wasn't the newest yacht in our fleet.
She wasn't the biggest.
But she was the heart of Sinclair Yachts.
Grandpa used to stand exactly where I was standing now, one weathered hand resting on the rail while staring out across the bay.
"If you listen closely, Storm," he'd tell me, "the sea whispers her secrets before she gives them away."
At ten years old, I'd spent hours trying to hear those whispers.
At thirty-two...
I still listened.
The weather app on my phone showed clear skies all the way to Hawaii.
Wind conditions were favorable.
Barometric pressure steady.
Still...
I checked the radar again.
Then the satellite forecast.
Then the tide charts.
Then the engine reports that Calle had emailed me before sunrise.
Satisfied...
For almost five seconds.
"You're checking them again."
I smiled before I even turned around.
"I've only checked twice."
My sister Willow handed me a steaming cup of coffee.
"That makes four."
"Three."
She raised one eyebrow.
I sighed.
"Fine. Four."
"I knew it."
I accepted the coffee, taking my first sip while looking over the harbor once more.
"You know every captain in California doesn't inspect their yacht personally before every trip."
"I'm not every captain."
"No." Willow smiled warmly. "You're Storm."
There was affection in her voice.
And concern.
She'd been looking at me that way for years.
Ever since Dad's boat never came home.
I pushed the thought away before it could settle where it always did.
Not today.
We had guests arriving in two hours.
A bachelor charter.
Six men.
Ten days to Hawaii.
The itinerary was planned.
The weather was perfect.
Everything was ready.
Or it would be.
A loud metallic clang echoed from below deck.
"Well..." Willow said. "That doesn't sound expensive."
Another clang.
Followed by muffled laughter.
Then...
"I'm okay!" Calle shouted from the engine room.
I leaned over the hatch.
"You don't sound okay."
"I'm still alive."
"That's not what I asked."
A grease-covered face appeared through the opening.
"The port generator is fixed."
I folded my arms.
"Completely fixed?"
She hesitated.
"...Mostly."
"Calle."
She grinned.
"I'm kidding."
"You are absolutely impossible."
"I get that from Grandpa."
"You get that from yourself."
She disappeared back below deck laughing.
Willow nudged my shoulder.
"You know she's going to keep teasing you until you're eighty."
"I'll still be correcting her when I'm eighty."
"Probably."
Footsteps echoed across the dock.
Hazel approached carrying a clipboard, tablet, and what looked like half the marina's paperwork tucked beneath one arm.
"Good morning," she said.
"No, it isn't."
Hazel frowned.
"What happened?"
"You brought paperwork before sunrise."
She held the clipboard protectively.
"I bring organization."
"You bring invoices."
"They pay for fuel."
"They ruin perfectly good mornings."
Hazel rolled her eyes.
"I don't know why I even try."
"Because you secretly love us."
"I absolutely do not."
"You do."
She sighed dramatically.
"I really do."
We laughed together.
The sound drifted across the calm marina.
Moments later, another voice called from farther down the dock.
"Don't move!"
Ivy hurried toward us carrying a camera nearly as big as she was.
The sunrise painted the harbor in brilliant shades of gold and orange behind us.
"Perfect!" she called.
"Smile!"
Hazel groaned.
"I haven't had enough coffee to smile."
"Too late."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Ivy lowered the camera with a grin.
"Our followers are going to love this one."
"Only because you edit out the dark circles under my eyes," Hazel muttered.
"I call it good lighting."
"It's Photoshop."
"It's art."
"It's lying."
"It's marketing."
I laughed, shaking my head.
This.
This was why I never wanted to be anywhere else.
The marina.
My sisters.
The ocean.
It wasn't perfect.
Nothing ever was.
But it was ours.
I looked toward the harbor entrance where the first rays of sunlight danced across the water.
Grandpa had always insisted on one family tradition.
Whenever a Sinclair yacht left the dock, someone stayed behind until she disappeared beyond the horizon.
"No one in this family sails away without knowing someone will be waiting when they come home."
I hadn't missed a single departure since the day we lost Dad.
And I never would.
A black SUV rolled into the marina parking lot.
Then another.
Six men climbed out.
Duffel bags slung over broad shoulders.
Laughing.
Shoving each other.
One of them called across the parking lot.
"So..."
The tallest one groaned.
"Don't."
"You still have time to fake your own death."
Laughter erupted from the group.
Even from the man they were teasing.
But something caught my attention.
He smiled.
His eyes didn't.
I took another sip of coffee.
Without realizing it...
I kept watching him.