Chapter 4
The Pirate Regatta is one big party on the sea. In fact, it is more party, less pirate. It should be renamed the Party Regatta.
In every boat we pass, the captains and crew are laughing, singing along to music on their stereos, and drinking rum straight from the bottle.
From what I can tell, scavenging the items on the laminated lists seems to be a secondary concern. The fishermen are more interested in outmaneuvering each other’s weathered boats with speed and tricks.
I stand with my feet spread wide, bracing against the ups and downs of the rolling waves. And the unexpected attack of a rival.
“This is madness. I get the feeling that you’re not chugging rum like they are because I’m here.”
Keston chuckles. “You’re partly right. I stopped drinking like them while recovering from my injury. But I can always get back to it. To be like a real pirate.”
“No thanks. I prefer my pirates in theory, not reality.”
Keston leans forward as the boat leaps like a hurdler over a blue mini wall of water.
“Sit down, honey. It’s going to get worse.”
“Worse than this?”
Standing up and holding onto the dashboard seemed safer than a seat with no seatbelts.
But I decide to follow instructions. Just this once.
I plop down into the seat. “You should have seatbelts.”
He presses one of his extremely muscled calves back against my legs. “Hold on to this.”
I scoff. “Please. Just because I told you once that you possess the sexiest calves I’ve ever seen. Now I have to hear about them all the time.”
He glances back at me. “I have other fine attributes.”
Before I can respond, a rival boat, the African Queen, squeals up to ours. A man I know as Captain Shaq tosses something into our boat.
“Is that a fish?” I shriek. “Oh my God. It’s alive.” I pull my legs up off the floor.
The long, silvery fish flops about, gasping for air.
Keston doesn’t slow down.
The rugged fisherman who doubles as a lifeguard at the beaches laughs like it’s the biggest joke ever.
“Loverboy, you’ll have to stop now!” yells Captain Shaq.
“Never!” Keston growls. “Watch your backs. That rum is mine!”
Keston sounds like a crazed pirate.
“Your New York lady won’t touch that fish,” Shaq shouts as Keston edges past his boat. “You’ll have to stop.” He salutes me, “Sorry, miss.”
As we speed off, I hear the deep rumbles of laughter coming from other boats behind us.
“It’s a setup,” Keston grouses.
“You all are evil,” I shout across the waves at the men I’ve come to know from going with Keston to buy fresh fish almost daily at the jetty in Roucou, the village nearest his home.
But all the fish we bought were filleted, wrapped in brown paper, and tied with string.
Not this flopping and flailing sea creature eyeballing me.
“I can’t watch him die,” I cry. “He’s staring into my eyes. He knows death is close at hand.”
“Close at hand?” Keston huffs. “What is this, a fairytale?”
“Help him, Keston. Don’t let him die like this.”
The boat churns through the waves. White water kicks up behind us in a giant spray.
I feel exactly like this fish. Out of my element.
Keston doesn’t slow down.
“I’m not losing this race, CJ.”
“I’m not watching that fish die!”
Part of me wonders what he’ll do. It’s a completely foreign situation for me. Even when we were stranded on No Man’s Land, I didn’t have to confront a large dying fish.
It’s the same way I wondered last week what Keston would do when the donkey showed up in his yard. It had ginormous teeth. It walked straight up the clothesline and dragged off my favorite sundress.
Keston had laughed at the donkey parading around with my dress over its eyes.
“Stop!” I shouted at the donkey. “Bring that back!”
I stayed on the porch because I didn’t want to get too close to it.
Keston thought it was hilarious.
I swatted his arm. “Do something!”
The donkey turned and ran down the dirt road, still wearing my pink flowered sundress.
“He can’t see. He’ll have an accident.” I couldn’t understand why Keston found it so funny.
“It’s a she.”
“Like that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
He shrugged. “She probably just wants to borrow your dress.”
“Well, can you please get it back for me?” I pointed at the road to show him I meant right now!
He could barely stop laughing long enough to jump on his rusty motorbike.
I leaped on the back thinking it would be a fast and furious experience. Find the donkey, wheel the bike in front of it to stop its progress, and rescue the dress.
By the time we reached the donkey, a bunch of teenagers in school uniforms were laughing and taking pictures of the donkey in a pink dress on their phones.
Even Keston whipped out his phone and took a picture.
Part of me was mad everyone thought the donkey ruining a perfectly good dress was funny. The other part was worried I had to stop their fun. I didn’t want to get a reputation of being a party pooper.
As the poor fish is gasping for its last breaths, I’m caught between similar conflicting feelings.
Part of me is mad the fishermen are playing practical jokes on me, and Keston won’t slow down to do anything about it.
The other part is worried that Captain Shaq is right. I’m too much of a New Yorker to touch a live fish.
I expected some culture clashes but not over things like a donkey and a fish.
As if sensing my inner turmoil, Keston says, “You know when we catch fish, this is what happens to them, right? They die. We cook them. You eat it without complaint. But they die first.”
I stare at the poor fish.
“That’s a kingfish. It’ll be delicious in a fish soup tonight.”
Maybe it’s imagining this pretty silvery fish all cut up that pulls me out of my shock.
I jump out of the boat seat, bend down, and grab the large fish with both hands by its tail. This isn’t easy because the fish is heavy and slippery, and its tail has a spiky fringe.
I swing the fish hard and toss it over the side of the boat.
It leaps up and over a wave, flashes its tail at me, and disappears under the sea.
“Whew!” I exclaim, turning to smile broadly at Keston.
“I did it.” I feel a sense of real pride in saving its life.
“There goes our dinner.”
“Sorry. But if I’m going to eat fish, I don’t want to have a stare-down with it first.”
“I’m proud of you, sweetie,” he cuddles my head to his chest. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
“Why didn’t you slow down and do it yourself?”
“One, you can’t slow down out here. The water is rough, and there are rocks everywhere. Two, I knew you could. Remind me to reward you later.” He licks his lips. Leans back and looks pointedly at my breasts.
“You are horrible.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me that tonight.”
Damn! My nipples are hardening under his bold stare. I cross my arms. “Just drive the boat.”