Chapter 6 #2
The bunk opposite his sat empty. Philip had taken the most recent call, a large sailboat with a nervous skipper uncertain about navigating the narrow passage leading into Redemption.
Tate fumbled on the small nightstand—really just a wooden shelf suspended from the wall—and grabbed his iPad. Propping up both pillows, he sat up and opened the device.
When he’d decided to run for the open town council seat, Megan had helped him hire a designer online to create marketing materials.
For the last two days, he’d been checking his email frequently, hoping to see the finished digital assets.
He opened his email, scrolled through his inbox, then read the designer’s new message.
He opened the attachments, gnawing on his thumbnail as he waited for the images to load.
They were all right. Patriotic colors. A nice professional headshot he had taken when he was looking for a job and needed a résumé.
He could get these flyers and doorknob hangers printed.
Finding time to distribute them, especially with the election less than two months away, might be a challenge though.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he closed the email and opened a link regarding permits and regulations for film and TV production in Prince William Sound.
Surely reading through this would put him right to sleep.
But he could feel the stress swirling around him, because now all he did was worry.
What if something terrible happened? Why didn’t anyone else take these concerns seriously?
Why did Damian insist on filming a show in a setting where his actors—employees, whatever he wanted to call them—weren’t equipped to handle the elements?
A notification for an email popped up. Tate opened the message from their political representative in Juneau.
He’d sent her an email after the cook at Port Frisco cut her hand.
The woman acknowledged the concerns he’d raised about the risks of filming in the Alaskan wilderness but admitted there wasn’t much she could do to implement change.
“Splendid,” Tate growled, then kept reading.
Although plenty of shows were filmed in Alaska and there were measures in place to protect against injuries in the workplace, no one seemed interested in putting a stop to this because this growing industry benefited Alaska’s economy and promoted tourism.
So he was alone in his crusade to keep Scottie and her coworkers safe.
He closed the email, shut down the device, and settled into his bunk again, desperate for sleep.
But images of Scottie danced through his head—laughing, trying a roundoff back handspring on the tumbling mats in the gym when they were in high school.
She’d practiced for weeks and been so determined to put it into her cheer routine.
He hadn’t been able to watch. He’d had to leave the gym during the halftime performance at the homecoming basketball game, so stressed that she’d hurt herself.
Thankfully, she had not. The crowd had evidently loved her acrobatics.
Sighing, he flopped onto his back. Why did she have to be a risk-taker?
Why can’t you trust that I’m in control?
The thought flitted through, soft and subtle as a butterfly landing on a blooming flower.
No condemnation. More like a gentle nudge.
He opened his eyes and stared at the underside of the bunk overhead. He fumbled for his iPad and pulled up the Bible app. When it came to anxiety, Tate knew all the verses. Had memorized every single one, thank you.
“Don’t be anxious. Cast all your cares. Don’t worry about tomorrow because today has enough trouble of its own. I know the plans I have for you.”
He sighed, scrubbed his hand over his face, then put the iPad away without reading a specific passage.
He’d wrestled with anxiety his whole life, but it had only gotten worse after the fire at the resort.
The one that had caused his dad’s partial paralysis, destroyed their beloved building—well, half of it anyway.
The fire that had been his fault. Shame twisted his insides and he squeezed his eyes shut. If only he could just stop caring.
The rumble of an approaching engine grew louder. Then the houseboat rocked as the other vessel got closer. More water sloshed against the hull outside. That was probably Philip coming back from his callout.
Muffled voices echoed across the quiet cove.
Then the boat rocked some more, and the other vessel peeled away, its engine noise fading.
A few minutes later, footsteps thumped along the deck, the latch clicked, and the door eased open.
A familiar diesel-and-sea smell rolled in with Philip, his jacket damp, his dark beard lined with salt spray.
“Hey,” Philip whispered, voice low. “You awake?”
“Yep. Trying to read.”
It was true. He had tried to read. Just hadn’t been able to stick with it.
“Gotcha.” The closet door squeaked as Philip stowed his jacket and uniform shirt.
Boots thumped on the floor. “Redemption was a circus. Fog decided to do its thing right before we hit the breakwater. There’s a midnight salmon opener, so the seiners are all out waiting for the clock to strike twelve. ”
“Good times,” Tate said.
Somewhere nearby, a gull scolded a predator. The summer light kept its stubborn hold on the porthole.
Philip came back from visiting the head. “You want the fan turned on?”
“Sure.” Tate sighed. “I’ll take all the help I can get trying to fall asleep.”
“Ah.” A beat. “Doomscrolling again?”
“Regulations. Permits. Emails from Juneau telling me the economy needs a TV show and if some idiot loses a finger, it’s all covered by insurance.
” Tate glanced over at Philip, sitting on the edge of his bunk in faded gym shorts and an old Redemption High Pirates T-shirt.
“What if I get a callout and make a poor navigational decision because my brain is a soupy mess thinking about Damian making the show’s contestants rappel off a cliff with a selfie stick? ”
Philip breathed a slow laugh. “That’s a vivid image.”
“I’m exaggerating,” Tate said. “But the point is, no one cares until it’s too late.”
Philip let the quiet stretch. The houseboat lifted and settled, lifted and settled. “Can I say something without you throwing your pillow at me?”
“Probably going to throw it anyway.”
“Fair.” Philip tunneled his fingers through his hair. “Sometimes, you behave as though you broke something in the world, so every time you see the proverbial iceberg floating on the horizon, it’s somehow your job to reroute every vessel.”
Tate stared at the porthole until his vision blurred. “That’s not wrong.”
“I didn’t say it was wrong. Most of the time, we value your attention to detail.
Your need to check a forecast twice, or read a chart three times, or patiently push back when you encounter an egotistical captain.
You do your job well. Because you’re equipped.
You’ve got the training and the instincts. ”
“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Tate said.
“We all have blind spots. Areas where we struggle. The good news is that what we lack, God will provide.”
Tate swallowed, throat tight. “I know the verses.”
“Knowing and leaning on the truth are different,” Philip said. “Leaning is ugly sometimes because it means we have to be brave. It’s asking for help or taking that nap instead of zoning out on a device so you don’t run on fumes. It’s admitting you’re scared. It’s also letting God be God.”
“I don’t want people I care about to get hurt because of someone else’s reckless choices.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Philip said, yawning. “I’ve been awake for far too long. My pithy wisdom is about to run out.”
The fan hummed on as Philip flicked the switch with his toe, a breath of cool air pushing through their berth.
“You ever think,” Tate said, “that if I didn’t care so much, I’d be easier to be around?”
“Your caring isn’t the issue so much as your fear.”
“Ouch.”
“Here’s the thing.” Philip tugged his sheet and thin comforter up to his chest. “Fear says you have to control everything to be safe. Love says do the next right thing and trust God with the rest. You care because you love. That’s good.
But when the fear gets loud, you don’t need to wrestle with it alone.
You call me. You pray. You write it down. But then you let it go.”
Tate rolled onto his side. “What if I mess up again?”
“You will,” Philip said, chuckling. “And I will too. Through it all, God will still be who He is. He didn’t save you because you were going to pilot a perfect life. He saved you because He wants you and loves you.”
Tate shut his eyes. The words landed softly this time instead of riling him up. Philip had a way of saying what needed to be said without instigating an argument.
“Hey, Tate?” Philip murmured.
“Yeah?”
“I appreciate you. I’m glad we get to work together.”
Tate’s breath hitched. “Thanks. Me too.”
“Good night,” Philip said.
“Good night.” Tate stifled a groan.
Seriously, dude? Philip is kind and gracious, and all you’ve got is “Me too”?
He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. The old embarrassment flared. Classic move on his part. Always clamming up at the worst possible time. No wonder Scottie hadn’t ever considered him more than a friend. Because he’d never had the courage to tell her how he truly felt.
It was time to change that.