Chapter Four
Banderas Bay is a lot bigger than it looks. We cruise through the water, picking up speed the farther we head into the bay, but after a half hour we’re still working our way toward the middle.
Sailing is surprisingly relaxing. The water is smooth, and sunlight filters through the clouds in a pretty way—so long as we ignore the dark and grumpy clouds on the horizon.
Birds fly beside the boat. Locals in water taxis wave at us and Captain Keith, and I’m relieved to see some other people on the water.
We reach the crowded main stretch of Puerto Vallarta. The beaches are packed with colorful lounge chairs, straw umbrellas, and beachfront restaurants.
“That’s Los Muertos Beach and the pier,” Keith shouts at us over the wind, turning down the volume on his dance pop playlist or whatever’s been screaming through the speakers.
The pier juts out into the water with curved walkways around a sail-shaped sculpture of twisted metal. It looks pretty cool.
“At night the pier lights up and changes color, and the beach is really nice on the south side here. A little crowded though.” He looks over at us with a glint in his eye.
“Legend has it, the beach got its name from a brutal pirate attack. A group of gold miners were supposedly caught unaware while loading up their riches. Pirates killed them all and left their bodies on the beach. There are probably still bones beneath all those lounge chairs…”
I’m clearly more freaked out by the idea of a bunch of skeletons buried beneath families eating lunch than Jackson is.
When I glance over at him on the bench seat across from me, he’s got a familiar glint in his eye—one that only makes an appearance when he hears a particularly terrifying true crime story.
“I’ll never understand your fascination with the dead,” I tell him.
Jackson grins. “What can I say? I love a good murder mystery, and who doesn’t appreciate a pirate twist? That makes everything more entertaining.”
His eyes almost sparkle, and my stomach does somersaults.
I force myself to look past him at the water. “Sorry, matey,” I tell him, “but the survival stories are better.”
“This is why you’re going into nursing, and I’m studying criminal science. You want to save the living, and I want to avenge the dead.”
“Even dead miners who may or may not have existed?”
He splays a hand across his chest in mock offense. “Justice has no expiration date, Hannah Banana.”
As much as I try not to, I laugh. That’s the problem with Jackson: He’s so damn consistent.
He’s charming, and kind, and funny. He’s always showing up for Emmy—and for me.
There’s a reason I’ve been crushing on him for a decade, and it’s not because he’s hot as hell. Well, not only because he’s hot.
He’s also good. To his bones, he’s good. It’s hard to get over someone like that.
As we make our way south, Captain Keith points up the sheer cliffs at huge houses clustered at the top. “We’re getting a glimpse at the rich and famous. This is Conchas Chinas, or as I like to call it, the Beverly Hills of Puerto Vallarta.”
The boat cuts through the water, casting spray at my face.
The breeze almost instantly dries it, only to be misted again a second later.
The sail is gigantic, shifting slightly every time Captain Keith pulls another rope or adjusts our direction.
Ben was right, Captain Keith really knows what he’s doing.
He commands the boat like it’s an extension of himself, easily bounding around to tend to this, move that. Smiling the entire time.
I suppose the Nickelback tattoo can be forgiven.
Almost an hour down the coast, Captain Keith turns more inland to show us a cove with a smattering of buildings along the sand. Dozens of boats are anchored inside the cove.
“This is Yelapa,” he shouts. “If Banderas Bay is a clock, the north end of the bay at twelve, then Puerto Vallarta is at three o’clock, Conchas Chinas is at four, and Yelapa is straight down at six o’clock. Seven o’clock through eleven o’clock is straight ocean, baby.”
A blur of motion to my right makes me jump, and Emmy plops down beside me with a giant grin. Her lips are pink and puffy in that “just made out for over an hour” way.
“What did I miss?” she asks, brightly.
“Um, everything.”
She smiles and turns to the captain. “Captain Keith! What did I miss?”
He laughs over the sound of the waves, but he obliges her. “I was telling your friends that this is Yelapa. It’s a cove town, only accessible by boat.”
“Seriously?” Emmy holds a hand above her eyes so she can see. Her sunshine hair blows toward me as she does.
“Seriously. A lot of these little coastal towns are only accessible by water taxi. The jungle is so thick and dangerous it makes roads impossible. Not to mention those mountains back there?” He points to the rolling hills of jungle beyond.
“Those are the Sierra Madre mountains. Some would argue that’s the most dangerous mountain range in Mexico. ”
Jackson slides over to our side of the bench as we move along that imaginary clock of the bay, leaving Yelapa behind. “Wouldn’t want my boat to break down out here.”
Captain Keith nods, pushing his sunglasses up his nose with a knuckle.
“That happened to me once. Not here in the bay, but much farther north.” He lets out a shrill whistle.
“That was one shit afternoon. If my temperamental radio chose that day to crap out, I could have been out there for days. There was nothing but water and empty beach for miles and going ashore and hiking in is not an option. These mountains don’t mess around.
Getting stuck on a stretch of mainland between towns is a bit like washing up on a deserted island. ”
Emmy’s eyes are the size of sand dollars. “That’s…awesome.”
Captain Keith grins at her. “Don’t worry. We’re not recreating Cast Away on my watch.” He takes a deep drink from his water bottle by the wheel.
A gust of wind catches in the sails, blowing our hair over our shoulders, and the boat leans to the right. I grab the railing along the back of the bench seat as our side lifts into the air.
Ben wobbles up beside Emmy and wraps an arm around her. “Are you guys seriously talking about getting stranded? Where’s your sense of joy? Bunch of downers over here.” He pulls his other hand from behind his back and thrusts a full bottle of tequila at us. “Luckily I brought the cure for downers.”
“Did you also bring the cure for your future hangover?” Jackson asks.
Ben lets go of Emmy and leans over to slap Jackson on the shoulder. “How’s that stick up your ass, man? Any plans to remove it or what?”
Jackson scowls at him, and Ben throws his head back and laughs. “Come on, we’re supposed to be making the most of your last full day in Mexico. Time to relax.”
He grabs Emmy’s hand and starts hauling her toward the front of the boat, and she reaches back to drag me with them.
When we reach the front, Ben spreads out a blue-and-white-striped hotel towel and flops down.
I sink cross-legged on the edge, careful not to sit on the flat square hatch beside me.
I cup a hand against the dark acrylic window and peek in, looking down onto the lower corner of a mattress.
Probably Captain Keith’s bedroom. Emmy all but climbs into Ben’s lap, and Jackson leans silently against the front of the boat. I’m shocked he followed us.
Ben produces a stack of plastic cups and grapefruit-flavored soda from his backpack. He pours a generous splash of tequila and soda into each cup and hands them out. When we each have one, he holds his aloft with another grin.
“The poor man’s Paloma. When in Mexico, right?”
Ben and Emmy are the only ones who drink. I set mine politely at my feet, and Jackson dumps his over the side when he thinks nobody’s looking. He’s never been much of a drinker.
Ben slaps his hand against the deck. “So, Stick in the Mud. What’s your life like when you’re not babysitting your beautiful sister?”
Jackson mimes another gag.
“He’s studying criminal justice,” Emmy answers for him. “He’s in his second year at Portland State.”
“Ah, that explains the murder books you’re always carrying around,” Ben says. “And that shirt.”
Jackson says nothing, but he frowns down at his shirt like he’s offended on Sherlock Holmes’s behalf.
“So you’re going to be a cop or something?”
“Not exactly. I’m not sure what I want to do yet. I’d like to be a criminal profiler or work in forensic science or crime scene investigation. Lately I’ve been leaning more toward victim advocacy.”
Ben frowns. “What the hell is victim advocacy?”
The boat rises and falls over a wave, and Jackson holds onto one of the wires attached to the mast until the boat levels out again.
“Exactly what it sounds like. Victim advocates work with victims of a crime to help them navigate the justice system. Sometimes they accompany victims to court. They gather resources, help with legal aid, get financial assistance, develop safety plans—that kind of thing. They basically make sure that the cops and courts respect a victim’s rights, so they don’t get lost in the system. ”
“Hmmm.” Ben blows out a breath. “Sounds boring to me, but okay. What about you, Hannah?”
Boring? Making life easier for survivors to get justice sounds boring to him? My fingers find the friendship bracelet, and I start spinning it around my wrist. “What about me?”
“Emmy said you’re sticking close to home for school next year. Where did you get in?”
“I’m going to Linfield University in the fall. It’s about a half an hour from home.”
“Do you know what you’re going to school for?”
“Nursing. I want to work in trauma.”
I see Jackson smile from the corner of my eye, but Ben seems confused. “That’s…a choice. I bet your parents are thrilled. Trauma nursing sounds impressive. Not as impressive as being a full doctor, but up there.”