From the end of the dock, the four of them waved, watching Steven and Olivia pull away in the car. Once they’d disappeared, Frankie placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the kids. Jack wondered if she could tell that Bridger was unhappy about her being a woman, but if she knew, she didn’t let on. Instead, she began to bark out orders like a real ship’s captain.
Pointing briskly, she went down the line. “Jack, you load up the rest of the gear that’s right by your feet. Bridger, you take that cooler on board and stow it between the captain’s chair and the gunwale. Ashley, you’re going to get the line off the piling, and when
I tell you, throw it onto the boat deck and then jump in after it. Don’t wait too long, or the boat’ll get away from you and you’ll end up with an Everglades bath.”
“I’ll untie the boat for her,” Bridger offered.
“Nonsense. Ashley’s as agile as a monkey. You handle the cooler, and Ashley will take care of the rest. But first, Bridger, take off those boots!”
For a moment, Bridger stood stock still, his face reddening slightly to match the red in his plaid cotton shirt. “Why?” he asked.
“No boots on board! They’ll gouge the deck. If you don’t have any boat shoes with you, like Jack and Ashley are wearing, then you can just stay in your sock feet.”
Bridger got even redder. Finally, touching the brim of his hat, he said, “Yes, ma’am,” so softly that Jack was sure Frankie hadn’t heard, except that she sent another smile in Bridger’s direction. He sat down to take off his boots.
Jack jumped down into the Pescadillo. From there he reached up to the dock to pick up the gear, one box at a time, transferring it into the boat. Bridger, still on the dock, lifted the cooler and set the boots on top of it, intending to hold everything while he lowered himself into the boat.
“Maybe you ought to…” Jack began as Bridger put one foot on the boat’s edge, which Frankie had called the gunwale. But Bridger shook his head. He wobbled a little—the cooler was heavy, the boat moved from the dock under the pressure of his foot, and his socks must have felt pretty slippery on the teakwood gunwale.
Jack halfway reached out to help, but Bridger frowned in concentration, as though this were some kind of athletic competition, and by sheer willpower he could figure out how to balance himself and his heavy load on the narrow rim. And he did. After sizing it all up, he took one more step and then jumped, landing flatfooted in the boat, with his balance and the cooler intact. He didn’t grin in satisfaction, but just gave a short, sharp nod to no one in particular, stowed the cooler beside the captain’s chair, and set his boots alongside a white vinyl bench.
Out of the corner of her eye, Frankie had watched the whole episode. All she said was, “Hop to it, Ashley. All aboard that’s goin’ aboard.” Ashley undid the line from the cleat on the piling, threw it into the boat, then scrambled quickly after it.
“All right, crew, line up and get your life jackets,” Frankie ordered. “One per customer—pull them out of the box there.”
“What about you, Frankie?” Ashley asked. “You need to wear one too, don’t you?”
“Um…ah…” Frankie hedged, and then said, “Yes, you’re absolutely right. Watch me and you can see how to buckle these things.” After they’d all slipped their arms through the pillowy orange life jackets and fastened the straps, Frankie said, “Now let’s shove off and see what we can find out there in the land of Ten Thousand Islands.” In an instant the diesel engine caught and roared. Jack could feel the vibrations under his feet.
“Sticking close to shore the way we are now, I’ve got to go slow,” Frankie told them. “The water’s no more than four feet deep here, which makes it easy to run over manatees, something we definitely don’t want to do.”
Even their slow passage stirred up a nice breeze, enough to whip Frankie’s hair into short white spikes that looked like peaks of meringue. Surely, deftly, she handled the steering wheel as though she and the boat were lifelong friends. After a while, Frankie told them, “The trick to maneuvering through these mangrove islands is to know where the channels are. We’ve passed the town of Chokoloskee now, so I’ll let her out a little.” She pushed the throttle forward on the starboard side of the helm.
“We were in Chokoloskee last night—” Jack had started to say, but before he could get it out, the Pescadillo leaped forward and his words were sucked back into his throat.
“Wow! This is great!” Ashley cried loudly, so she could be heard above the motor and the sudden rush of wind. “Feels like someone just turned on the air conditioning.” She stood at the helm, next to Frankie, who effortlessly steered through the tea-colored water.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, Jack called, “How fast can this boat go?”
“Seventeen knots when we’re in the Gulf.” The boat’s bow pushed toward turquoise sky as Jack and Bridger settled back onto the white vinyl bench.
Bridger kept reaching up to hold onto his hat, until a gust of wind almost whipped it off his head into the boat’s wake. Grudgingly, he pushed his Stetson underneath the bench. Jack noticed a white band of skin that stretched from Bridger’s eyebrows into his pale hair, as though his forehead had never seen sunlight.
Jerking his chin toward the front of the boat, Bridger said, “That Frankie’s kinda bossy, isn’t she?”
“Maybe. But I like her,” Jack answered.
It seemed Bridger was about to say more, but he stopped when Ashley turned, wide-eyed, to yell, “Jack, Bridger—look over the right side of the boat!”
“Starboard,” Frankie corrected. “Seems like we’ve got ourselves an escort. There’s another one portside, too.”
Jack leaned over the side as far as he could reach. Water sprayed his face in a cool mist, and the teakwood gunwale felt wet beneath his fingers. He had to strain forward until he saw them. Next to the boat’s bow, leaping into the air like silver streaks of light, were two dolphins. For once, Jack didn’t reach for his camera. He didn’t want to pull his eyes away for even a second; magically, the dolphins disappeared into the water, only to reappear like the flash of needles through satin. “They love the waves the boat makes,” Frankie called over her shoulder. “They’re playing with us.”
Over and over again, the dolphins shot up through the bow waves, turned on their sides, and slapped the white, foaming water. Once, when Bridger leaned out too far, one of the dolphins clapped its tail hard enough to splash him in an amber shower.
“Hey—watch it!” he shouted.
“They’re rascals,” Frankie laughed. “Don’t feel bad, Bridger, they’ve gotten me many a time, too. Dolphins are some of the smartest animals on this planet. Sometimes I think they’ve got us humans beat.”
Scowling, Bridger bent down to lift his Stetson from beneath his seat. Water dripped off its rim in a tiny rivulet. “Dang!” he muttered. “Soaked. My socks, too.”
“Say good-bye to the dolphins, kiddos. We’ve got to slow down again, and they’ll only play with us if there’s a wake to jump in.” When Frankie pulled back on the throttle, the waves died to a ripple. As if on cue, the dolphins glided away and disappeared from sight. Only then did Jack realize that he’d let them get away without taking a single picture.
Even though the boat rocked beneath her, Frankie seemed rooted to the deck floor. With one arm outstretched, she pointed to a narrow passage that sliced between two islands of mangrove trees.
“Down that way—see where I’m pointing? Some of the best fishing in the Everglades is in there. If you’re not afraid, I’ll take you to fish near a special spot called the Watson Place.”
“What do you mean, ‘afraid?’” Bridger asked. He shook his Stetson, trying to get the wet