to settle in the suburbs of San Diego and have children—and Aurora didn’t. That had been years ago. She dated occasionally, but the men in her life were buddies and pals from the harbor, like Neil Harris, not soul mates. Aurora finally admitted the truth. She found the ocean more fascinating than any human being she’d ever met, and with her ingrained sense of justice, she couldn’t see herself as a homebound spouse to anyone. She preferred being her own boss; unfortunately, most men wanted it otherwise. And yet, she couldn’t help being fascinated by Jordan Castillo.
Aurora headed back to the deck and glanced at her watch. If he was like most sailors, who lived their lives based on the tides, he’d be prompt or even early.
Early it is. She recognized him as he parked his car in front of P dock, and walked toward the locked gate that led to the row of vessels. She hurried down to meet him.
“Ms. Collins?” he asked, the wire mesh and bars between them.
“Call me Rory,” she said, opening the gate. “Any trouble finding the place?”
“None at all.”
He passed through and they walked down the ramp to the slip—the long, concrete ramp where boats were maneuvered into U-shaped docking areas and secured to metal cleats with thick ropes.
“I’m down here on the right. Watch your step,” she warned as they approached her vessel. “I’ve got a sloppy neighbor.” Most boat owners were obsessively neat, either through years of habit as military navy or Coast Guard personnel, or through a healthy respect for the sea’s massive power. Her aft neighbor—loud, obnoxious and a weekend beer-guzzler—wasn’t.
“He never coils his lines,” she complained, automatically bending and reaching for the messy pile of rope and coiling it into a tight, flat circle. “And he still trips over them even when I do it for him.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell from half-empty beer cans left open and stinking on the deck. She poured them out, saying, “Hold on a sec while I run these to the recycle bin. It’s just outside the gate.”
“I’m surprised Harbor Patrol hasn’t ticketed him.” Jordan’s contempt came through loud and clear as he watched her hurry to the end of the slip.
“They have,” she called back, her voice carrying easily over the water. “He pays the tickets and keeps on drinking. Sooner or later he’ll get the boot. Until then...I’m stuck with the worst weekend slip neighbor in history. We don’t care for each other much.”
“You’re really packed in tight, too,” Jordan said. The concrete boarding area between the crafts was only a yard wide. He could touch the side of both vessels at once if he wanted.
“That’s California for you. Too many boats, not enough harbor. Now you know why we all have curtains.”
She sprinted back down the slip. “Here we are.” She gestured toward Neptune’s Bride with the pride any good captain felt about her ship and was rewarded by Jordan’s slight nod.
With the ingrained tradition born of hundreds of years of sailing history, Jordan waited until Aurora had boarded her and then, as owner and captain, spoke the age-old words giving him permission to join her.
“Welcome aboard.”
Only then did he mount the steps of the loading box, cross over the side and join her on deck.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
* * *
HALF AN HOUR LATER, a cool bottle of lemonade in his hand, Jordan sat outside with Aurora in the deck-bolted fishing chairs, mulling over the Atwells’ misfortunes. Sounds like the niece is a handful—and nothing like her aunt here. Aurora’s actually using her own finances to keep the family’s business going. If nothing else, the woman is loyal.
Jordan took more time to observe his surroundings. Neptune’s Bride was more than just shipshape. The vessel was a “woody,” an older model with a hardwood-planked hull, like galleons and like the old whaler Jordan himself used to own until the hurricane forced him into a modern fiberglass hull with cold, impersonal no-rust chrome-and-Plexiglas windows. He felt a stab of envy as he studied her vessel. The wood and brass gleamed with a smooth brightness that spoke of loving attention, not just the cursory minimum. Thick glass windows sparkled, with no trace of salt-air encrustation. Even the plastic buoys on line—inflated “bumpers” thrown out when docking to keep the wooden hull from scraping against the concrete slip—were free of harbor clams and seaweed.
Good captains come in all shapes and sizes, and this one is