Stranded With The Captain. Sharon Hartley
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“Could we catch it and remove the line?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
The large brown bird, seeming to know he was being discussed, turned his back on Cat and Javi.
The captain reached into one of his many pockets and removed an instrument that looked like pliers. He handed them to Cat. She looked down at the metal device, which was warm from his body heat.
“Snips,” he said in explanation. “I’m seldom without them on Spree.”
Because something is always in need of repair? Great. “Do you have a plan?”
“Stay there,” Javi said. “Don’t make any loud noise or sudden movements.”
“So you’ve done this before?” Cat asked.
“Way too often. Fishermen all over the world cut and release that damned monofilament line, never thinking about the harm it does when tangled up with sea life.” He shook his head. “The ocean can be a scary place.”
Removing the towel from his shoulders, the captain moved to the other side of the bird. The pelican nervously eyed them, but Javi took slow, steady steps, almost in slow motion.
Just as the bird lifted his wings to fly away, Javi grasped him by his bill and held the bird against his body with the towel.
“You’re okay, boy,” the captain said in a soothing voice. “You’re okay.”
The pelican squirmed, but Javi kept him under control, never removing his hand from the bill.
“I didn’t see a hook,” he said. “Can you see one?”
Cat studied how the line looped around the bird’s bill. “No. I think he’s just all tangled up.”
“Good. Or else we’d have to call the rescue station.”
“Can he breathe with you holding him like that?” she asked.
“I’m not holding him that tightly. Are you the nervous type?”
“What?” Cat looked at Javi rather than the bird. Actually, she was. Was it that obvious?
“I need you to cut the line while I’ve got him restrained. Can you do that? Like maybe now.”
Cat took a deep breath, her gaze back on the struggling animal. “As long as you hold him so he doesn’t bite me.”
“Trust me. I’ve got him.”
Trust him? Not in a million years, but she stepped closer, searching where to make the first snip. Years of repotting had taught her how to use cutting tools and that she had to choose wisely. Once cuts were made, there were no do-overs.
But orchid plants didn’t squirm and glare at her with huge, terrified eyes.
“Careful not to poke the bird,” Javi said.
“Yeah, I get that,” Cat said. “The line is dug in deep in some places.”
“I can’t hold him all day.”
Her decision made, Cat made two quick snips, and most of the line fell away. The pelican eyed her with wild-eyed suspicion as she snipped two more times. As she gently plucked away the remaining line, the bird thrashed harder in Javi’s arms.
With the bill now free, the captain released the bird, who flapped away with an outraged guttural squawk.
“You’re welcome,” Javi yelled at the fleeing pelican.
“Will he be okay?” Cat asked.
Javi shrugged. “Should be. I don’t think he was hung up too long.” He looked down at himself, brushed dirt—or maybe poop—and a brown feather from his stomach and made a face. “I guess I need another shower.”
“Sorry,” Cat said, her focus on the captain’s tight abs, which no question were filthy from his contact with the bird. Lucky bird.
“Thanks for helping,” she said.
The captain executed a crisp salute. “At least someone is grateful. See you on Spree.”
Cat watched him move back toward the shower, but he turned and said, “Good job, Irish. You saved that bird’s life.”
Her face grew warm with pleasure. She knew her cheeks were beet red, but she didn’t care. Praise was something she seldom heard, and it felt good even if the appreciation came from a sail-bum pirate.
A totally hot sail-bum pirate.
Humming to herself, she reversed course and returned to Spree. She needed to celebrate with another cup of the captain’s coffee. Plus, saving Parky the Pelican had worked up an appetite. She’d whip up some breakfast and see if that woke up her friends.
She was on vacation. She wanted to go sailing.
* * *
WHEN JAVI RETURNED to Spree, he carried a large fileted mahimahi donated by the crew of Growler that would make an excellent dinner tonight for his charterers. As he pulled on the dock line, he sniffed the enticing aroma of bacon and suspected Irish had beaten him to the task of making breakfast. Maybe helping with the injured bird had earned him a few points.
Once on deck he heard voices, so at least one of the other women was awake. Good. The tide had already begun to change, and he wanted to be out of the channel before dead low tide at noon.
Reminding himself to behave like a professional boat captain, he descended into the main cabin and found all three women at the table. In the center was an open bottle of champagne, a container of orange juice and three of Spree’s plastic wine flutes filled with mimosas.
His gaze went immediately to Irish, who nibbled on her lower lip, looking worried. When their eyes met, a faint flush stained her cheeks and she smiled. The brunette, Joan—he needed to remember their names—sat across from her, staring at the blonde, Debbie, slumped against the seat next to Irish. The plate of eggs in front of Debbie had barely been touched. The other two plates were empty.
“Good morning, ladies,” Javi said, forcing a smile. Morning mimosas weren’t so unusual. And it wasn’t his job to judge how much liquor his charterers drank. Or how early they started.
Debbie raised her mimosa in greeting. “Hail the return of the conquering hero.”
“I told them about the injured pelican,” Irish said quickly. With a glare at Deb, Irish held up a camera. “I showed them a photo I took of the poor guy before you untangled him.”
“That was nice of you,” Joan said. “Thanks.”
“Irish helped,” Javi said. “Definitely a two-person job.”
“Irish?” Joan asked. “Who’s Irish?”
Javi nodded at Cat. “Don’t you think the lassie looks like she’s from the Emerald Isle?” he asked, faking an Irish brogue. He tried to catch her eye and wink, but she looked down, fussing with her camera.
“What’s that?” Debbie said, sniffing the air. She pointed at the wrapped package.
“Fresh fish for dinner.” Javi stashed the mahimahi in the cooler. “I’ll grill it when we’re at anchor tonight.”
“Oh, please don’t mention food,” Debbie said with a groan. “Cat tried to make me puke with her bacon and eggs at the crack of dawn.”
“Are you sick?” Javi asked.
“Nothing that a little hair of the dog won’t cure.” Debbie downed the rest of the pale yellow liquid in her glass, and poured more champagne from the bottle.
“We’ve got aspirin on board if you need it,” Javi offered.
“I’m fine,” Debbie said, settling back against the seat with her flute.
“Would