They brought him to the captain’s quarters, still soaking but with a towel over his shoulders. A pair of hands, too, guiding him through the doorway and into a small room lined with nautical charts. They showed him to his chair. It sat opposite a metal desk and the captain behind it. Captain Konecny, the diminutive Serbian-American in charge of the mighty Batchewana. He sat there, tapping his pen against a hardcover book. Cole looked for the book’s title, but the spine was facing the captain.

“I was hoping you could shed some light on this,” Captain Konecny said.

“Okay.”

“It was brought to my attention, that you . . . entered a restricted area of the Batchewana.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“Oh,” Cole said. “Where?”

“On the other side of the fucking railing.”

Cole took the towel and dragged it across his face several times. His hair and face were mostly dry. His clothes, however . . .

“I’m not making a mess, am I?” he said.

“I’d say you were.”

“I mean your chair.”

“I mean your stunt out there.” Konecny dropped his pen flat on the book. “Are you drunk?”

Cole rose off the chair a few inches, sliding his hand underneath to check the wood. It was getting damp from his rain-soaked pants.

“You’re drunk,” the captain said, this time with a hint of finality, like he’d come to some definitive conclusion.

“Sir,” Cole said. “Captain . . . I wasn’t aware that it was a restricted area.”

“You didn’t know that you shouldn’t hang off the fucking rails in forty-foot seas?”

“It wasn’t my intention.” He waited as Konecny’s eyes narrowed on him. “Creating a panic like that, I mean. That wasn’t my intention. So I apologize.”

“What was your intention?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you on any type of medication?” the captain asked, his head to the side. “And I mean any type.”

“No.” His eyes drifted over to a map of the Pacific behind the captain.

“Maybe you need some, then.”

“That’s okay, Captain.”

“I can arrange for something in the meantime. Two of my officers.”

“I’m fine,” Cole said. “Without meds, or your officers.”

“One for each arm. They could hold you down the rest of the way. We’re not too far off.”

“That’s okay.”

“A psychiatric hold,” Captain Konecny said, reclining back in his chair. “You know enough about the business. You know that I have that sort of authority.”

“Maybe I’ll just head back to my cabin. And stay there.”

“With Tom and Ed Park.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Cole said. “I’ll be good.”

“You’ll be nice and quiet that way. We could even lock you in somewhere, for your safety.”

Cole chuckled at the thought. He was an amusing man, this Konecny. A short, squat, and funny man.

“Sure,” Konecny said. “Laugh. They’re ancient customs, the maritime stuff. But they still apply. Especially to the mentally deranged, like yourself, who can’t help themselves.”

“I can help myself,” Cole said. “I’ll behave. I promise.”

The captain gave a quick nod to someone at the door. And then he looked at Cole. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Cole got up and left the room, unassisted.

* * *

The door to his private cabin closed with a satisfying click. He was alone again, this time indoors. The last time had offered fresh sea air, an invigorating breeze, and a nice view into the dark-blue oblivion. It was what Cole had to look forward to, before sets of hands had come rushing in, snatching him up and away. Those hands carried him over the rails and then propped him back onto his feet. One of the hands wasn’t so friendly, smacking him hard across the face. Then the voices came in, asking him—in a wide range of politeness—just what the hell he was doing out there.

He didn’t have an answer.

He stripped out of his wet clothes, peeling them off and hanging them over the back of a chair. He stood in the middle of his room, naked, thinking that he should have gone out that way. Symbolically. And maybe they’d be a little less inclined to grab him. Bare-ass naked.

Or maybe not.

He climbed into bed, pulling the sheets over himself, halfway up his chest. With his head stretching back against the pillow, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He saw the ocean again, the choppy tops of waves swelling against the haul, lifting him up high in the air. Then pitching him down, deep and dark. The oblivion again, it’s cool expanse staring back at him. What else was waiting under those choppy waters?

A cheap Mozart ringtone pulled Cole away from the sea, his attention focused on the vibrating piece of plastic on his night stand. He wondered for a second if the plastic was hard enough, and if he could throw hard enough, for his smart phone to make it clear through the glass of his porthole. If anything deserved to be at the bottom of the sea, it was that damned phone. And perhaps the person on the other end.

“What do you want?” was Cole’s greeting.

Silence was his response.

Cole checked the screen again, double-checking for a name, a number. But nothing showed up.

“Hello?”

Not even static. Just dead silence. He waited a few seconds before powering off his phone, shutting it down completely, and tossing it across the bed. It landed next to his foot. Cole’s leg moved underneath the blanket, the fabric bunching up into a wave that pushed the phone to the edge of the bed. And off the bed, his phone hitting the floor with a plastic slapping sound.

Cole stretched out and closed his eyes again, and saw nothing. No choppy seas. No island work. No expectations at all.