'Sure honey, but call first, OK?' she told him. Like he was some John.
'I'll do that.' He jumped into the open car and started the engine.
'Nice car,' she said. 'Are you sure you didn't rob a bank?'
'Not yet,' he repeated and waving stiffly, drove off, trying not to floor the gas pedal and look like he was suddenly desperate to be away from her. And at the same time ashamed. Ashamed for what he felt he was. Just another john in his sister's life, giving her money and then going away again. His own sister. His own sister.
Kate Furey was giving Kent Bowen a tour of the boat. The Carrera was moored alongside dozens of other yachts on Fort Lauderdale's intercoastal waterway, and a stone's throw from R.J.'s Landing, one of the dockside area's better restaurants. Bowen had already suggested lunching there, but Kate had told him they had too much to do getting him up to speed with the lexicon of yachts and their equipment. She had already figured out a way around his lack of boating knowledge, but she wanted to punish him a little for not being scared off with all her best stories about squalls and seasickness. A water taxi slipped by with a couple dressed up to get married. They waved, and from the sunny skylounge aft deck where he and Kate were standing, Bowen waved back.
'You haven't been listening to a word I've said.'
'Sure I have,' said Bowen.
Unconvinced, Kate pointed toward the davits above their heads. She said, 'OK, what are those?'
'You mean those things holding up the boat?'
Kate made an inhuman noise that sounded like the wrong answer button on a TV game show.
'Incorrect. That isn't a boat. It's a tender. As in Tender is the Night. But don't get any ideas. And the tender is attached to? What?'
'A crane, I guess.'
Kate made the noise again. She said, 'Davits. Those are davits, dammit. Look sir. Kent. This isn't going to work unless you become a little more familiar with the right names for things. You won't, thank God, have to try and sail this boat. But the chances are you'll have to talk about her with people from other boats. You know? Like you're proud of her? And by the way, those shoes you're wearing? They'll have to go.'
Bowen glanced down at his Air Nikes.
'What's wrong with them?'
Kate shook her head firmly and said, 'They're not proper boat shoes, that's what's wrong with them. A real boatman wouldn't be seen dead in those things. But we can fix that. We can stop off somewhere along Las Olas on our way down to the port. There's bound to be a man's shop, or a chandler's somewhere on the boulevard. Docksiders are best. Leather uppers, flat rubber soles. At least you can look the part even if you screw up on the glossary.'
Kate walked through a glass doorway and into the salon where a large and extremely comfortable leather couch, arranged aft to port, faced an enormous TV. A smaller sofa and narrow built-in counter with maple wood cabinets lined the starboard side of the salon. The arrangement of furnishings prompted Kate to ask Bowen yet another question. She pointed at a circular, six-place dining table that was located forward of where they were now standing.
'Am I pointing to port or to starboard?'
Bowen thought for a moment. Impatiently Kate started to click her fingers at him.
He said, 'Port.'
'C'mon, it's got to come faster than that. Like the difference between your right and your left.'
He followed her through the salon casting a look of regret in the direction of the 27-inch TV. He wished he could fetch himself an ice-cold Corona from the refrigerator and go and watch the play-off game on the TV in his stateroom. Dragging his fingers across the satin-finished wood he said, with just a hint of sarcasm, 'So what's this part of the boat called in that McHale's Navy glossary of yours?'
'The dining room.'
'Ask a dumb question.'
They climbed a few thickly carpeted steps.
'Hey, swell kitchen,' remarked Bowen. 'Look at this.'
Kate made the wrong-answer noise again.
'It's the galley,' she said.
Bowen sighed, 'As in slaves, right? Jesus, I'm never going to remember all this shit.'
'Well it probably won't matter that much. I already thought of a way to explain your ignorance.'
'You did, huh?' Bowen contained his momentary irritation.
She went on: 'For the purposes of SYT's insurance cover, I was obliged to describe you as the boat owner and me as the captain. A lot of owners have decided to travel with their boats because of the air traffic controllers' strike. It looks as if it's going to drag on for a while. So, under the circumstances, it won't seem that unusual, you coming along on the voyage.'
'I can't see how that helps,' said Bowen. 'Why should the owner know any less than the crew?'
Kate smiled. 'For a lot of yacht owners, a luxury yacht is just a floating den. Another expensive toy. Believe me, it's not uncommon for these guys to know jack shit about their own boats.' She was enjoying this. 'So, it's possible your complete and total ignorance won't be noticed.'
