Marina Melee

By Lynne M. Hinkey

George H. Marshall III has it all, and he wants to get away from it--women, a busy social calendar, and his so-called career in the family oil business. So he does what any 43-year-old, thrice-divorced playboy would do: he sails away to the Caribbean. Determined to prove to his parents (and himself) that he is more than a spoiled, womanizing, over-aged adolescent, George buys Porto da Vida Marina on the small island of São Jorge.

Within days, George faces his first hurricane and its aftermath. Then he finds out that that was the easy part. Between his wayward staff, the governor's hot-to-trot wife, a lift truck possessed by jumbies, and a host of other island disasters--natural and human--George is working harder than ever. Little does he know that there is more to his struggles than his own incompetence. His mother, Liza-Beth Marshall-Hunter (of the Dallas Hunters), is doing everything she can to get her baby boy back home.

In no time at all, George finds himself entwined in the insanity of island politics and personalities. It's all more than he bargained for and he is ready to admit defeat and return home, the prodigal son. Then Noreen Roberts sails into his marina. A champion sailor on the Caribbean race circuit, Noreen is everything he has never wanted to be: Responsible, reliable, and hard-working. With her help, Porto da Vida begins to run smoothly--despite George. But when Nora catches George in a compromising position with a trio of young, bored socialites known as the Sand Witches, she leaves him to fend for himself.

George should be able to manage just fine without her, though. How hard can it be to run a marina on a tropical island?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynne M. Hinkey
• Release date: Aug 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465887917

Lynne M. Hinkey

SPECIAL!! 100% of the proceeds from book sales are donated to animal rescue organizations in the US Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico as these organizations work to recover from the devastating blow of Hurricanes Irma and Maria. To help, the e-books have been priced as "Reader's Choice," meaning you determine how much you want to give. I guarantee every cent of it will go directly to these organizations. Think I'm being mercenary to sell books? Then don't buy any. You can make a donation directly to these organizations at: St. Thomas Humane Society: http://www.hsstt.com/donate.html St. John Animal Care Center: http://www.stjohnanimalcarecenter.com/donate St. Croix Animal Welfare Center: https://www.stcroixawc.org/ Animal Rescue Foundation of Rincon: https://arfrincon.org/ BIO Lynne Hinkey is a marine scientist by training, a writer by passion, and a curmudgeon by nature. She spent years hanging out at marina bars around the Caribbean, where she eavesdropped in on fascinating conversations that she then turned into fun stories reflecting the zaniness of island life. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, cat, and two dogs. Her short stories, essays, travel articles, and book reviews have appeared in a number of print and electronic publications. She is the author of three novels: Marina Melee, Ye Gods! A Tale of Dogs and Demons, and The Un-Familiar: A Tale of Cats and Gods. The latter are books 1 and 2 of her Chupacabra Trilogy. The final installment, Ye Goddess! A Tale of Girls and Gods," is in development. When not writing, Lynne is an adjunct professor of biology and an avid, but not accomplished, dog agility competitor. Visit her website at www.lynnehinkey.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1 -- The Southern Cross

The gavel crashed down and the courtroom filled with the hushed rustle and murmur of people in a hurry to be somewhere else. George heard only the number sixty-five hundred tumbling around, echoing in his head, until it finally erupted through his mouth into the courtroom. Six thousand five hundred dollars every God-lovin' month! Uncle Bernie, he turned to his lawyer, I thought you said she couldn't get anything out of us. What about all that proof about her running around?

Well, George, I was pretty darn certain that Blackwell didn't know about your own strolls through greener pastures, but looks like he found out, and damn, that second little filly they brought on the stand was a honey. Where do you find 'em like that, Georgie? Why, she reminded me of your second wife--what was her name, Mary Ellen?--a fine-lookin' woman.

George rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. Mary Elizabeth, he corrected the lawyer. Daddy is gonna be hotter than a lizard in west Texas when he hears about this. He turned around straight into his newest ex-wife, who was walking out from behind the plaintiff's table. She gave him her sexiest smile and his stomach tightened. Oh baby, how I'd like a good pity fuck from you right now. He gave her his best kicked-puppy-dog look and was almost sure he had a shot at it as she approached him, stretched out her hand, and caressed his face.

That wasn't so bad, George, dear, now was it? And bless your heart, you won't feel a thing each month as the company accountants write out my little old check, will you?

Her silky smooth let's have sex voice momentarily distracted George and he was sure he'd get that post-divorce sex. A split second later, her actual words registered in his brain and he wondered if maybe he'd missed some nuance of that tone in the past. Maybe it didn't mean I'd like to have sex with you, but I'm going to fuck you over. He watched in stunned silence as she slid her hand through her attorney's arm and strutted from the courtroom. Bill Blackwell, the county's most successful and wealthiest divorce attorney, was rumored to be quite successful with his recently divorced female clients, too.

George swallowed his disappointment. He knew from experience that the sex was always better after the marriage ended. Well, it had worked on Mary Elizabeth. That divorce had cost him almost as much as this one and more than double Brenda Jo's. Now that had been good post-divorce sex. It had taken almost two weeks to break her down, but it had been worth the wait.

Uncle Bernie brought him out of his reminiscing with a hearty slap on the back. Well, son, he chuckled, I'm not sure why your daddy insists I represent you. Ends up costing him more in alimony than it would in attorney's fees. But, with all the practice you give me, one of these days I'll be as good a divorce lawyer as I am a corporate tax attorney. He pronounced it dee-vorce. I'd hate to be you when you tell your daddy how much this one cost us.

It was true. George's father could save the family a small fortune if he'd just hire a divorce attorney. Instead, he insisted these matters be handled by his brother-in-law Bernie Hunter, Marshall Enterprises' corporate lawyer. Better to keep these things in the family. Don't want everyone to know our business, the elder George Marshall argued.

George cringed at the thought of facing his father. He knew he had screwed up. Again. He really didn't need his father to tell him so. But berating George for his failures seemed to be the only pleasure the old man got from his son, so George resigned himself to his fate. That didn't mean he couldn't procrastinate on facing it, though.

Palming his head, he slowly ran his hand back and forth over the smooth crown. This action was becoming more compulsive with each lost hair. He contemplated the way the span of his hand, from fingertip to the bottom of his palm, matched exactly the distance between the dark fringe of hair on either side of his head and wondered if the rubbing hadn't caused his baldness.

If there was no other aspect of aging that George would succumb to with grace, at least he had the good sense to avoid the comb-over, unlike the attorney who'd just screwed him (and apparently his now-ex-wife, too). As soon as his forehead had grown even with his ears, George cut his wreath of short hair even shorter. To balance out the hair equilibrium on his head, he'd also grown a goatee. He diligently avoided the temptation that so many bearded men succumb to, that of milking his facial hair--another irksome habit of Attorney Blackwell. What did women see in that man?

George's latest hair challenge was that his eyebrows, ears, and back hair were all vying with his goatee for the role of primary hair provider. And they all seemed to be gaining ground on the goatee daily. He gave the crown of his head one last caress, then stepped outside into the sweltering midsummer Houston heat and lit a cigarette. I don't want to be the one to stir up the hornet's nest, Uncle Bernie. You can break the news to my father--earn your pay. I'm going down to the Foc'sle for lunch. See you later. He hustled off to his Cadillac and headed for the marina. He knew he could count on a few sympathy rounds of beer from the pretty little thing behind the bar, sweet Melissa.

Scanning the restaurant, he spotted his two best friends, Katie May and Ricky Hoffman, at a table by the bar. The three of them had known each other since childhood, and Katie May and Ricky had been a couple for nearly as long.

So, gorgeous George, how much poorer are you this time? Katie May stood and gave him a quick hug.

Ricky's boyish dimples flashed as he smiled and handed George a cold Coors from the bucket in the middle of the table. I don't know how you do it, George, a brilliant corporate CFO and you still manage to lose your shirt every time you get married. And not in a good way, either.

George shook his head and grinned sheepishly. Just ask my daddy about that brilliant part--I think he might disagree with you, Ricky. That's why he hires me such a competent staff. He's going to be madder than a Presbyterian on St. Paddy's Day when he hears how much this one cost. One of these days I think he really is going to cut off my salary like he keeps threatening. Then what am I gonna do?

Aw, Georgie, we know the oil business isn't really where you want to be. Katie May gave his hand a sympathetic pat. You should just quit.

And do what? George asked, knowing full well that Katie May's trust fund sometimes interfered with her understanding of the real world. All I'm good at is golf.

You know that's not true, honey. You're a natural-born businessman, you just haven't found the right venue to show that off yet. She adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat to a sassier angle.

And never will, if my daddy has anything to say about it. He raised his beer bottle in a mock toast to his father. Besides, this is just how the Marshall family works. We do whatever it is my daddy needs done. So the pro tour will just have to go on without me. He caught the barmaid's eye and motioned for another round.

Melissa came out from behind the bar carrying a bucket of beers on ice. She brushed her breasts across George's shoulders as she leaned over and set it in the middle of the table. George slid her a ten. Thanks, darlin'. She rewarded him with a 100-watt smile.

But what would you really like to do? Katie May persisted, pulling George's attention and eyes back to the matter at hand.

Get out from Marshall Enterprises, for one. Do something I enjoy. But, as my dear old daddy likes to remind me, I am a good-for-nothin' playboy. Can't make a living at that.

Hugh Hefner did. Katie May gave him a flirty wink.

You're wicked, girl, and that's what I love about you. Ricky leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek.

George rolled his eyes. Despite twelve years of marriage, his friends were still like high-school sweethearts. He didn't understand how they did it. As soon as the I dos were said, each of his wives had stopped being attentive and fun-loving and turned into a money-spending, spa-going she-devil who was too tired for sex. At least with him. He wasn't sure how, but he was certain his father was behind his failed relationships. His father was behind everything.

Seriously, Georgie, you need to find some work you love. If you were happy with what you were doing, you wouldn't need these bimbos to keep you entertained.

I think you're just a little depressed over the latest marital fiasco, said Ricky. "You need a vacation--get away from the painful memories, the stress. Your father. Katie May and I are heading down to the Caribbean for a while. Why don't you join us? There's plenty of room on the Southern Cross. It'll be fun. Whenever you feel the need to come racing back to save Marshall Enterprises, we'll pull into some lovely tropical island and put your sorry behind on a plane."

Chapter 2 -- Sailing Away

George leaned back and put his bare feet on the helm. He felt better than he had in months. Sailing and the tropics were good for his waistline--he was down six pounds--and although it had taken three weeks before his head stopped peeling, he now sported a golden-brown tan. He hadn't had a cigarette or a drink in almost a week. Not that the healthy lifestyle was intentional. It was more a matter of survival ever since the night back on St. John.

The three sailors had wanted a nightcap after returning to the Southern Cross from dinner at Skinny Legs in Coral Bay. George offered to play bartender. With an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, he’d poured generous helpings of Bacardi 151 into their plastic tumblers then grabbed his lighter. That's where his memory grew hazy. He knew there had been flames and his first, rum-stunned reaction had been: Look how pretty. But what is that smell?

Then he’d realized that awful smell was his arm hair burning in the pretty flames. After a few frenzied moments involving waved towels, thrown drinks, and a pot of leftover coffee, the shipmates managed to put the fire out with only superficial damage to the vessel and George. That's when he’d decided to leave the smoking and drinking behind with his life in Texas. Maybe his daddy had been right and this trip would be good for him. He'd make a clean break from his past: no drinking, no smoking, and no women.

When George had told his father that he was taking a month off, his father's initial reaction had been supportive: You do that. Followed by what George had expected: And don't you dare show your face around this office until I've cooled off. I can't believe your numbskulled, penis-thinking brain has put our family in this situation again. We can't afford another dee-vorce.

The lecture had gone on in that vein for some time, with the usual references to all we've done for you and disgrace the family name, reaching a crescendo at that same refrain George had been hearing since high school: Your momma is just sick over this. George knew the whole spiel by heart. And he knew that once again he'd beg his momma's forgiveness, swear it wasn't her fault, and promise he'd come back ready to settle down to his responsibilities at Marshall Enterprises.

But his father added a new twist to the tired song. Come to think of it, you can enjoy that little vacation for as long as you'd like. You're fired. And I'm cuttin' off your allowance, too.

George bristled at his father referring to his salary as an allowance.

I don't care what your mother says, his father continued. I'm still the president of this company. I just hope you've managed to make some good investments so you'll have something to live on. Honestly, son, it doesn't make me happy to do this, but this family, this company, can't afford any more of your shenanigans. These are tough economic times and I have to do what's best for the business.

It wasn't the first time he'd threatened to fire George, but it was the first time he'd actually done it. And even worse, this was the first time he'd cut George off financially. Maybe he was serious this time.

When George told his mother he'd been fired, Liza-Beth paused in reviewing the company's new public relations ads. She composed her face then flashed her pulled-too-tight, Southern belle smile at him. Bless your heart, I know you mean well, Georgie, but truth is, you do think with your...well, you know. You just have a nice vacation with your friends, don't talk to any girls, and hurry back. Daddy needs you here.

Liza-Beth Hunter Marshall (of the Dallas Hunters) was the vice president of public relations and marketing at Marshall Enterprises. She had devised the company's image of the good ol' mom-and-pop neighborhood petrochemical business. The Marshalls' was a formidable partnership. Her southern charm and gentility had won the trust of customers and stockholders while George H. Marshall Jr.'s business acumen expanded them into an international, multi-billion-dollar corporation.

George laughed. You know things will run just fine and dandy without me. Daddy won't even know I'm gone. Who knows, maybe I'll stay gone. Become a beach bum down on some tropical island, live off coconuts and fresh fish.

Oh, Georgie, don't even joke like that. You know that'd break our hearts. She squeezed him tightly, then pushed him toward the door. You just call me if you need anything.

He knew by anything she meant money or an attorney. Thanks, Momma, I'll be fine. He gave her a peck on the cheek and headed for the marina.

~~~~

The Southern Cross, crewed by the Hoffmans and George, left Houston, sailed into the Gulf and east to Louisiana, then southeast to Tampa, down to the Florida Keys, and on along the north coast of Cuba to the Lesser Antilles. They spent two weeks sailing and diving around the British and U.S. Virgin Islands, where the rum incident--as they referred to it--took place.

At each island, George fantasized about jumping ship and making a new life far from Marshall Enterprises. But how would he do that with a rapidly depleting bank account and no income? He wasn't in any real danger of going broke just yet, but he didn’t have enough savings to go on like this forever. He resigned himself to the fact that eventually he'd have to return and beg for his father's forgiveness, and his job back.

Six weeks into their adventure, they headed east from their anchorage at Leverick Bay in Virgin Gorda and followed the Windward Island chain south from St. Martin. Katie May checked the charts in search of their next destination.

Hey, look! Your island. São Jorge, Katie May said. She used its Spanish pronunciation---San Hor-hay. It's destiny, George. We're meant to go there.

Chapter 3 -- Porto da Vida

The next morning they sailed into the waters of São Jorge, a former Portuguese colony that had gained its independence almost fifty years earlier.

Ricky, find us a marina on my island. George struck a pose, one hand shielding his eyes from the tropical sun, the other pointing to the purple shadow of an island rising out of the sea ahead of them. He breathed in the warm, salty smell of the trade winds and surveyed the island from his perch on the sailboat's bow.

The entrance channel to the marina was marked with big, rusty, green and red cans bobbing in the wind. Looking beyond the marina, George saw a few buildings, small shacks really, lining the road that wound along the coast. Behind them, the island rose almost straight up to a high peak. The hillside vegetation popped with every vibrant shade of green imaginable, highlighted against a cloudless, cornflower-blue sky. Overhead, frigate birds hovered and circled, wings spread wide, bodies still except for their tails that forked wider and narrower, adjusting position to better hang on the light breeze.

Katie May sighed. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live somewhere like this?

Ricky radioed three marinas on the island before finding an available slip at Porto da Vida. Once docked, they prepared for some rest and relaxation. Ricky and Katie May decided they'd had enough sailing. Let's just stay here for a few days. Then we'll head back.

George fretted about not having anything to head back to. He couldn't stand the idea of returning as the prodigal son, begging forgiveness, and listening to his daddy tell him how lucky he was. But what else was he going to do? It wasn't that he disliked work or, as his momma believed, that he had a sensitive temperament and couldn't deal well with all the pressures of big business. Twenty years earlier, fresh out of college, he'd enthusiastically taken his place in the corporate world. He loved his business and finance classes and couldn't wait to apply all he'd learned to help Marshall Enterprises get bigger and better.

He was still waiting. It was a given that all key positions in the corporation would be filled by Marshalls and Hunters, so his father eventually made him the chief financial officer. But it was just a title. He didn't trust George enough to give him any responsibility. His father's best friend, Ryan Benjamin, did all the real work.

Over time, George stopped being frustrated and instead took advantage of the situation. He played golf twice a week, came and went from the office for his little dalliances, and vacationed whenever he felt like it. On the few occasions when he did get ambitious, usually instigated by his father telling him how useless he was, he had entered into various business ventures on the side. None of those ever quite worked out the way he'd planned. And now, here he was with no job, not a lot of money, and a very slim chance--and even less desire--to return to the family fold and Marshall Enterprises.

After they were tied to and had cleaned up the boat a bit, George wandered down the dock in search of the showers. A long, hot shower would be just the thing to wash off the sticky salt film that never completely went away while at sea.

The small marina consisted of about forty slips, a dry stack for twenty boats, and another dozen boats on stands in the yard. George passed a vessel being rinsed down on the haul-out ramp, someone putting their motor back together amid tools and spare parts outside the maintenance garage, and people wandering in and out of the two-story brown cinder block and wood building that housed the office and restrooms. Lunchtime sounds and smells floated over the marina from the pavilion restaurant along the water's edge.

Still adjusting to his land legs, he stood and rocked in the shade under a giant mango tree. A crudely constructed bench made from two milk crates and broken pieces of wood and fiberglass leaned against the trunk. He could picture himself lounging under that tree, eating mangoes, living the laid-back island life. Shrieks and raucous laughter carried across the parking lot, and he paused to watch some people feeding maraschino cherries to an iguana sitting on the restaurant's railing.

A sign with Restrooms painted in bright red letters and an arrow pointing to the left directed him to the showers. George indulged in a long, hot shower, enjoying the luxury of not worrying about the boat's freshwater tank running dry. He rocked back and forth as he shaved and brushed his teeth.

Passing the giant tree on his way back to the Southern Cross, he breathed in the scent of overripe mangoes. It was a thick, heavy scent, full of the promise of sultry tropical nights filled with mystery. How exotic, he thought. A short black man wearing a tall knit cap nodded at George and said something. Pardon? George asked, not certain the comment was directed at him.

Ahyewwahsunmahn-go? The man was slouched low on the bench. On the table next to him sat half a dozen little pyramids of mangoes.

I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. George gave his head a quick shake and made a mental note to ask Katie May what language they spoke here. Maybe it was Portuguese?

I say, do you wahn buy some mahngo? One pile, one dollah. The man enunciated each syllable very clearly with exaggerated movements of his mouth, as if speaking to a lip reader.

Oh, oh, mangoes! laughed George. Sure, I'd love some. He dug in his pockets and found a dollar's worth of change. Thanks. He scooped up a pile and carried them back to the boat.

Look what I got us--fresh mangoes. Right from the tree.

Aw, man, you didn't pay for those, did you? asked a tall, fiftyish man with sun-bleached, wiry hair. He had one foot on the Southern Cross’s gunwale, his arms crossed over his bent knee. Damn that Alberto. I've told him a thousand times to just give those things away. The tree is loaded, and if we don't get rid of them, they'll just lie on the ground and rot.

No big deal, it was only a buck. We'd pay a fortune for these back home. George passed them out. Then he held out a sticky hand to their visitor and introduced himself. George Marshall.

Tracker, Tracker Doorn. Welcome to Porto da Vida.

Tracker here's the owner of this fine establishment, Katie May informed him.

Nice place. George looked around. What a life. Mangoes fresh from the tree, tropical breezes, always just a minute away from sailing. You've got it made.

Tracker straightened up and extended a hand to George, looking him over from top to bottom. He nodded as if in approval and smiled broadly. Why don't you all join me at the Noisy Oyster for dinner tonight? He pointed to the marina's restaurant. A great local Calypso band is playing. It'll be fun. Food's not half bad, either.

They agreed to meet him at seven. Then George went in search of an ATM while the Hoffmans headed into town for some sightseeing.

Although the temperature was only in the mid-80s, significantly cooler than summer temperatures back in Texas, George's shirt was soaked through with sweat when he reached the bank in the small village of Porto Apoucado--little harbor. The blazing sun and salty humidity left him hot and sticky.

A note scrawled in dark marker was taped to the ATM in the bank's foyer: Out of Order. George scanned the other businesses in the one-block town area. No other banks or ATMs. He tugged open the bank door and a blast of cooled air sent a tingle down his spine. After the tropical heat, the AC made up for the inconvenience of actually having to go inside a bank.

There were only two people in line ahead of him, but it still took twenty minutes to reach the teller. By then, George's sweaty clothes were chilled, making him shiver. Now he understood why the tellers all wore heavy sweaters. I'd like to withdraw from a stateside account, please, he told the large black woman behind the counter.

She made a sucking noise not unlike an inverted raspberry--ccchhhhuupe--and just stared through him, unmoving.

George repeated himself, slower this time.

Again, she inhaled her breath spittily and rolled her eyes.

George was unsure what to do. Tracker Doorn had assured him that although the local dialect was heavily accented, it was English.

The woman gazed off somewhere over his right shoulder and announced to the bank lobby at large, De' man so rude, ah' he come in hyah an' wid not so much as ‘Good mah'nin' he staht up wid he biz-i-ness.

George caught a few words, and he was pretty sure they were directed at him, even though the teller hadn't looked at him once as she spoke.

I'm sorry, I just wanted to--

Y'ain' got no mah-nahs. Ah you boat people de same, no mah-nahs a'tall. Her voice rose and she glared more fiercely with each word.

He considered running for the door. All he wanted to do was make a simple transaction. This was a bank, after all. Palming his head to compose himself, he tried again. Okay, may I please withdraw--

She cut him