Below Deck
CHAPTER 1
Declan
“Declan, Declan.”
My name crackles over the radio attached to the belt of my cargo shorts, and I drop the rag I was using to wipe down the railings on the upper deck. Rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks from the grueling process of getting the 154-foot yacht, Helios, ready for its next clients, I close my eyes and tilt my head up towards the sun as I unclip the radio and bring it up to my mouth.
“Go for Declan,” I speak, depressing the talk button.
I enjoy a few peaceful seconds of having the Caribbean sun on my face while I’m standing still long enough to appreciate it, instead of racing all over this ship busting my ass. The smell of salt water on the light breeze cools my sweaty skin and the gentle lap of waves against the side of the ship makes me smile, even though I’m fucking exhausted after waking up at the ass crack of dawn this morning.
Working on a yacht is the hardest job I’ve ever had in my thirty-two years, and I’ve had many. Long hours, shitty pay, dealing with rich, and sometimes famous, assholes who treat you like dirt while you wait on them hand and foot. Putting up with a captain who expects nothing but the best from his crew and rips you a new asshole if you can’t read his mind and anticipate all of his needs for running a smooth ship. Being away from home for long stretches of time, sleeping in a bunk that’s smaller than my bathroom at home, suffering through all the high school drama and bullshit that goes on within the crew, then waking up and starting the process all over again when it’s time for a new group of clients.
Like I said, it’s the hardest job I’ve ever had, but it’s the best damn job there is. How many people can say they work on one of the largest luxury yachts and get to spend all their time floating through crystal clear water, island hopping, and seeing the world? Besides, it’s not like I plan on being a little whipping bitch for these rich dicks forever. I have a plan, and nothing is getting in the way of it.
“I need you, Ashley, and Marcel down in the crew mess in five,” Captain Michael barks through the radio, ending my few minutes of peace.
“Copy that,” I reply before clipping the radio back on my belt.
I take a minute to stare out over the railing at the island of St. Thomas from where we’re docked at the Crown Bay Marina, the view still amazing me even though I’ve been here a hundred times in the last four years that I’ve been a yachtie. With one last deep breath, I head inside the ship, through the formal dining room to the galley, and take the narrow staircase down to the crew quarters. Leaving the guest area of the ship and entering into the peasant, a.k.a. crew area is so pathetic you can’t help but laugh. Where up top is filled with dark, shiny mahogany wood, fancy couches, expensive artwork, bedrooms the size of a small home, and stone shower tile imported from fucking Egypt or something, we eat, sleep, shit, shower and shave in a tiny maze of hallways where you have to turn sideways to get through them. Our wood is fake laminate that a baby can punch through, and our artwork consists of hand-drawn dicks and tits that my co-worker and friend, Ben Lucas, decided to hang all around our table nook to brighten things up down here.
With an annoyed frown at all the opulence up top and the shit quarters the crew has, I vow for the hundredth time that when I’m the captain of my own yacht, I will make sure the crew is taken care of and not shit on all the time.
Lost in thought as I stare at my feet and rush through the tiny hallway taking me past the crew bunks and into the crew mess, I slam into someone quickly exiting their bunk. We both let out an “Oof” and a few choice curse words. Looking back and forth between the guy in front of me hastily zipping up his khaki cargo shorts while tucking in his navy blue polo, and the bunk he just exited, I sigh and run my hand through the already messy spikes of hair on my head.
“Dude, how many times have I told you not to shit where you eat?”
Ben laughs softly, pulling the door to Jessica Miller, one of the three stewardess’ bunks, closed behind him before giving me a smirk.
“Do you really expect me to remain celibate the entire five months of this charter season? That’s just inhuman,” he explains with a slow shake of his head.
“No, I expect you to get your piece of ass off the ship, with locals or tourists, like a normal person. I’m not playing referee between you two when shit goes south and she turns into a psycho,” I tell him, lowering my voice so Jessica doesn’t hear me talking about her on the other side of the door.
It’s not like I know Jessica all that well since she’s new to the crew this season and we’ve only been at it for three weeks. She seems like a nice enough girl and eager to help wherever she’s needed—fresh out of college and wanting to see the world before she settles down with a landlocked career. But I made the mistake of getting off with a co-worker several drunken times over the years, and now I’m paying for it. They all seem nice enough until they have selective hearing, and when you say, “This is just sex because we’ve been at sea for four months and we’re both really horny,” she assumes you said, “I will love you forever and we’ll get married and have babies and live happily-ever-after.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you fucked up when you were a newbie and screwed the Chief Stew. And then did it again and again the last few charters you worked with her. It’s also not my fault she’s excellent at her job and being a stage five clinger to your ass isn’t enough cause to get her fired. Besides, Jessica gives the most mind numbing blow—”