"Wesmar," Miller grunted, easing the throttle. "Triple-fins. Digital helm control. It’s the difference between a gimbaled life and living in a washing machine."

"I told you, Artie," Miller shouted over the groan of the hull. "You want to cross the Gulf in a boat this narrow, you don't just hope for flat water. You prepare for the roll."

The salt spray was beginning to taste like missed opportunities. Arthur stood on the bridge of the Salty Dog , a 52-foot trawler that currently had the grace of a drunken toddler in a bounce house. Beside him, Captain Miller gripped the wheel, his knuckles white as the foam crashing over the bow.

"Done," Arthur yelled. "I sent the inquiry. If we survive to port, they’re going in."