After a month aboard a vessel, you start to always feel adrift. Its not a problem for Ethan. Feeling lost is feeling at home. Still, there are some tethers, anchors. Mean chefs, gossiping stewardesses, reclusive engineers and deckhands who fuck up. He's used to listening to August brush his teeth in the morning, and he's used to Joy humming show tunes while she scrubs the deck between charters. Even Lina, whom he isn't close with because she is stretched flat between two departments, he's used to the way she comes into the galley thrice daily to steal milk for her coffee.
Ethan is not used to Finn quiet. When he enters the bridge, the deckcrew sit around the table. Finn's arms are pressed tightly into his body. Devon sits inside at the helm, stiff in the comfy leather chair. He looks over at Ethan, and his lips are pressed together tightly.
"Yes, Ethan, thanks for coming," Shelly is the only one unperturbed, at least by Ethan's estimations.
She stands near the table, above it and not at it, in her all-whites as well. The epaulettes on her shoulders seem more yellow out of the sunlight. Certainly, they don't look gold. Ethan's still in his all-whites too. He looks down at himself. They are less crisp-looking inside the vessel.
"So, uhh," Ethan looks at August, who has red eyes. He looks back at Shelly and swallows. "How can I be of service, Captain?"
Shelly straightens herself, "you've worked exterior before yes?"
Ethan doesn't nod at first. Instead, he looks over at Finn.
He shakes his head, "Shelly, I won't do this."
"Captain Shelly," Devon croaks out the word. He clears his throat. "It's... it's Captain Shelly."
Ethan blinks and then nods, "Captain Shelly."
If it were up to Devon, Ethan wouldn't do this either. Maybe he's stiffer than Shelly, something he'd never tell Shelly even if she asked. Certainly not anyone else on the crew either. Ethan doesn't think he knows how to hunch his shoulders, if the muscles are strong enough even to make such a gesture. Or maybe the problem is he's too strong, always flexing, never weak.
But even he wouldn't do this.
"Ethan, at least hear me out?" Shelly smiles. "I think it's a good idea."
He shakes his head, "Captain."
"Just hear her out," Finn leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Trice, please."
He doesn't look out past Ethan toward the rest of the yacht. Somewhere, deep in the lazarette, are the two jet skis. They have gas in them now, as Devon checked. He smells like the stuff now, it's permeated the room. While he was filling the jet skis during the charter, there was a man overboard called through and he ran. He spilt some on the railing of the ship, which he didn't clean up. The man overboard was a false alarm, just a drill on the radio from a different yacht, announced poorly. But Finn forgot to clean up the mess.
And he didn't finish the jet ski. And it was hot, and the charter guest got a sunburn while waiting the two minutes for the tender to go out and pick them up. They should have worn sunscreen. Finn should have filled the ship.
There's no risk of a sunburn in the bridge. Finn's elbows stick to the table, and it smells like gasoline, and everyone else is going to have yellow arm-pit stands in their all-whites, and Audrey Wilson is going to be mad, and it's all Finn's fault. And Shelly is so disappointed.
"So," Shelly clasps her hands together. "For the next charter, at least, I want you to become bosun."
Ethan tears his gaze from Finn, landing on Joy. She has bright red cheeks.
