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enjoy the rest of your vacation here in Islamorada.”
    Melissa reveled in the news. And when Joe had finished his explanation, she brazenly stretched her body across the front seat of the car and kissed him, lightly, on the cheek.
    “Calculated spontaneity,” she told herself. “I can get away with this one. Even though he knows the reason behind it, he still might think that the kiss was at least partially motivated by how attractive I found him.”
    Melissa was truly relieved that all previous suspicions of her involvement had vanished as quickly as yesterday’s weather forecasts. The situation was setting up as one with unfettered potential. A promising romantic involvement was now in view on her horizon.
    She was hoping, perhaps optimistically, that her damsel-in-distress story, and Joe’s rescue of her from the flaming pier, would be remembered solely for its novelty as a “how this couple met” story.
    “And how did you two meet?” Melissa fantasized being asked—by someone, someday.
    “Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary,” Melissa would answer, tongue-in-cheek. “Joe just drove up in his police boat and plucked me from the throes of an inferno.”
    When they arrived for dinner, Melissa noticed that the Dolphin Harbor Inn had been built like a lean-to, jutting outward from an ancientlooking, restored lighthouse that had the distinction of being one of the first structures ever built in Islamorada. It dated back to 1909, when automobiles were novelties and wagons loaded with the catch of the day rattled along the dirt roads of what was then a sparsely populated fishing village.
    Ocean-traveling ships would use the lighthouse’s lone revolving beacon as a warning against the treacherous offshore reef.
    Since Melissa and Joe arrived a few minutes ahead of their reservation, they took some time to stroll along the boat dock area that adjoined the lighthouse and restaurant.
    “There are fifty boat slips at this dock,” Joe told her. “Most of the boats are for sport fishing. They’re all about thirty feet long and are for hire on a daily rate basis. The captains will take the fishermen out toward the offshore reef and try to catch marlin, sailfish, and even sharks.”
    “There are two large chairs with seat belts in that boat, over there,” Melissa pointed. “What are they for?”
    “Big fish require big chairs. If a fisherman hooks a monster of the deep, he doesn’t want the fish to pull him into the water. Therefore, the seat belts.”
    Before Melissa could ask the next logical question—How big did the fish get?—she almost tripped over one of the largest sea creatures she had ever seen.
    Sprawled out on the dock was a freshly caught marlin that looked to be about nine feet long. No doubt it could provide about five years’ worth of canned food for her white cat, Coke, who was temporarily housed in a Philadelphia boarding kennel.
    Also nearby, hanging on hooks, were several other large specimens— sailfish—that had been brought in earlier that day on the charter boats.
    “What will the fishermen do with what they’ve caught?” Melissa inquired.
    “The biggest of the fish will be stuffed and mounted by taxidermists. They’ll end up as trophies in dens and living rooms from coast to coast, and even in some foreign countries. Islamorada attracts sport fishermen from all over the world.”
    “I saw a sign that listed the charter rates. Do fishermen really pay over four hundred dollars a day to go out on these boats?”
    “During the height of the season, the price goes up. And the tourists can be seen every morning near dawn, holding their fishing gear while waiting in line for the privilege.”
    “I don’t think I’d enjoy taking a ride on one of these boats. My stepfather let me tag along when I was a little girl. We went deep-sea fishing in Atlantic City and Ocean City. I remember a big, heavy boat, crowded with men, and the smell of bait. I also remember getting seasick on the way