Two Captains, One Chair: An Alaskan Romantic Comedy Read Online Free PDF Page A

lurked just under the surface—and it was always a surprise when you hit one going about thirty miles per hour.  The water was opaque gray with silt, so those submerged sandbars were impossible to see, unless you noticed a subtle rippling to the surface…  Sometimes it was a feeling you got, more than anything else.
    As to debris, sticks and logs were constantly being washed downstream, and hitting one could mess up my day—and my boat—in a hurry.  The water wasn’t particularly junky today, but we were supposed to get heavy rains off and on in the next week.  Heavy rains caused the water to rise, and when it did, debris increased exponentially, making the river a veritable obstacle course.
    When we were well underway, I settled onto my tall, swiveling captain’s chair.  Ed stood looking out the front window for several minutes before settling down into his own chair.  He leaned back and pulled his hat low over his eyes.
    I took the opportunity to shamelessly examine him.  He’d unzipped his orange float coat, so I could see the slow rise and fall of his chest in the gap.  He wore a red-and-black checked shirt, another flannel button-down that draped over his flat stomach.  His hands, laced there, appeared to be no strangers to work.  They were rough with calluses and scars, but clean.  His pants were in a similar state; sturdy, dun-colored canvas stretched over solid thighs, the ragged hems ending at utilitarian leather boots.
    As Ed slept, I turned my attention back to the river.  It was a couple hundred feet wide, with sandy gray shores and tall, gnarled cottonwoods standing like sentinels to either side.  I saw six bald eagles, and waved my good mornings to at least as many familiar faces in the next two hours.  The sun rose high enough to peep through the treetops, and flicker in my windows.
    The fuel truck was already waiting when we pulled in to the landing.  Ed helped me tie off the barge, and when I started uncapping the 55 gallon drums, Ed joined in, again without having to be asked.  We quickly got the fuel guy squared away filling up my drums with diesel.
    I slanted a look at Ed.  “Can you hang out here while I go get Manny’s truck?  He’s got it parked up there with several lengths of well pipe on a trailer.”
    “Sure,” Ed said.
    I nodded, pulled Manny’s keys out of my pocket, and hopped over the side.  The flatbed with the cabin kit passed me as I climbed the hill up to the parking lot.
    There was a store next to the gate that sold everything from parking passes to cold drinks to live bait.  I noticed a shiny SUV parked out front, its trailer angled in a way that blocked traffic.  On the trailer was a big, shiny new jet boat, complete with maroon canvas canopy.
    I ducked into the store and headed straight to the coolers in the back.  It was as I was perusing the cold beverages—I’d wanted a Coke, but upon seeing the variety available, of course I became indecisive—that I became aware of a raised voice.
    “$200 for two weeks’ worth of parking?  Who the hell do you think you are?” a woman at the front of the store demanded.
    I grabbed two sodas and started walking slowly toward the registers, not really wanting to get involved.
    “$200 to leave my car in this dust bowl you call a parking lot?  You’ve gotta be smoking dope.  It’s a Mercedes ,” she hissed, “and you want me to leave it in the dirt ?”
    Through the Slim Jims beside the register, I caught a glimpse of the cashier’s face.  Nathan.  He was young, his skin speckled with acne, his mouth open as he shifted nervously from foot to foot.  “Ma’am, I don’t set the prices.  I’m not on drugs, and yes, the entirety of our lot is dirt.”
    The woman came into view as I rounded an endcap full of peanuts.  She had black hair slicked back into a ponytail, big hoop earrings, and a fuzzy sweater hugging an hourglass figure.  I stared at her legging-wrapped butt a moment, not quite sure when