Free A Thing As Good As Sunshine by Juliet Nordeen Page A

broke through my panic and I realized
the boys were pulling in the ropes, drawing us toward the hulking shrimper. We
quickly fell into the shadow at the stern of the larger boat and a rope ladder
unfurled. One of the young men held the lifeboat steady while the other held
the rope ladder for me and motioned for me to climb. He smiled and nodded,
looking serious and trustworthy, but I hesitated.
    Crawling up that ladder and onto a strange boat under a usual
rescue-scenario like this would be daunting. But not being able to communicate
with my saviors made me feel awfully vulnerable as I counted the sixteen rope
rungs between the lifeboat and the deck. Suddenly, having a less than perfect
grasp of Spanish seemed like small potatoes, but it seemed I was out of options,
no choice to get on the boat, take a step onto Laume's path.
    I stood up in the lifeboat carefully, my footing as unstable as smooth leather-soled
shoes on a freshly waxed dance floor, and reached between my legs to grab a
handful of the back of my polka-dotted skirt. After I had it pulled through my
legs and tucked it into the belt at the front of my dress, denying the boys a
free peek while they held the ladder for me, I made my way up one shoddy rung
at a time.
    A frenzy of hands pulled me over the rail of the fishing boat and onto
its rusty metal deck. The dozen faces that greeted me shared a sense of
curiosity, and what came across in my silent world as a flurry of wordless
teeth-gnashing as they said things I couldn't hear. Funny how it wasn't immediately
clear to me whether they were happy or angry: their excited expressions could
have been either — eyes wide, brows raised, lots of teeth needing orthodontia.
    The one face I had no trouble reading was the one on the man standing
next to a net full of wriggling shrimp that dripped seawater onto the deck. His
arms-crossed demeanor, aggressive cigar puffing, and scrutinizing glare told me
this was his boat, and he its captain. And the captain wasn't happy about his
crew wasting time with the soggy blonde girl when they ought to have been
hauling in nets.
    After pulling a half-smoked cigar from between clenched teeth, the
captain said something sharply that lit a fire under his crew. Most of them
turned back to their duties immediately. The two who had swum out to get me
petted my long hair and looked at me regretfully with their dark brown eyes
before putting their clothes back on and joining their mates at the nets.
    Fish out of water. That was me. I stood for the captain's inspection — flat-haired,
mascara-streaked, swing dress still trussed up like pantaloons — and his
predatory glare scared the crap out of me. It's not like me to cry in front of
strangers, hell I hardly ever cry in front of my phamily except when too much
tequila dredges up the past, but I was lost and alone and the pressure of the
situation forced hot tears to dribble down my cheeks.
    And that, apparently, did the trick.
    In a blink the Captain's stern face melted into a soft-eyed smile and he
stepped forward to take both my hands into his. He shouted something to someone
over his shoulder, I couldn't say what or to whom, and guided me toward the
cabin door. Afraid he wanted to take me down into the darkness of the trawler's
belly, I resisted him until I saw a grandfatherly old man in a chef's coat and
shorts come up from below with a steaming mug of coffee, a big bottle of water
and a plate of tamales. The chef beckoned to me to sit on the worn wooden bench
next to the door. When I hesitated, the captain demonstrated, patting the wood
next to him.
    I smiled at them, laughing for a brief moment at my own fear and
stupidity, and untucked my skirt before settling next to the captain. I nodded
inadequate thanks to the chef as he handed me the hot cup and plate and then
set the bottle next to me. My stomach churned as I smelled the sweet corn masa
of the tamales and I imagined what an unladylike rumble must have accompanied
it. I grabbed