They walked along the pier, past dozens of boats of all varieties. Small dinners were underway on the sailboats. The fishing captains were drinking beer and relaxing. All of them yelled something to Jarrett, who had a quick retort for each one. He was still barefoot. Clay walked a step behind him and thought to himself, That’s my father, the great Jarrett Carter, now a barefoot beach bum in faded shorts and an unbuttoned shirt, the king of Marsh Harbor. And a very unhappy man.

The Blue Fin bar was crowded and loud. Jarrett seemed to know everyone. Before they could find two stools together the bartender had tall glasses of rum punch waiting for them. “Cheers,” Jarrett said, touching his glass to Clay’s, then draining half of it. Serious fishing talk then followed with another captain and for a while Clay was ignored, which was fine with him. Jarrett finished the first rum punch and yelled for another. Then another.

A feast was getting organized at a large round table in one corner. Platters of lobster, crab, and shrimp were laid in the center of it. Jarrett motioned for Clay to follow, and they took seats at the table with a half dozen others. The music was loud, the conversation louder. Everyone around the table was working hard to get drunk, with Jarrett leading the charge.

The sailor to Clay’s right was an aging hippie who claimed to have dodged Vietnam and burned his draft card. He’d rejected all democratic ideas, including employment and income taxes. “Been bouncing around the Caribbean for thirty years,” he boasted with a mouthful of shrimp. “Feds don’t even know I exist.”

Clay suspected the Feds had little interest in whether the man existed, and the same was true of the rest of the misfits he was now dining with. Sailors, boat captains, full-time fishermen, all running from something—alimony, taxes, indictments, bad business deals. They fancied themselves as rebels, nonconformists, free spirits—modern-day pirates, much too independent to be constricted by the normal rules of society.

A hurricane had hit Abaco hard the summer before, and Captain Floyd, the loudest mouth at the table, was at war with an insurance company. This prompted a round of hurricane stories, which, of course, required another round of rum punch. Clay stopped drinking; his father did not. Jarrett became louder and drunker, as did everyone else at the table.

After two hours the food was gone but the rum punch kept coming. The waiter was hauling it over by the pitcher now, and Clay decided to make a quick exit. He left the table without being noticed and sneaked out of the Blue Fin.

So much for a quiet dinner with Dad.

He awoke in the dark to the sounds of his father stomping around the cabin below, whistling loudly, even singing a tune that remotely sounded like something from Bob Marley. “Wake up!” Jarrett yelled. The boat was rocking, but not so much from the water as from Jarrett’s noisy attack on the day.

Clay stayed on the short and narrow sofa for a moment, trying to get his bearings, and he recalled the legend of Jarrett Carter. He was always in the office before 6 A.M., often by five and sometimes by four. Six days a week, often seven. He missed most of Clay’s baseball and football games because he was simply too busy. He was never home before dark, and many times he didn’t come home at all. When Clay was older and worked in the law firm, Jarrett was famous for crushing young associates with piles of work. As his marriage deteriorated, he slept in his office, sometimes alone. Regardless of his bad habits, Jarrett always answered the bell, and always before anyone else. He had flirted with alcoholism, but managed to stop when the booze interfered with the work.

He didn’t need sleep in the glory days, and evidently some habits refused to die. He roared past the sofa singing loudly and smelling of a fresh shower and cheap aftershave. “Let’s go!” he shouted.

Breakfast was never discussed. Clay managed a quick, cold bird-bath in the tiny space called the shower. He was not claustrophobic, but the notion of living in the cramped confines of the boat made him dizzy. Outside the clouds were thick and the air was already warm. Jarrett was on the bridge, listening to the radio, frowning at the sky. “Bad news,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A big storm is moving in. They’re calling for heavy rain all day.”

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

“What time did you come in last night?”

“You sound like your mother. Coffee’s over there.” Clay poured strong coffee into a cup and sat by the wheel.

Jarrett’s face was covered by thick sunglasses, his beard, and the bill of his cap. Clay suspected the eyes would betray a nasty hangover, but no one would ever know it. The radio was alive with weather alerts and storm warnings from larger boats at sea. Jarrett and the other charter captains yelled back and forth to each other, relaying reports, making predictions, shaking their heads at the clouds. A half hour passed. No one was leaving the harbor.

“Dammit,” Jarrett said at one point. “A wasted day.”

Four young Wall Street honchos arrived, all in white tennis shorts, new running shoes, and new fishing hats. Jarrett saw them coming and met them at the stern. Before they could hop into the boat, he said, “Sorry, guys, no fishing today. Storm warnings.”

All four heads jerked upward to inspect the sky. A quick scan of the clouds led all four to the conclusion that weather forecasters were wrong. “You’re kidding,” one said.

“Just a little rain,” said another.

“Let’s give it a try,” said another.

“The answer is no,” Jarrett said. “Ain’t nobody fishing today.” “But we’ve paid for the charter,” “You’ll get your money back.” They reexamined the clouds, which were getting darker by the minute. Then thunder erupted, like distant cannons. “Sorry, fellas,” Jarrett said. “How about tomorrow?” one asked. “I’m booked. Sorry.” They shuffled away, certain that they’d been cheated out of their trophy marlins.

Now that the issue of labor had been resolved, Jarrett went to the cooler and grabbed a beer. “Want one?” he asked Clay.

“What time is it?”

“Time for a beer, I guess.”

“I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”

They sat in the fishing chairs on the deck and listened as the thunder grew louder. The marina was bustling as captains and deckhands secured their boats and unhappy fishermen hurried back down the piers, hauling coolers and bags filled with suntan oil and cameras. The wind was slowly picking up.

“Have you talked to your mother?” Jarrett asked.

“No.”

The Carter family history was a nightmare, and both knew better than to explore it. “You still with OPD?”

Jarrett asked. “Yes, and I want to talk to you about that.” “How’s Rebecca?” “History, I think.” “Is that good or bad?” “Right now it’s just painful.” “How old are you now?” “Twenty-four years younger than you. Thirty-one.” “Right. You’re too young to get married.” “Thanks, Dad.” Captain Floyd came rushing along the pier and stopped at their boat. “Gunter’s here. Poker in ten minutes. Let’s go!” Jarrett jumped to his feet, suddenly a kid on Christmas morning. “Are you in?” he said to Clay. “In for what?” “Poker.” “I don’t play poker. Who’s Gunter?” Jarrett stretched and pointed. “See that yacht over there, a hundred-footer. It’s Gunter’s. He’s an old German fart with a billion bucks and a boatload of girls. Believe me, it’s a better place to ride out the storm.”

“Let’s go!” Captain Floyd yelled, walking away. Jarrett was climbing out of the boat, onto the pier. “Are you coming?” he snapped at Clay.

“I’ll pass.”

“Don’t be silly. It’ll be much more fun than sitting around here all day.” Jarrett was walking away, following Captain Floyd.

Clay waved him off. “I’ll read a book.”

“Whatever.”

They hopped in a dinghy with another rogue and splashed through the harbor until they disappeared behind the yachts. It was the last time Clay would see his father for several months. So much for advice. He was on his own.