Page 9 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

She'd be intimidating if (a) I was easily intimidated, which I'm not; and (b) she wasn't just a bit of a klutz. As she's walking down the dock to the boat, she looks like an ad for the marina itself. She seems to walk with a self-assured poise and confidence. Each step is unhurried and assured. Her crisp white shirt is neatly tucked into high-waisted, perfectly pressed linen shorts. The wide-brimmed hat, perched perfectly atop her long, golden curls, adds a touch of timeless elegance. It all makes for a kind of casual charm and quiet sophistication.

Sunlight dances along her silhouette, tracing the subtle sway of her hips and the grace in her posture. Even from behind, there's a presence about her—poised, magnetic, and unmistakably captivating. She doesn’t demand attention; she naturally commands it... and then she trips over air and almost does a face plant into the decking.

I jump off the boat and catch her just before she hits the deck, which would’ve been a lot smoother if she hadn’t immediately flailed—not to escape me, but to save one of her precious maps that’s trying to make a break for open water. So now I’m half lifting her, half trying to keep her from diving after ink and parchment like it’s a drowning kitten. Graceful, it is not. But I’ve got her. And the map. Barely.

I set her on her feet. "I think I'd give us an 8 on degree of difficulty and maybe a 6 on artistry," I deadpan.

She blinks her eyes, seeming not to understand, and then blushes charmingly. Does this woman do everything in a captivating way?

"Well, if nothing else, good morning, Doc. Looks like nice weather for a sail, don't you think?"

Another blink, but then a slow grin. "I don't know 'rogue diver.'" She shoots; she scores and then delivers a perfectly timed comeback. “I’m a historian; I don't even play a meteorologist on TV.”

I help her aboard and show her into the cabin so she can stow her things. She looks impressed.

“This isn’t a sailboat,” she says softly. “It’s a freaking yacht.”

“I live here full time. She’s comfortable,” I drawl, secretly pleased she seems to like the Serenity.

I think she believes I'm some kind of playboy sailor, which is understandable, as that is kind of the image we've sold to the public. I think she expected to find if not half-naked women—at least parts of discarded bikinis hanging from the beams, empty champagne bottles and just general disarray.

They say, once a SEAL, always a SEAL, and that's true in more ways than one. The cabin is neat and orderly. Everything has its place and is tucked into it. I lead her up the stairs to the cockpit where she can set down her logbook, which is thick enough to kill a man.

“This may confirm a cove where theReinaanchored before the storm hit,” she says.

I know better than to crack a joke. “Where?” I ask, eyeing the faded ink and Spanish script.

“Northwest edge of the peninsula,” she says, flipping to a dog-eared page. “The entry’s vague—something about ‘a cave kissed by tides where only morning light can touch the stone.’"

"Who writes like that in a logbook? If I'd have included language like that when I was a SEAL, my CO would have clocked me."

She smiles, a little sheepish but completely sincere. "I know what you mean. It’s not exactly mission language, but I find that when I read something written like that, I get a better feel for what he was really seeing—what he was trying to capture beyond the tide charts and wind direction. There's emotion in it. Desperation, maybe. Hope. The coordinates he left behind... they roughly line up with an old limestone cove I found on the Coast Guard maps. Tucked between two outcroppings. Barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it."

I whistle low. “You know, for someone who claims to be more comfortable with books than boats, you’ve got a damn good sense of the water. I know guys who’ve been diving for years who still couldn’t plot half this good with a map and a compass.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’ve spent most of my life reading about shipwrecks—where they happened, how they happened, and why. You start to notice patterns. Currents, poor navigation calls, desperation. It’s all there if you know what to look for. Most people see a tragic accident. I see a map of decisions and miscalculations that led to the inevitable.”

I give her a brief nod and cast off, sailing to the spot I think she's talking about. She settles in with more ease than I expected—no seasick winces, no clutching the rails—just that focused, all-in kind of stillness that says her brain’s already five steps ahead. The wind lifts her hair, tossing soft curls across her cheek, and she brushes them back absently with ink-stained fingers. It’s distracting as hell, but I keep my eyes on the water. Mostly. Her gaze is fixed on the horizon, intent and curious, like the waves are spelling something out in a code only she knows how to break. The historian and the sea—both full of secrets, both completely unbothered by me.

It’s tense at first. We talk in short bursts—coordinates, sonar, rock formations. She’s all business, her tone clipped and efficient, like she’s giving a lecture with no time for improv. But the longer we’re on the water, the more the tension starts to loosen, like the tide sanding down a jagged edge.

She asks thoughtful questions—good ones—and when I explain how local rock shelves create false tide pulls that can throw off even experienced divers, she listens. Not politely—intently. She takes it in like she’s cataloging everything for some underwater chess match. She actually smiles. Not a sarcastic twitch of the lips, but a real, bright flash that catches me completely off guard.

“Impressive,” she says. Her voice has this quiet warmth to it that surprises me. Like she doesn’t hand out compliments often, and maybe this one means more than she’s letting on.

“Coming from you?” I say, flashing her a crooked grin. “I might get that stitched on a pillow—right next to my compass and my ego.”

She snorts, then shakes her head like she’s trying not to let it count, but it totally does. That’s the kind of laugh people don’t mean to give—you earn it by catching them off guard. It’s quick, unguarded, and maybe the best sound I’ve heard all day. I call it a win.

The cove isn’t much to look at from the outside—just a jagged bite in the cliff side, partially swallowed by the sea and edged with dark, slick rocks that glisten like obsidian in the light. It looks more like the mouth of something ancient than a hiding spot. But there’s a narrow inlet, tucked low and off-center, half-concealed by hanging brush and twisted rock. Just wide enough to slide through if the tide’s low and you angle just right. It’s the kind of place you’d never notice unless you were looking for something—or hiding it.

“Could be something behind there,” I say, furling the sail and starting the engine to turn us into the wind.

The inlet looks quiet, but there's a hum under it—something old and undisturbed. My gut pulls at me, the way it used to just before a good find or a bad mission. The kind of place that hides secrets because it was made to do just that.

“Could be death by impalement,” she mutters, eyeing the jagged rocks like they personally insulted her. But there’s no real fear in her voice—just that dry, razor-edged humor she uses when she’s a little impressed but doesn’t want to admit it yet.

“Great,” I say, flashing her a sideways glance. “Adds drama, boosts ratings, and gives you a solid excuse to write about my tragic demise for your next lecture.”

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