Page 27 of The Sailor in Polynesia
“Oof. That stinks.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “So, this is weird, right? Why would he recommend me for the job? And does this person I would be interviewing with know? And if so... that doesn’t look good for me.” Marcella winced. “It is just an interview so far. It’s not even a job offer. I may be worrying over nothing.” She hesitated.
“What?”
Marcella glanced at me, her eyebrows knitted together. “It’s areallygood job.”
“Tell me about it.”
Marcella gushed for the rest of the walk about the position. It was for the head chef on a British family’s mega sailing yacht. They’d be island hopping, sailing in regattas, and she’d have a substantial budget.
“So, basically, your dream job?”
Her sigh was so disheartened. “Yes.”
“Do you have any other prospects?”
“One of the placement agencies said they might have a job at a charter company. The only other position I’ve found is a cook-slash-nanny on a smaller sailboat. Both of which I am overqualified for and so I would be underpaid.” We made the turn into the driveaway of the yacht services shop and caught sight of the rest of the crew. “But there are some things that are more important than money.”
The heat and weight of the backpack had given me a workout on the walk returning to the office, and I was sweaty and sticky when we arrived. Jonas nudged two cold bottles of juice in our direction as we set our groceries down.
Marcella slumped in a chair and knocked back half of her drink in one gulp. Before the bottle left her lips, Eivind had reached over to grab one of the baguettes and he slipped it out of her grip. He broke off a large chunk and passed the rest along.
I took a few sips of my drink. “Here’s what I think, Marcella. It’s not even a job offer yet, so what harm is there in pursuing it further?”
Marcella pursed her lips in thought and I saw Eivind perk up.
“What is this?”
Marcella told the rest of the crew about the email from Seb, and everyone eagerly agreed she should at least learn more about the job.
“It’s unprofessional,” she cautioned.
Lila shrugged. “It’s life.”
Marcella opened her laptop to respond, so I pulled out my phone and refreshed my apps. There was a response back from Dawn already, since it was evening in the States. I typed back another reply, and my finger hovered over the camera roll on my phone. I had transferred the videos from the GoPro over and had a screenshot of me with the tuna. I clicked to share it on Instagram.
Trying to get used to life on boardWelinaby myself. It’s an ineffable feeling, but then something like this happens, and I can’t help but smile. #getinmybelly #sushifordinner
“Mia.” I looked up from my phone at Jonas. “We have arranged a pearl farm tour tomorrow. Will you join us?”
“Sure.” I’d heard about these tours, one of the biggest attractions in Fakarava—out of the water. The islands were famous for Tahitian pearls, and though I doubted I could afford one, when in Rome...
Eleven
The oyster tour was a rousing success in that I learned two things: how pearls were made, and that Tahitian black pearls were insanely expensive. Our guide had been a big German man who’d married into a local family. His wife ran the shop. Jonas followed me around like a six-foot-tall shadow, and we left without buying anything. Lila and Marcella had lingered. When they finally rejoined us outside the shop, Lila was tucking a small bundle into her bag. Eivind rubbed his belly emphatically.
“Food?”
Marcella rolled her eyes and poked his belly. “Of course, we could have had sandwiches back on the boat, but someone ate all the baguettes we bought yesterday.”
“They are better fresh,” Eivind protested.
“There is a café on the way back—let’s stop for lunch,” Jonas said, playing diplomat.
We detoured to the café and took a seat outside that overlooked the clear blue water. I told Jonas what I wanted from the small menu, and the two men went to the counter to order and pay.
I closed my eyes and basked in the sun for a moment. The pearl shopping combined with checking my bank account balance the other day had me on edge.
