The SS Oceanwave slowly glided into Freeport Harbour, Grand Bahama Island, the emerald-green waters parting as the keel sliced through the remaining water leading to the dock. Half a dozen portside men were on the quay and sailors on deck were ready with ropes. It was seven in the morning, the sun was up and high in the sky, white cumulus clouds punctuating the otherwise bright blue sky. It was another day in paradise.
Lucia Gonzalez, in bed in her cabin, stretched her limbs under the covers, waking up to the soft sound of waves lapping the outside of the cabin wall near the ceiling. The ship had a pleasant, gentle, rocking motion.
Somehow, that brought back to mind Ramon’s off-kilter pounding of the night before and how unlike this rocking he had been. She reflected on the previous night’s events, astonished at the dramatic, fast turn of events — Lisa’s porn star revelation, then Carmen and Estella, then Ramon’s energetic and sudden appearance. He was actually a better dancer than she wanted to acknowledge.
She thought it over. Admittedly, she had been impressed. He was a chancer and probably a player, but his energy and enthusiasm had been a bolt up the backside that she didn’t know she needed, jolting her out of her senses, enlivening her existence and suddenly reminding her of why she loved Latin music and dancing. He was all punchy, pouncing, crackling with sparky energy, and his hot, muscled body had awakened a primal desire that had led directly to his bedroom and an experience that had boded well until…well, until — hmmm! She didn’t have the heart to tell him and it wasn’t like he could do anything about it.
Lucia sat up, bolt upright. Huh! Was she so lame? Honestly, couldn’t she have lent a hand and got herself off while he was there? Why didn’t she think of that? “Absolute size queen,” she muttered, standing up in the middle of her cabin, annoyed. After all, Jorge had only been about six and a half — hardly huge. It had never been an issue before. Why was this different?
Looking around, she noticed Lisa’s empty bed. Suddenly her memory came flooding back. Oh, no! She was late! She had Shorex duty for the Beach Tour at eight! She grabbed her bag and opened it. “Time to use the swimsuit,” she said to herself.
Up on the Fourth Floor, opposite the Pursers Office counter, was an identical counter, save for the gold lettering above it, which read, SHORE EXCURSIONS. A smattering of passengers had already assembled in the lobby. The rollerblind suddenly jerked into life and slowly moved up, revealing the interior of the Shorex office.
At one end of the counter, in the golf-shirt-and-slacks uniform of the Cruise Department, stood John Boston, the Shorex Manager. American, 46, middle-aged, with a somewhat lined face and black hair scraped back off his forehead, slightly greying at the temples, he looked like a somewhat slimmer Michael Madsen. He called out to the passengers in a New Jersey accent, “All right, people, line up. Tickets available for shoreside excursions leaving at eight.” The passengers milling around perked up and began to crowd the counter.
A couple of Cruise Department staff came out — young, twentysomethings, a guy and a girl. They, too, also began selling tickets, while Boston gave a brief spiel about each tour. There was the Glass-Bottomed Boat Tour, the Beach Tour, the Beach Tour with Snorkelling and the Caribbean Party.
Lucia didn’t go there, though. Selling tickets wasn’t her responsibility. She headed for the Gangway, where a Deck Officer, an Indonesian, stood. She was going to be the Tour Guide for the Beach Tour. She had grabbed something for breakfast real quick from the Staff Mess — an apple. Scrunching the juicy green fruit as she headed upstairs, it was eaten by the time she made it to the gangway. She casually tossed the apple core into a garbage can nearby.
Lucia looked hot. Her jet-black hair fell in cascades over her shoulders, the olive skin of her face and body was sleek and flawless. She wore lipstick, a little mascara and eyeliner. She wouldn’t usually wear make-up with a swimsuit but, then again, she wasn’t actually going swimming. The purple lycra was tight against her body, emphasizing her full breasts. Two straps of material crossed each other at her midriff, ending at a high-cut where her body met her legs. Her legs were completely bare, except for ankle socks and sneakers on her feet.
“Maybe I think you should wear sunscreen,” suggested the Indonesian, smiling at her appearance. He was maybe 40-something, fat, in a security guard uniform. A walkie-talkie two-way radio hung from his belt. “It’s gonna be hot.”
Lucia turned to him. “Yeah, I guess so.” She hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps she could buy some outside.
At eight o’clock, a large contingent of passengers came filing down the corridor from the lobby where the Shorex Office was to the gangway. John Boston was at the front, leading the way but constantly talking loudly over his shoulder and looking back at them, giving instructions and pumping them up.
“All right, ladies and gents, we’re coming to the gangway — this is the Beach Tour! We’re going to alight from the ship to a waiting bus outside. Don’t worry, the bus is air-conditioned and there are bottles of water onboard if anyone’s thirsty…”
Three or four male passengers near the front caught sight of Lucia.
“Well, look who we have here!”
“Who’s this, I wonder?”
“Is she coming with us?”
John Boston saw Lucia and, coming up to her, said, “Are you taking over from Lisa?”
“Yeah, I -”
“Huh, I don’t know who’s gonna cause more trouble for the ship, you or her, with you dressed like that.”
“It’s hot!” replied Lucia.
“Well, I just hope you can create a great tour. What’s your name again?”
“Lucia Gonzalez.”
Boston held out his hand. “John Boston — Shorex Manager. Dave’s your boss — and mine, too — but I’m in charge of tours shoreside, so when your doing tours, you’re under me.”
“Right.”
“Where’d you hail from, anyway?”
“Rio, Brazil.”
“Cool.” Boston turned to the passengers. “All right, people, this is Lucia — she’s gonna be your tour guide for today — I’m coming with you, since this is her first time doing this.”
“Woohoo!” said one man at the front.
A middle-aged fat woman in a sun visor about ten feet back down the corridor turned to another woman next to her. “Well, I’ve seen more clothes on a dog!”
“Yeah, I guess the guys are up for an exciting tour, huh!”
The group of twenty-two passengers, plus John Boston and Lucia, filed down the gangway, moving past the guard, and arrived portside where a large, air-conditioned bus was waiting, engine idling, for them to come onboard.
Boston and Lucia approached the front of the bus and as they did so, the hydraulic brakes sounded and the automatic door slid open with a hiss.
“ALL RIGHT, FOLKS!” yelled Boston over the sound of the bus. “Everyone on board for the Beach Tour!”
Once the passengers were on, the driver pulled away and headed across Freeport Harbour and through the exit gates. Gathering speed, it passed some long grass with rusty old iron girders by the roadside, while further back, the land was covered in trees. Turning left, they continued on, while the passengers rubbernecked out the windows at the passing scenery, chatting and commenting among themselves.
Lucia saw a cardboard box of water bottles up front near the driver. “Hey, are these for us?”
John Boston looked down. “Sure, go ahead. Ask the passengers if they want one now.”
Lucia ripped open one of the top flaps and removed a bottle. Grabbing a microphone offered by John, she addressed the guests. “Hey, does anyone want water, we’ve got some up here!”
Several of the men answered. “Yeah, sure, over here!”
Lucia pulled out several bottles, then stood up. The impact of her body on the guests was palpable. Moving down the aisle, she gave out the bottles, leaning over several of the women. Olive-skinned flesh and deep cleavage made her realize what was going on, so then she stopped that and changed to handing each bottle to the nearest passenger and motioned to them to pass it along to the guest who needed it. Once at the back of the bus, she turned around and went back to the front, acutely aware that the eyes of every male were on her butt as she swayed back. Hmmm, she thought. This swimsuit might not have been such a good idea.
The bus moved on, passing some half-built houses in the grass, before gradually entering the suburbs of Freeport, where some better roads and houses stood back from the road. Finally, she reached the city centre, much of which seemed laid out like a suburban shopping district in the US. She observed that while cars on the road were American, people drove on the left in the Bahamas, like in the UK. This meant that the steering wheel was on the left of the bus and the bus was on the left of the road. Turning right must be pretty dangerous around here, thought Lucia.
On they went, arriving at a beach with bright, colourful pennant flags flying from a tent on the sand. The bus heaved to a halt. The driver pressed a button on the dashboard and the doors hissed open.
“All right, people, we’re here — take your time getting off, mind your feet!” John Boston cried, obviously practised in giving these instructions. Lucia disembarked and found herself on a short, paved area close to a shop that looked like a convenience store merged with a surf shack. A wide, sandy beach cut a swathe across the landscape, like a ribbon of yellow between the sea and the shoreline. Large rocks studded the beach, where a few locals and some tourists unrelated to Florida Tropical Cruise Line lay sunbathing in bikinis. A large cream-coloured tent was erected on the sand close to the paved area, and calypso music was playing somewhere near it. It sounded live rather than a recording, but Lucia couldn’t see the musicians from where she was standing. Holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, she saw what looked like large black objects in front of the tent. As her eyes became accustomed to the intense sunlight, she realised they were barbecues.
John Boston came up to her. “Lucia — let’s get the guests onto the beach and into the tent. Then we’ll give some instructions.”
“OK,” replied Lucia. She was basically just following along, she thought. Whatever. As long as John was here, things would be under control. She hadn’t received any other instructions beforehand, except just to show up at the Gangway, so she felt like she was almost as clueless as the passengers. Boston seemed solid, she thought. He was down to earth. During the bus ride, she’d chatted with him. He was funny and told jokes but could be serious, too. She liked that about him.
The passengers assembled in the tent, where a long line of locals behind tables, dressed in chef’s uniforms, stood waiting. On the tables were plates of beef, pork chops, whole fish, chicken legs, shrimp and other food that Lucia guessed were going to be grilled on the barbecue.
“So, here we are,” began Boston. “So, people, this is the Beach Tour and basically, today we’ve got about six hours here. We’ll start off by exploring the beach.” Gesturing to a man standing nearby in blue t-shirt and shorts, he continued. “This is the representative of the local tour operator and he’s going to be our guide for today.”
“Bummer. I thought she was going to be our tour guide,” said one male guest, pointing at Lucia. Lucia turned at looked at him.
John Boston smiled. “She is, she is — but Lucia’s new, so basically she’s tagging along with us today.”
“Oh, great — that’s a relief,” said the man, and the others laughed. The fat woman glared at him.
“Yeah, on future tours, I won’t be here — Lucia will be doing what I’m doing now,” explained John.
Oh, really, thought Lucia. Her ears pricked up as she realized she needed to pay attention to what John Boston was doing. It wouldn’t look good to just stand around enjoying the scenery. She would be doing the running of this tour next cruise maybe.
“So first,” John went on, “this guide will let us explore the beach, then after about an hour, we’ll spend some time climbing the rocks. After that, you’ll have some free time to swim in the sea, sunbathe on the beach and just relax and just spend the time however you want. Lunch is at twelve and they’ll be barbecued food, cold beer and a live calypso band, who are playing right now.”
“Where are they?” asked one woman.
“Oh, just on the other side of this tent,” explained John. “You’ll see them when we start exploring.”
“OK,” said the woman, satisfied.
“Starting at lunch, they’ll be a beach party, with games on the beach, which will continue until about two, then we’ll head over to some souvenir shops nearby to do an hour’s shopping, then we’re back on the bus at three, arriving back at the ship by three-thirty. The ship leaves the harbour at four sharp.” Boston looked around. “Any questions?”
Just then, Lucia remembered the sunscreen, so stepped away from the tent area and over to the convenience store. Paying in US currency, she was able to buy a small bottle. Slathering on the lotion, her skin now gleamed shiny, further accentuated her physical features.
Arriving back in the tent, her reappearance was greeted with noises of approval from the men.
“This is starting to annoy me,” remarked the fat woman, and several of the other ladies’ faces looked like they silently agreed.
Lucia watched them. There was no way she was suffering sunburnt skin for the sake of the opinions of a bunch of overweight white women with overeager husbands, she thought.
A few minutes later, the group moved out of the tent, following the local guide, with John and Lucia at the front and the rest following on.
The guide turned out to be fun and interesting. Exploring the beach seemed to interest the passengers, but Lucia was somewhat underwhelmed. The beach was smaller than she was used to, what with Rio’s two famous beaches, Copacabana and Ipanema, being way bigger and much more impressive. Still, it felt good to be back on the seashore. It reminded her of home.
The rock-climbing was more fun than she anticipated, with energetic climbs and some entertaining monologue from the guide, although some of the middle-aged, overweight Floridians found it a challenge.
Around ten the passengers began to filter out across the beach to do their own thing.
“This is the easiest tour to teach you,” explained John Bolton, when he and Lucia were sitting on the rocks. “The hardest one is the Glass-Bottomed Boat Tour with Snorkelling — there are a lot of safety instructions, complicated info about dolphin behaviour, preservation of coral reefs stuff and so on. Plus the snorkelling activity is hard to control, with passengers all in the water unable to hear your instructions even if you yell them out.”
“Uh-huh,” sad Lucia. “It sounds fun, though.”
“It sure is,” agreed John. He looked at her. “I think you can handle it, though.”
Lucia smiled. “If I can survive the opinions of the women passengers.”
“Forget that,” John grinned. “The fact is, fat, white Florida retirees are the bread and butter of our cruise line. Canaveral’s central — there’s a different vibe than southern Florida down Miami way — there are a lot of Mafia down there, second-generation Cubanos, lot of ethnic groups, plus there’s the chill vibe of downtown and South Miami Beach. Maybe kinda similar to Copacabana, huh?”
“Maybe,” smiled Lucia. “Ipanema more, I think.”
“OK. Central Florida means one thing to most people outside the state — Disneyworld. Everyone flies to Orlando and more or less stays there. They do Disney, Sea World, Universal Studios, then go home. Canaveral’s just got the Space Center next to the port. A lot of tourists want to see that but there’s no special reason why those guys would want to head on over to the port on a sudden whim and jump on a cruise ship to the Bahamas. If they wanted a cruise, they would head for Miami, maybe take a car down if they did Orlando first.”
“I see.”
“So the shoreside office can’t siphon off tourists from Disney or the Space Center. So they do these $100 deals, where one passenger pays $99 and they can bring a +1 for $1.”
“What! So cheap!”
“Yeah, exactly. So a bunch of skinflint retirees living locally just jump on for a two-day cruise for the cost of one Ben Franklin.”
“Ben Franklin?”
“Yeah — a $100 bill — you know, it’s got Benjamin Franklin on the front.”
“Oh, the fat guy with the double chin and bad hair.”
John laughed. “Yeah, that guy. Anyway, so a lot of locals try to treat our line as a booze cruise or a casino joint — because gambling’s illegal in the state. Most cruise lines don’t want that image, though, since it means they can’t justify the high prices travel agents get passengers to pay out-of-state. If out-of-state or international tourists knew we were charging a hundred bucks for locals, there would be a riot. So it’s important we rise above a booze cruise and offer a decent shorex experience — which is where I come in.”
“I get it,” said Lucia. She was beginning to realise the underlying situation of her new position.
“I’m responsible for keeping the image of the cruise line above rock bottom, basically.” John turned to her. “So, having explained all that, I think you could use covering yourself up more on these excursions. Don’t worry too much about the cheapskate locals — all they care about is booze and gambling and we only lose a hundred bucks. If I hear, though, a complaint from some out-of-state or international tourist who paid upwards of five grand for a ticket about your appearance, that could cause problems.”
“Oh.” Lucia was playing with fire with this swimsuit, it seemed.
Boston put one hand on Lucia’s shoulder. It felt reassuring. “I just didn’t want you to think I was being basically anti-female or maybe racist against Hispanics or South Americans. I’ve been to Brazil. I know you women like looking hot! It’s just that – there are other considerations, too.”
Lucia turned to him. “OK, John. I understand. Thanks for your time.”
After the Beach Tour was over, Lucia was thoughtful on the bus tour back. Hmmm! Florida once belonged to Spain and used to be Hispanic but, in truth, times had changed. It was way more conservative than she thought. Perhaps even sex with Ramon had been risky. She hoped no one would find out about that and that Ramon would keep his mouth shut. Somehow, she doubted it. She bit her lip, anxious that she had already screwed up. Huh! Why hadn’t she been more careful? This was a different country, a different culture, and she’d just swanned right on in as if she owned the place.
The next morning, it was time to disembark. The Pursers Office was busy with passengers asking questions. The fat, middle-aged woman came bustling up. Edward the skinny Brit guy was on duty and watched her as she approached. “Good morning, madam,” he said, politely.
“I have a complaint,” said the woman, testily. “I was on the Beach Tour yesterday and I just wanna say that Social Hostess couldn’t have worn less clothes if she had tried. I mean, what she had on left little to the imagination, don’t you think?”
“Er, well, I wasn’t there, madam, so I can’t really say,” replied Edward.
“Well, I can,” she retorted. “Where’s the manager? The men on the tour, including my husband, were basically bug-eyed at her the whole time.”
“You can speak to my superior, the Chief Purser, if you wish.”
“Yes, please.”
“Could I have your name, please, madam?”
“Christine Clanton.”
Ten minutes later, she was behind the Pursers Office, in the Chief Purser’s Office, a small, rather pokey-looking office behind the main one. Rachel Johnson, the Chief Purser, was British, 35, slim, five feet ten, with long, dark, brown hair tied up in a slightly messy bun, plus wore the regular white uniform of an officer — white blouse, three-stripe shoulder lapels, name tag, white skirt, white, medium-high heels. “Well, I must say, Mrs. Clanton, we have only received limited complaints about this — more than half of the passengers seemed very pleased with the tour.”
“They’re called husbands and men,” replied Mrs. Clanton.
The Chief Purser raised her eyebrows. “Well, Mrs. Clanton, we will take your comments onboard and steps will be taken to address the issue in due course.”
“I feel fobbed off,” replied the woman.
The Chief Purser sighed. “OK, you can have 10% off your next cruise.”
Mrs. Clanton rose. “Thank you. See you in about six weeks, when I can afford another cruise.” She went out.
“I’m sure the company will await your ninety dollars with baited breath,” said the Chief Purser to herself.
Once the passengers had “debarked” (“disembarked” is far too long a word for cruise lines to use on a daily basis), the day in Canaveral passed quickly. Lucia found herself with little to do except wait for four o’clock when the ship sailed.
At around two, outside in the terminal, a car slowly pulled up outside the terminal building. Inside the car, Pablo Rodriguez impatiently waited as the rather elderly-looking American man pulled up on the handbrake.
“We’re here,” said Duke.
Pablo flung open the rear door and got out. Rising to his full six feet two height, he surveyed the scene. Sunshine. Blue sky. So much different from New York. No more New York City dance crew work in dingy garage dens and neon-lit nightclubs. This was a new start. With any luck, he might meet some nice women. Tropical women. Spring breakers. Hot babes in bikinis sunbathing on deck.
Women in New York City were smart, sassy, hot to trot and didn’t take any junk from anyone. Truth was, neither did he. He could see straight away when a woman wanted him. She would eye him over, like what she saw and come on over. She would bite her bottom lip, twirl her hair and involuntarily arch her back to show herself off to her best advantage. It was like second nature to him, women did it all the time.
Pablo heaved his backpack onto one shoulder and headed off through the terminal building. Passing a security guard, he walked along the gangway, past the photographer and up to the entrance to the ship. Entering the lobby, he saw the Pursers Office. The ship’s agent at the airport had told him to report there. Just as he passed the staircase, he turned to see a woman climbing the stairs.
Suddenly she stopped, pausing briefly. Her eyes widened to take more in, then closed slightly as a flame appeared in her eyes — a hungry flame, one that Pablo recognized; the flame of desire. Her eyes roved down his form, taking in his chiseled jawline, wide chest that narrowed under his white shirt to a V taper; his narrow waist, strong arms and firm, masculine legs.
He saw her gorgeous, black cascading hair, her olive skin, her long, trained legs, pouting lips and those fabulous, full breasts that seemed to strain beneath her white golf shirt. Her white shorts revealed elegant thighs that caused a jolt of pleasure in his loins that he had no business feeling, topped off by white socks and sneakers on her feet.
“Hello,” said Pablo. “Who might you be?”
The woman looked directly at him with steady, wanting eyes. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Lucia.”