“I don’t understand it,” Giuseppe said to Peter on the third evening of their transatlantic voyage. “You spend more time here than any of us, and you never catch a fish. Not even one fish.”

The pair were seated on a platform on the ship’s stern as it moved ever westward. Peter was holding a fishing pole in one hand, a margarita in the other, leaning back in an incredibly comfortable captain-style chair that was bolted into the boat itself. Giuseppe sat on an identical chair to Peter’s left.

“I’ve never been very good at fishing,” Peter explained.

The truth was that Peter did not go fishing. Even now, there wasn’t even a hook on his line, just some meat tied neatly in a bundle. He didn’t like hurting creatures for any reason, even if he did regularly eat meat. Instead of tossing a line into the water with the hopes that it would cruelly stab some unsuspecting fish through its cheek, he just tossed it in with the hopes that some lucky fish would stumble upon a free meal.

“What are you using for bait?” Giuseppe asked, clearly wanting to help the woefully inept Peter Mayhew finally catch a fish.

Before Peter explained that he was just feeding the fish while drinking the evening away, Giuseppe jumped to his feet, excitement plastered on his tan face. The line connecting his fishing pole to the ocean’s surface was jumping wildly from side to side as Giuseppe fought whatever unlucky creature took the bait.

Startled by the sudden excitement, Omacatl left her perch on Peter’s lap. The god cat hopped down to the deck and then stopped in front of the stairs to shoot an annoyed glare at Giuseppe before disappearing down the stairs and into the cabin.

It must have been a large unlucky creature, Peter thought as the muscular young man reeled and released, reeled and released, sweat beginning to coat his face and neck from the effort. Before they found out just how large, though, the line snapped. Giueseppe closed his eyes, frowning petulantly.

“Hey,” Peter said consolingly. “You win some, you lose some. Have a margarita.”

He produced a fully mixed margarita from his pocket while Giuseppe’s eyes were closed, and held it out for him. The boy took it and thanked Peter with a sad but charming ‘grazie’ before setting it down on the deck and readying another hook with bits of ick from the corpse of his previous catch.

“We doing margaritas?” came the hopeful voice of Greg Van Helsing from the cabin below deck.

Peter turned to see the big man looking up from the staircase. Peter smiled over his shoulder as Omacatl snuck past Greg and made her way into the cabin.

“I thought you were more of a whiskey guy,” he said teasingly. “Yeah, come on up. Mario,” Peter called loud enough for anyone on the ship to have heard him. “Margaritas are happening back here, come share a drink if you have a minute!”

Mario appeared on deck just after Greg. Peter handed his pole to Giuseppe.

“You mind reeling this in for me?” he asked. “I’ll go make some more drinks.”

Peter disappeared into the cabin for a moment. He tossed a massive raw steak to Omacatl, who slurped the entire thing down as though it were nothing but a peanut. Peter pulled pre-made margaritas from his pocket and put them on a serving tray. He’d made dozens at the hotel and stored them in his jacket along with the food he’d prepared for the journey. He returned a moment later to find Giuseppe laughing hysterically and holding the end of Peter’s fishing line up to show the other two.

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“It’s no wonder you don’t catch a fish, Mr. Mayhew,” Giuseppe forced the words out between laughs. “You don’t have a hook.”

Peter smiled bashfully. He shrugged. “Ah. Well that explains it.”

“Mr. Mayhew,” Mario said, looking curious. “You have a ship, but it has no name. We can’t just keep calling it the ship.”

“Mario, please just call me Peter. And it does need a name, doesn’t it?”

“You could call it The Giuseppe,” Giuseppe suggested hopefully.

“Or Mare Liscio,” Mario said.

It took Peter a moment to remember what that meant in Italian. “Smooth Sea? Not bad. Definitely not going to name my boat The Giuseppe.”

The young man deflated slightly.

“Call it Peter’s Poor Choices,” Greg chimed in. “Or The Divorcer. Oh, even better. Name it Financially Sound.”

Peter looked at Greg flat-faced. “Is that an ocean joke? Like, the Puget Sound type of sound?”

Greg raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed with himself for the pun/insult combo attack.

“I hate,” Peter said, then paused dramatically before finishing the sentence, “that I love that. I now officially grant this ship the name Financially Sound.”

Mario’s tolerance for alcohol, Peter learned as the four of them laughed and talked and drank margaritas, was inhuman. The jolly man grew jollier with each drink, and had two for every one Peter finished. By the time Peter stumbled down the stairs, hands pressed against the walls on either side for stability, Mario had gone through a staggering 19 margaritas. And he was still going, singing a happy little jig to himself in Italian.

Peter awoke the following morning with a hangover that was made slightly less terrible by the comforting feeling produced by Omacatl sleeping and purring softly on his chest. He pulled out his phone, careful not to move too much in order to avoid waking the cat, and pulled up his GPS application. He’d been watching the little blue dot denoting their location as they moved across the vast Atlantic. They were making steady progress but, after 3 days and nights on the yacht, Peter was starting to feel like the walls were closing in.

It was better in the cabin, and at night. But midday, and standing on the ship’s deck, all he could see in any direction was the endless blue. Though standing on the deck of a ship with fresh ocean air filling his lungs was nearly the exact opposite of most situations that triggered Peter’s claustrophobia, there was something about the endless nothingness that produced a similar effect.

As much fun as it had been coaching Giuseppe on how to have more success with the ladies and listening to tales of Mario’s youth, Peter Mayhew was ready to not be on a boat. The days passed slowly as the only thing he had to look forward to was his nightly conversation with Renea, made possible by the purchase of a satellite phone back in Venice.

He updated her on their voyage and told her all about Mario and Giuseppe. She kept him abreast of office politics and the goings on of her battle with Carol. She’d put him on speakerphone so that he could talk to Flapjack, too, but the conversation was one-sided. Renea assured him that Flapjack was listening intently, though. Most nights they talked until one or the other of them fell asleep. In their entire relationship, he had never been away from her for so long.

Peter missed Renea terribly.

Mrs. Rossi’s (likely forged) documentation to pass through the Panama canal held up, and the man that performed the ship inspection mentioned that she had even informed them of Financially Sound’s arrival time, roughly - though not by name - which lessened the wait to cross significantly. The standard ship screening went smoothly and, after several hours of waiting their turn to pass, Financially Sound crossed into the Pacific.

Peter’s desire to not be on a freaking boat swelled alongside his anticipation of seeing Renea and Flapjack again, though sailing with the west coast in sight did much to alleviate his claustrophobia. Omacatl, despite thoroughly enjoying the constant access to the leftover bits of fish that Giuseppe caught and butchered, also seemed to be getting tired of being on a boat. For the final few days of the journey, the enslaved (adopted) god cat remained in the cabin hiding under Peter’s bunk, refusing to come up on deck unless commanded to do so.

After nearly two weeks of life aboard Financially Sound, the ship docked at a marina only a half-hour drive from the Mayhew residence. Waiting for him on the dock was the most amazing thing Peter’s eyes had ever beheld.

Looking as beautiful as she ever had and wearing a black pencil skirt with an elegant white blouse, Renea stood holding Flapjack’s leash. The geriatric corgi seemed to know that something big was happening because, instead of lying down as soon as whoever was walking him came to a stop like he usually did, Flapjack was circling Renea and whining piteously. Peter held back a laugh when she became tangled in the leash and nearly fell into the water trying to right herself.

Finally, he was home.