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.I doubt this’ll last long—we’ll settle in soon enough—but for now it’s here and it’s palpable.A few minutes ago when Colby farted against the vinyl he actually said Excuse me rather than fanning it around the room.We’re shooting the shit.Warriors gossip, current events.Polite topics.Marcus explains a little more about the Intrepid.He’s most proud of its engine, a top-of-the-line, hydrogen-powered beast that doubled the cost of the yacht.“But it was worth it,” he says, spinning around in the captain’s chair, hands clasped behind his head.“Imagine: a boat that runs on water!”His enthusiasm is contagious but you have to admit it is pretty cool.By now we’re all used to putting hydrogen in our cars but that still requires a stop at the pump now and then; in that way modern cars aren’t so different from the old-fashioned gasoline-powered road hogs of yore.But a boat that turns water into speed?“Fuel-wise, we could drive 24/7 without stopping,” Marcus tells us.But humans are still humans, he says, and humans can’t run on just water.So rather than cut straight across the Pacific, heading to Hawaii as the crow flies, he’s put us on a course due south.There’s a pit-stop he wants to make in Mexico, at a port where he’s a regular, to refresh our food and supplies and to let us stretch our legs on solid ground.“Trust me,” he says when we groan about having to delay our arrival at exile island, “you’ll want a break from my baby before long.”And as darkness falls I start to understand what he means.The clear sky turned cloudy long before sunset, and now that it’s dark I can’t tell if the water dotting the windshield is ocean spray or rain.I lost sight of the shoreline an hour ago, when the lights of civilization finally succumbed to haze and distance.It’s easy to imagine the Intrepid is a spaceship hurtling through the void.And it’s a little unsettling.“All righty,” Piper says, getting up off the couch, “I need a drink.Anyone else?”I ask for a beer and Colby boastfully orders a Scotch on the rocks.Piper laughs and tells us he’ll see what he can find in the galley.Clemente goes down with him to look.When they’re gone I kick Colby in the butt and make him get up so I can stretch out on the couch.He goes willingly but we both know the couch would be his if he wanted it.“Can I drive?” he says to Marcus as he plops into the empty chair in front of the dashboard.Marcus looks at him, grinning.He presses some buttons.“Sure,” he says.Then he backs away.“All yours.”“No.Really?” Colby springs to his feet, clutches the wheel like he might have to wrestle it.“What do I do?”“Drive.Like you said.”“I wasn’t serious, Marcus!” His knuckles are white on the wheel.“Maybe this was a bad idea.”“You’re doing fine.Bank us this way a little,” Marcus says, gesturing.“I don’t want to flip us over.”“You won’t flip us.”Colby turns the wheel, slowly at first, then harder, but the Intrepid doesn’t seem to respond.“Hey.”“It’s on autopilot,” Marcus laughs.“Dope.I knew that.” Colby spins the wheel like a game-show host but it has no effect on our direction.“How do I get it off? Hit a rogue wave?”“That’ll do it.Otherwise you need my fingers to get it off.”I smirk but neither of them seems to notice that little double entendre.“So you have magic hands?” Colby teases.“Something like that.”I sit up.“Do you really need your fingerprints to take it off autopilot?”“It’s a security thing,” Marcus says.“That way I can leave the bridge while the autopilot’s on and no one who’s chilling up here can screw with the settings.”“That makes sense.But what if someone else needs to stop the boat?”“It’ll steer around anything really dangerous.Some things I guess we’d just plow through.”“Like a buoy.”“Calculated risk,” Marcus says.“So will you ditch the autopilot so I can steer for real?” Colby says.Marcus smiles.Colby’s hooked him already, I can see it in Marcus’s eyes—it’ll only be another day or two before he’s fully reeled in, if he can even hold out that long.When Clemente and Piper return with a tray of drinks and a bucket of ice, we sit around the bridge and continue our small-talk.I’m not bored—the situation’s too novel to be boring—but I do wonder if all Tumble Aquatic Tours are this quiet.Marcus keeps close to the captain’s chair, as if he’s not sure how much to participate.On other tours his role is probably mostly as pilot.We, on the other hand, have sort of made him a teammate.A bookworm among his brother’s jock buddies.No wonder he’s quiet.But you can always count on Colby to supply some comic relief.A minute ago I noticed him put his Scotch down; there was a wary look on his face.Now he’s bounding off the couch.The thrown-open door clangs the wall of the bridge as Colby jumps out to the main deck and pukes in a horizontal stream over the side of the fast-moving boat.Clemente lowers his bottle of cider and says, “Nice to see that kid’s human.”“You OK out there?” I yell.Colby turns to face us, slumping against the rail.He drags his forearm across his mouth.“Scotch-sick or seasick?” Clemente asks.“Both-sick,” Colby groans.He comes back into the bridge, closes the door, walks past us to the stairs.“I need bed.”“Thanks for getting it over the railing,” Marcus says.Colby just looks embarrassed as he disappears below deck.“Don’t throw up in my room,” Piper calls.Later, I’m in bed watching Clemente Santiago undress in the moonlight.That sounds way sexier than it is
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