Captain Jack
The dock rocked and creaked beneath her sandals with each wave that rolled in under the planks. Warm morning light shone across the harbor, dancing among the polished hulls of the tour boats bobbing in place like lazy sea creatures waiting to be fed. The salty air carried sunscreen, diesel, and a trace of coconut oil—Cancún’s signature cocktail.
Aleida adjusted the strap on her back, the familiar weight of her diving bag pressing into her shoulder like an old friend she didn’t know whether to trust anymore. Maybe this was it. The great adventure. Or just another long walk to disappointment dressed up in sunscreen and salt air.
She had grown used to expecting less from life, as if hope were a luxury she no longer trusted herself to afford.
The walk from her hotel hadn’t been long, but it had been quiet—her kind of quiet. No one to talk to. No one to talk her out of coming.
The yacht gleamed ahead like it had been scrubbed for royalty. Forty feet of sun-kissed fiberglass with chrome rails that winked in the sun. "Captain Jack’s," said the bold blue italics painted across the side like a signature at the bottom of a love letter. Behind that, in smaller, plain, humble type: diving tours. Like it didn’t want to brag.
There was already a short line of divers ahead to get on, handbags slung over shoulders, chatting like it was just a holiday. Maybe for them, it was. For her, it was supposed to be something else. Something real. She joined the queue without a word, letting their excitement pass over her like wind through netting.
At the top of the ramp stood the man in charge of greeting them.
He wore board shorts and a white polo shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal tanned, capable forearms. His build was lean and athletic—like an Olympic swimmer who hadn’t stopped training but had stopped trying to win medals. His hair was sun-touched and unruly in a way that made it look deliberate. His smile came easily, but didn’t stay long, and the voice that accompanied it was low and smooth as a glass sea.
“Sign in, take a seat,” he told the others ahead of her, waving each one aboard with the kind of casual confidence that only came from knowing everyone was going to listen.
She caught a better look as he turned toward the water, cap in hand. There was something vaguely familiar about his appearance—something in the lazy grin and Southern-laced voice. American. That actor. What was his name? Matthew something. She was never good with actor names. But this one had the same air of adventure wrapped in charm. Late thirties, early forties, maybe. Not young, not trying to be. Just… comfortable.
And attractive. Of course he was. Probably came with the boat.
Her turn came, and she stepped forward.
“You know the routine,” he said, barely glancing at her.
She paused and noticed that.
Not because he was rude. But because he said it like he knew her. Because he didn’t say, “Sign in, take a seat” like he had everyone else. Not from a past dive trip. Not from some mutual friend. It was the tone—easy, warm, familiar. Like they’d done this before.
But they hadn’t.
She would have remembered.
He moved on to the last couple in line as if nothing special had passed between them, while Aleida stepped aboard, wondering about that.
She didn’t know the man, but he had acted as though he knew her.
And somehow… she wasn’t sure she hated the sound of that. It had been a long time since a man’s voice had caught her of guard in a way that felt almost like possibility.
A woman, young brunette with eyes blue as the sea, quite voluptuous, climbed the ladder to the flying bridge. Long legs and sun-kissed skin, she wore a vivid coral bikini that left little to the imagination and a sarong that didn’t even pretend to cover much. She didn’t bounce or wobble, though she probably should have. She didn’t glance down. She moved like she belonged up there as she started the engines, like the whole boat was hers to command if she wanted it.
The way the men on board watched her climb—some subtly, others with open interest—said everything.
Aleida caught herself staring too, but not with the same hunger. Hers was more analytical. Not envy, exactly. But something closer to wondering when she had stopped moving up ladders like that, stopped showing off, stopped being looked at that way. Probably around the same time she started answering phones for jobs that never called back.
Somewhere, someone else was on another boat, strapping on what should’ve been her tanks, about to do what should have been her job—surveying reefs for the NOAA. And here she was, on the wrong boat, wondering when exactly she’d become invisible.
She turned her attention back to her gear, found her tanks waiting on the rack slots on the boat deck, brushing sand from the valves.
Still, the woman’s silhouette stayed in her mind longer than it should have as she picked her seat well forward. She'd been on enough diving boats to know to stay out of the wind and spray.
A young man wearing only shorts—late teens, early twenties, possibly earning college money—handed the skipper the clipboard she’d signed in on. He compared it to another, then gave his orders of approval. The engines started. The young fellow untied the boat. His reddish-blond hair was swept up in a loose, windswept ponytail that bounced with each confident step as he pushed the boat off and swung aboard.
Above, the brunette engaged the propellers, started the boat forward, and took it out, steering above from the bridge. She seemed to know what she was doing.
“Good morning, all,” the handsome, weathered man with a white officer’s naval cap now greeted them in the cockpit. “My name’s Captain Jack. You can also call me just Captain or Jack. I answer to both.”
A ripple of smiles passed through the group. He already had them. She chose not to smile with them.
“Breakfast was served this morning at your hotel. I hope you enjoyed it because we serve nothing here. We have reef safe sunscreen for those who forgot it and UV sunglasses, deliberately unfashionable, so that no one’s tempted to walk off with them.”
Chuckles. More warming to him by the others. Aleida heard the laughs ripple around her like warm water lapping at the edge of a pool. She didn’t join in. Her smile was still packed away, wherever her suitcase went after check-in.
You’re here. Be present. That’s what her father would say.
Instead, she stayed still, a shadow in sunglasses.
“We’ll be diving the Underwater Museum today of the Musa and Manchones reefs off Mujeres Island. Both are shallow dives so good for beginners. Split over three sites, accessible only by boat, they comprise a huge number of statues, five-hundred, of which four-hundred-eighty-seven are the work of one sculptor, Jason deCaires. And, in case you’re wondering, yes, he used me as his model. Or so I like to think. The rest are the work of five Mexican artists. Didn’t use me, clearly less inspired.”
Chuckles passed around like a cold on a winter flight.
“Once we get to the dive site we’ll go through the rules which are basically, don’t touch anything. I get blamed for it. You get arrested for it. Lots of paperwork. So don't do it. You’ll need to pair up with another diver before we get there. Feel free to ask me questions. Enjoy the day and the dive.”
Captain Jack took the seat opposite Aleida at the front of the divers sitting in the back of the boat. He pulled out an artist’s sketchpad as they cleared the breakwater and, while looking at the passengers, began a charcoal work.
Aleida was curious what he was doing. The sketchpad rested on one strong, tanned thigh. His hands were quick, assured, and lightly smudged with charcoal.
She couldn’t look too long without feeling he’d catch her watching—if he hadn’t already. He looked up several times, like he was observing everyone or looking for something, but at no one in particular. More than once, he momentarily studied her, as if he were sketching her, but he did the same with others as well. He did two drawings.
Then he leaned toward the couple next to her, middle aged, him bald, potbellied, she thin with short, graying hair. He showed his sketch of them.
“What do you think?” he asked.
The couple leaned forward to examine it. Aleida did too. She needed the escape.
It was incredible work. Aleida was amazed at the quality of his art. He not only captured them in appearance but also in spirit. They had been smiling, talking happily next to her, and he caught that. You knew it was them—that it would forever be them.
“How much?” the man asked in obvious interest.
The captain penciled in a figure. Showed it to them.
The both looked at it and then at each other, their eyes met. Nothing said but both in agreement.
“We’ll take it.”
“Have it ready for you before you leave,” Captain Jack promised.
Aleida couldn’t help but comment on his work. “You’re very talented.”
“Thanks,” his dark eyes met hers with a pleasant smile. “Did one of you too—if you’d like to see it?”
Surprise.
“You did one of me?”
“I did. I’ll show it to you forward if you’d like.”
“Do you do one for all your customers?”
“No, just the special ones.”
Special? He must have her confused with someone more interesting.
Aleida asked instead about the other couple.
“What made them so special?”
He stopped at the cabin door and looked back at the couple. “All these years together and they’re still in love. Did you not notice their smiles, their laughs, how bright they are?”
Their bond was obvious. “They did seem that way.”
“And did you notice they didn’t quibble over the price? Didn’t even talk about it. Both knew they wanted this shared memory. Just knew. No words. They saw it in each other’s eyes. That’s all they needed. Here,” he turned back to the door, “let me show you yours.”
He opened it and took her forward inside the cabin. There, he showed her his art pad. There was his likeness of her.
Her breath caught—not just at the artistry, but at the way he saw her. Too much. Too clearly.
She stared, stunned by his work, at how he had drawn her.
“You make me look beautiful.”
“You are,” he said.
The words landed soft, not like some easy compliment but like a quiet fact truthfully spoken.
She knew she was not that beautiful, but it was her, unmistakably.
He watched her reaction closely and could tell she looked doubtful. His smile becomes reassuring. “I can only draw what I see.”
“Really? Because I’m topless in this,” she noted of his boldness.
Indeed, she was, though tastefully done, with her hair falling, graceful and alluring, yet strategically placed. She found herself caught between the soft tug of wanting to be flattered and the edge of resentment for his liberty and... his accuracy. But mostly flattered, if she was honest. It was like seeing the version of herself she wished were real.
“Artistic license,” he said with a wink, “and the reason for your private showing,” he added with his easy smile. “Thought I’d go for the Daryl Hannah mermaid look. It fits you. Either that, or I have a very good imagination.”
Aleida took in the sketch again. Very well done actually, like something you’d admire in an art museum and wonder about the woman in it. She could put this on her wall.
Would.
“You forgot my mermaid’s crown,” she told him, then studied it further, peering closer. “You made me look sad.”
“You are sad. That's what made you special.”
The words should have stung, but they didn’t. Not really. She could only swallow, staring at her picture's sadness. Where he had drawn the other couples bond, he had drawn her solitude, as if he’d reached into a room she kept locked and switched on the light.
“You can tell?”
“I can. Not difficult. Everyone came aboard with bright, smiling faces, ready for adventure. You came aboard looking like your dog just died.”
“Lost a job opening. Had my hopes up.” She shrugged. “Took this trip expecting I’d get it.”
“My condolences. Bad news never checks with our calendar.” He looked back at the sketch, but his smile was gone, as if remembering something, reliving a loss. “Somebody should change those rules.”
Aleida could tell he was reliving a regret. Maybe she wasn’t the only sad one on this boat.
“How much do you want for this? And will you sign it?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s free.”
He took it, brushing her fingers. Knuckles warm. Close enough to smell a mix of salt and his aftershave. Not close enough to cross a line. Just enough to blur it. He signed it Captain Jack in an overly big scrawl, hardly an artist’s signature—just a man giving something away.
“Free?” she argued. “This is beautiful work. You charged the others. Why free for me?”
“I just wanted to see you smile. Get rid of that sadness. Might be contagious with the other passengers,” he added with a faint grin. “Besides, you shouldn’t be paying me. I should be paying you for the honor.”
She studied him.
“That’s… either the nicest thing anyone’s ever said or done for me, or the most brazen.”
“Truth usually is,” he replied, rolling it up for her. “Not your first dive, is it?”
“How'd you know?”
“Own your own gear, didn’t have to be told anything, and, besides, beginners never show up alone.”
Aleida smiled faintly, watching him place the drawing inside an art tube with care. “Truth usually is,” he’d said. Not what she expected. It still lingered.
She followed him with her eyes. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Reading people. Saying just enough to make them wonder what else you know.”
He didn’t answer. He was rolling up the couple’s sketch for them.
“You’re right,” she said when he remained silent. “Not my first dive.”
A beat.
“And yes, I came alone.” She added as he capped their tube without a word. “But apparently not invisible.”
“Sirens never are,” he said. “Your name’s Aleida Dover and you’re staying at the Mar Carib.”
He waited a moment for her reaction. It wasn’t long.
“How did you—”
He knowingly held up a clipboard for her to see with a teasing look and that smirk of a smile that made her feel like she already knew him. ’It’s on the passenger manifest.”
She laughed, pleasantly. Well played, Captain.
Jack now studied the list again.
“Thirteen people,” he noticed. “You’re the odd person out.”
“I know,” Aleida admitted, shaking her head while still smiling. “I don’t have a buddy.”
Safety requires every diver have a partner.
“You do now,” he said. “You’ll dive with me.” He set aside the list and added, "If that's okay with you?"
Obviously it was. It wasn't just a necessity, it was an honor. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel invisible.
