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back slap. It was just Rick’s style.
    “Glad you came, boys.”
    Rick was almost Jack’s height but he was packing at least another thirty pounds of muscle. Jack attributed the added bulk to wrestling with ninety-pound marlin or tuna on a daily basis. Clearly it wasn’t all recreational “catch and release,” as evidenced by the too-tight T-shirt that bore the stains of dried fish blood and the logo for “Rick’s Deep Sea Fishing Adventure.”
    “You done for the day?” asked Theo.
    “Yup. But there’s a little group of us leaving at dawn to see if we can catch a glimpse of the spill. You guys want to come?”
    “Sure,” said Theo.
    “Jack, you up for it?” asked Rick. “It’s about three hours each way.”
    “Jack’s in,” said Theo. “Trust me, he’s got nothin’ to do.”
    “How close can we get?” asked Jack.
    “How good is your Spanish?”
    Jack knew it was a joke, but Theo laughed even harder than he should have, as if Jack needed to be reminded how many times his god-awful “Spanglish” and general lack of awareness for all things Hispanic had embarrassed his abuela .
    “Better stay in U.S. waters,” said Jack. “This half-Cuban boy has filled his quota for affronts to the Cuban people.”
    “Good, we’re on, then,” said Rick. “No way you guys will find a hotel tonight. You’re welcome to sleep here on the boat, if you don’t mind sharing the state cabin.”
    “No, we don’t mind,” said Theo. “We’re on our—”
    “Shut it,” said Jack. “Just shut it.”

Chapter 7
    T hey left the Key West marina at dawn, heading south-southwest at twenty knots.
    The “little group” going out to see the spill, as Rick had advertised it, was more like a flotilla crossing the Florida Straits. Jack counted twenty-nine vessels, a mixed fleet of fully enclosed cruisers, charter dive boats, and fishing yachts like Rick’s refurbished Hatteras forty-five-foot convertible.
    Jack had seen countless sunsets on the water in his lifetime, but the only time he got anywhere near an “ocean” this early in the morning was when his seventy-five-pound golden retriever peed on the bedroom floor. He wondered how Max was doing. They’d boarded him for the honeymoon at Mitzi’s Boot Camp, which, despite the name, was more like the doggy version of Big Palm Island. Andie always spoiled him, and this time she’d done everything but hire Max his own escort from Babes R Us.
    Jack savored this rare morning at sea, watching Key West vanish on the eastern horizon as the glowing orange ball emerged from the Atlantic behind them. A warm southerly breeze foreshadowed another hot September day in the subtropics. Shorts, T-shirts, and sunglasses were the only gear required. An hour into the journey, the wind kicked up, and their pleasure cruise on gentle swells gave way to seas of eight to ten feet, with intermittent whitecaps that sent a geyser-like spray across the bow. Midway through the third hour, the chaise lounges on the beach were calling him back to Big Palm Island, tar balls or not.
    “How deep is it here?” asked Jack. He was with Theo and Rick on the open flying bridge, above the main deck and forward of the rumble of twin inboard engines. Rick was in the captain’s chair at the helm.
    “Deep,” said Rick, checking the instruments. “A mile, give or take a few hundred feet.”
    Jack tried to imagine a floating oil rig with a drill at such depths, the nautical equivalent of halfway to the Titanic—and that was before it even scratched the surface of the ocean floor. For a lawyer who couldn’t pump gas without getting it on his shoes, it was hard to fathom.
    “You’re looking a little green,” said Rick.
    “I’m fine,” Jack lied. He tightened his grip on the safety rail, bracing for the next whitecap. “How much farther?”
    “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
    That’s what you said twenty minutes ago.
    Jack gazed far into the distance, knowing better than to focus on the chop around them