Out on the water, nobody lies. Not for long, anyway. You sweat, you bleed, you stink together—and if something’s off, the sea finds a way to surface it.

We’d been out since 3 a.m. when we hit the pocket. Shrimp, mussels, tuna, clams—all in one spot like a jackpot straight from Poseidon himself. By noon, the deck was overflowing, and everyone was riding high. Jandro even said, “We’ll be drinking on this haul till Christmas.”

But Miguel? He stayed quiet. Just kept sorting fish with this weird, stiff look on his face. No jokes, no singing. We figured maybe he was seasick again, like last month. Or maybe fighting with his wife. Happens.

Then, just before we turned in, I caught him standing alone by the stern—on the phone. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the wind carried his words:
“I know. I just need two more days. Then I’ll bring it.”

Bring what? To who?

After we docked, while the others were unloading crates, I stayed behind and checked the locker where we keep the haul sheets and petty cash. The lock was unlatched. Inside, nothing was missing… except a copy of the logbook.

He took it. That book tracks what we catch and where. Priceless to the right kind of buyer. Especially if you’re planning to poach the spot later.

Now the weirdest part—Miguel didn’t show up this morning. His gear’s still on the boat. Boots, jacket, even his gloves. But his duffel is gone.

And just now, the coast guard pulled up beside our dock—with a clipboard in hand.

The officer stepped off the boat, nodded at me, and asked for the captain. I called for Manny, who was knee-deep in a crate of yellowfin. He wiped his hands on a rag and walked over, squinting under the morning sun.

“Problem?” Manny asked.

The officer glanced at his clipboard. “Just a few questions. You have a crew member named Miguel Ferrero?”

Manny stiffened. “Yeah. Why?”

“He was reported missing late last night. His wife called it in. Says he never came home.”

I felt my stomach drop. “You think something happened to him?”

“We don’t know yet,” the officer said. “Last known location?”

“Here,” I said. “We docked around six. He was still on the boat when we tied in.”

The officer jotted notes. “Anyone see where he went after that?”

Nobody did. We looked at each other, suddenly unsure of everything. Miguel was always the last off the boat, always careful with his gear. But now his gloves were hanging off the side rail like he’d just stepped away for a smoke.

The coast guard thanked us and left his number, in case Miguel turned up. As their boat pulled away, the silence between us tightened. No one said it, but we all thought the same thing: something was very wrong.

Later that evening, I drove out to the marina again. Couldn’t sit at home knowing Miguel was missing and that something shady had gone down. The moon lit the water silver, and the boats rocked like they were whispering secrets to each other.

I unlocked our trawler and stepped inside. I don’t even know what I was hoping to find. But there it was—in the space behind the fuel drum—a second duffel bag. One I hadn’t noticed earlier.

Inside: a prepaid phone, a rolled-up set of nautical maps, and a receipt from a pawn shop across town. The name on the receipt wasn’t Miguel’s—but it was his handwriting.

I pocketed the maps and took the phone to Manny the next morning. We didn’t tell the others yet. Just flipped through the texts. Most were from a contact saved only as “T.” The latest one said:

“Tomorrow 7am. Bring the numbers. Payment on the spot. Don’t flake again.”

Manny rubbed his beard. “Numbers must mean the coordinates.”

“And the buyer?” I asked.

“Could be a poacher. Or worse—a corporate buyer. The ones who drain a spot dry and vanish.”

“But why Miguel? He didn’t even like tech. Never used GPS.”

“He needed the money,” Manny muttered. “His brother’s still locked up, remember? And his mom’s cancer came back.”

I nodded slowly. “So he was gonna sell us out to help them?”

Manny looked at the maps again. “Maybe. But maybe he changed his mind. What if that’s why he disappeared?”

We made a decision then—one we didn’t take lightly. We’d go to the pawn shop listed on the receipt and ask some questions. See who Miguel was dealing with.

The owner, a grumpy guy named Cyril, was less than helpful at first. But when Manny dropped a few names from the marina, Cyril caved. “Yeah, guy came in two days ago. Sold me a fish finder and a radio. Said he was heading inland, maybe Mexico. Didn’t look too happy about it.”

“Did he say anything else?” I asked.

“Only that if anyone came looking, I should tell them he was sorry.”

That hit hard. Miguel—sorry? For what? Selling our spot? Or leaving without a word?

We left the shop feeling worse than before. If Miguel had skipped town, why leave his gear? Why not tell anyone?

That’s when we got the call—from a guy named Tito. Used to work boats with us years ago before moving up north. He said he’d just seen Miguel. Not in Mexico. But at a run-down motel five miles from the harbor.

“He looked rough,” Tito said. “Said he was waiting on something. Wouldn’t say what.”

We drove straight there. The motel reeked of mildew and cigarettes. We found Miguel in room 12, sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his work pants and undershirt.

He looked up, startled. Then ashamed.

“I was gonna come back,” he said softly. “I just needed time.”

Manny crossed his arms. “Time for what? Selling out your crew?”

Miguel flinched. “I didn’t go through with it. I couldn’t.”

“Then where’s the logbook?”

He motioned to the nightstand. It was there, untouched. Next to a small brown envelope. Inside: $3,500 cash.

“They gave me half up front. Said I’d get the rest when I gave them the coordinates,” Miguel explained. “But I couldn’t do it. I left the money at the motel, turned off the phone, and walked. Thought maybe if I just disappeared, no one would get hurt.”

I stared at him. “You almost got us all questioned by the coast guard.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I deserve whatever comes next.”

We took the money, the logbook, and the phone—and left him there. Told him we’d talk later.

Back at the dock, we had a long meeting with the rest of the crew. Told them everything. About Miguel’s plan, the money, and how he backed out at the last second. Reactions were mixed. Some wanted to report him. Others wanted to forgive.

But Jandro, the oldest among us, said something that stuck.

“He did wrong. No doubt. But he also made the hardest choice—to stop, when the money was easy and the cause seemed just. That counts for something.”

In the end, we voted. Miguel wouldn’t get a cut of the haul. But he wouldn’t be banned from the crew either. He’d have to earn his way back—trip by trip.

We returned the cash to the coast guard and told them the truth. They said they’d file a report but no charges. Apparently, not going through with a crime still counts for something.

Miguel came back two weeks later. Quieter. More focused. He worked harder than any of us, never asked for favors, never complained. He gave Jandro rides home, helped patch Manny’s roof, and fixed a busted winch on his day off.

And when the holidays rolled around, we found out what he’d done with the rest of the money from the pawned gear—he’d sent it to his mom’s clinic.

The sea doesn’t forgive easily. But it notices effort.

The next season, we hit another big catch—maybe not as wild as last time, but enough to keep us warm all winter. And when it came time to split the shares, Miguel just nodded and said, “I’m good. Just being here’s enough.”

That’s when Manny handed him an envelope anyway. “You earned this.”

Miguel opened it slowly. Not as much as a full share—but not far off. He smiled. Not wide, but real.

Out on the water, you can’t lie for long. But you can change.

Sometimes the biggest catch isn’t the fish—it’s the second chance.

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