Terrors of the High Seas

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THE GOLF CART snaked its way down the sidewalk, startling several peacocks on its way to the docks. It pulled to a halt next to the water, alongside a 54-foot Bertram bobbing in the light chop of the waves.

It was sunny but cool, a gorgeous crisp day, and the occupant of the cart paused to admire that fact as she got out and stretched.

Appropriate to the weather, she wore sturdy cotton shorts and a light tank top over a one-piece bathing suit. Her medium length, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, currently poked through the rear of a bright blue baseball cap with a small, embroidered Dogbert on the front.

“Wow,” Kerry Stuart stated with a grin. “Perfect weather.”

She turned and hoisted a crate of supplies from the back seat of the cart, hugging it to her as she made her way up the gangway propped against the side of the Bertram. The boat rocked under her as she stepped off onto the deck, and she found herself rolling with the motion.

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