Devonne Brown

“Shit,” said Van, the steward, as the tray of wine glasses he carried toppled from his hand to stain the front of his uniform and face with red wine. “We hit something.”

Christina, done with the dancing scene, sat on a stool at the bar in a green and blue sequined gown and wore a glass of red wine in her lap. She glanced at the steward, read his name tag, and asked, “Did we hit something, Van?” 

The captain, a seasoned sailor, stood beside Christina and whispered to Van, “We’ve run aground. At least we’re not sinking.”

The yacht carrying thirty-four of her closest friends, thirty-five passengers if you counted Christina, kept dancing. Didn’t they notice the bump? They’d run aground somewhere between Florida and the Bahamas. The bartender set another glass of wine in front of her and handed her a wet rag. He gave Van a clean jacket uniform, and smiled a smile of sorrow. 

Christina looked around the ballroom again, silk and taffeta, beads and sequined dresses, velvet, all manner of beautiful flowing gowns adorned the women. Tuxedo and black tie wearing men looked happy and handsome, holding beautiful women in their arms. It was as glamorous as a black and white Hollywood movie from the Golden Era. Fred Astair could hot foot it down that stair case at any momemnt.

This night would last forever, or at least until the Coast Guard came with a tow boat to get them off the sand bar. 

At this minute, everyone, but a handful of people who knew the truth was happy. The handful, Christina, the captain, the bartender, and the steward were everything but happy. How long would the secret last?

The three employees turned to Christina, the only other person within earshot. “You have to stay here. We can’t let you leave the bar, you might tell someone of our predicament. The boat still rocks, and feels like it’s  moving, so you have to play along. Act casual, normal,” said the captain. 

“Well, that’s easy,” Christina said. She had sarcasm in her voice. She held onto the rag and continued to wipe her dress even though the wine was long gone. “I want something stronger than wine. Give me a double Woodford Reserve, no ice, no charge either. If I have to keep this a secret, you’re going to pay for this. I’d also like some chips and dip, I’m a nervous eater.”

“Whatever you want,” said the bartender as he glanced at the captain who was watching the dance floor, his watch, and his radio. 

He hoped the Coast Guard would get here before the dancing fools emptied the bar. The owner of the boat wouldn’t be pleased at all, it was going to be ugly anyway. His job was over, no self respecting captain ran aground during black tie night.