The tall blonde TV reporter drove down from Atlanta to stand in front of a glop of tar on the beach and tell the world that the Gulf of Mexico was closed.
Like official word made any difference. Fishing had already petered out. Folks were scared of catching a mackerel full of oil. I’d stashed away eight hundred and seventy-eight dollars from my fish-cleaning business, but that wasn’t near enough to buy the boat I had my eye on.
No job, and six weeks of summer left. Some of the charter boat captains got contracts laying oil boom to keep the floating crude off shore, but they weren’t hiring fifteen-year-olds.
When Captain Butler limped into the harbor on that old wood yacht and offered to pay me to help clean her up, I though my luck had changed. I didn’t suspect I could be aiding and abetting.