Shore Leave

The harbor master’s radio crackled through static. “Berth twelve. Inspection required. Cash only.”

I cut the engines. Our seastead, the Providence, settled in the oily water, solar panels cracked, the desalination unit silent for three days now. Behind me, a passenger in a wrinkled sweat soaked aloha shirt cleared his throat.

“Captain, I trust this unnecessary delay is temporary.”

The dock stretched ahead, half-submerged. Barnacles crusted the visible pilings. A woman in coveralls watched us approach, clipboard in one hand, sidearm on her hip. No corporate logos. No flags.

A woman with the large diamond earrings emerged from the main cabin, her linen blouse stained with something dark. “The WiFi still isn’t working. How am I supposed to—” She stopped, looking around.

“Ma’am, I’ll need to see documentation for all passengers,” the dock woman called. “Vaccination records and resources declaration.”

The man stepped forward, sweat visible on his forehead despite the morning chill. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. We have priority arrangements—”

“Had,” she corrected, not looking up from her clipboard. “Harbor Authority dissolved eighteen months ago. The Port Collective runs things now.”

The town climbed the hillside in terraces. Gardens where parking lots used to be. Solar stills catching morning dew. Children playing in the ruins of what looked like a shopping mall, their laughter echoing off concrete walls painted with murals I don’t recognize.

“Where are the hotels?” the woman with the earrings asked.

The dock woman finally looked up. “The what?”

Behind us, the Providence listed slightly to starboard. Water pooled on the lower deck. The bilge pump had been making a grinding sound for weeks.

“Captain,” aloha said quietly, “perhaps you could explain our situation to someone in charge.”

A group of teenagers repaired fishing nets where a yacht club used to be. They wore patched clothes, moved with easy efficiency.

“I’m looking at her,” I told him.