At sea, the truth always finds a way out. You work side by side—sweating, bleeding, reeking of salt and bait—and if someone’s hiding something, the ocean has a way of dragging it into the open.
We’d been working since 3 a.m. when we stumbled into it. One rich pocket teeming with tuna, shrimp, mussels, and clams—like a gift straight from the gods of the deep. By midday, the deck was loaded, and the crew was riding high. Jandro even joked, “This’ll keep us drinking ‘til Christmas.”
But Miguel? He was distant. Just kept his head down, quietly sorting fish with a stiff jaw and hollow eyes. No humming, no wisecracks. We figured he was seasick again. Or maybe dealing with another blow-up at home. That stuff happens.
Later, just as we were getting ready to head in, I caught him alone at the back of the boat—on the phone. I wasn’t trying to listen in, but the wind carried his voice clear as day:
“I just need two more days. Then I’ll bring it.”
Bring what? And to who?
After we docked and the rest of the crew was busy offloading, I took a quick look in the locker where we keep the catch records and extra cash. Nothing looked disturbed—except the logbook was gone.
Miguel had taken it. That book lists every haul, every location. A goldmine for someone looking to poach our best fishing grounds.
And that’s not the strangest part. The next morning, Miguel didn’t show up. His boots, coat, and gloves were still on the boat—but his duffel bag was missing.
Then the coast guard showed up at our dock.
An officer stepped off, clipboard in hand, and asked to speak with our captain. Manny came over, wiping his hands on a rag, eyes squinting against the glare.
“You have someone named Miguel Ferrero on your crew?” the officer asked.
Manny nodded, tense. “Yeah. What’s going on?”
“His wife reported him missing. Says he never came home last night.”
I felt a chill settle in my stomach.
“Do you know where he went after docking?” the officer asked.
We all looked at each other. No one had a clue. Miguel had been on the boat when we tied in—but after that, nothing. Like he’d just disappeared. His gloves still dangled from the railing like he’d only stepped away for a second.
The coast guard left a number in case we heard anything, and silence settled over us.
That night, I went back to the marina. Couldn’t rest knowing something was off. Under moonlight, the water glinted like steel, and the boats rocked like they were keeping secrets.
I unlocked our trawler and checked again. Behind a fuel drum, I spotted something I’d missed: a second duffel bag.
Inside were a prepaid phone, some nautical maps, and a receipt from a pawn shop across town. Not Miguel’s name on it—but definitely his handwriting.
The next day, Manny and I went through the phone. Most of the messages were from someone labeled just “T.” The last text read:
“Tomorrow 7 a.m. Bring the numbers. Cash ready. Don’t bail again.”
“Numbers” had to mean GPS coordinates. The buyer? Could’ve been a black-market poacher—or worse, a big-money outfit that strips the sea bare and vanishes.
Manny muttered, “His mom’s sick again. Cancer’s back. And his brother’s still in prison. He needed help.”
I nodded. “So he was going to sell us out… for them?”
“Maybe. But maybe he didn’t go through with it. Maybe that’s why he ran.”
We followed the lead from the pawn shop. The owner, Cyril, was cagey until Manny dropped some names. Then he admitted Miguel had been in two days earlier, trading in gear. Said he looked miserable and mentioned heading inland. “Told me to tell anyone looking that he was sorry.”
That hit hard.
Then we got a call—from Tito, a former crewmate. Said he saw Miguel at a run-down motel not far from the harbor. Alone. Looking rough.
We found him in room 12. Still in his work clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I was gonna come back,” he said quietly. “I just… needed a little time.”
Manny crossed his arms. “Time to stab your crew in the back?”
Miguel winced. “I didn’t go through with it. Couldn’t.”
“The logbook?”
He pointed to the nightstand. It was there, untouched. Next to a small envelope. Inside: $3,500.
“They gave me half up front,” he said. “The rest was for the coordinates. But I couldn’t hand them over. I shut off the phone. Left the cash. Didn’t know what else to do.”
“You vanished,” I said. “We got questioned. You scared the hell out of all of us.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve to come back.”
We took the cash, the phone, and the logbook. Left Miguel there and said we’d figure out what to do.
Back at the dock, we told the crew everything. Some were furious. Some heartbroken. Jandro, the oldest, said this:
“He made a bad call. But walking away from the money? That’s not easy either.”
In the end, we voted. Miguel wouldn’t get a share of the haul. But he wouldn’t be kicked off the crew either. He’d have to earn it back—trip by trip.
We turned the cash over to the coast guard and told them the full story. Since nothing was actually sold, no crime stuck.
Miguel came back two weeks later. Quieter. More driven. He worked harder than anyone. Never asked for a break. Never missed a shift. Helped patch boats, fixed gear on his own time, and even drove crewmates home without a word.
Turns out, the money he got from the pawn shop? He used it to help his mom pay for treatment.
The sea doesn’t forget—but it watches. And when we landed another good haul the next season, we all noticed Miguel say, “Don’t worry about my cut. I’m just grateful to be here.”
Manny handed him an envelope anyway. Not a full share—but close. Miguel opened it slowly. No big reaction. Just a quiet, thankful smile.
You can’t fake anything out on the water.
But you can make it right.
Sometimes, the most valuable thing isn’t the catch—it’s the chance to come back.