"Fine," Arthur gasped, clutching a handrail. "What was the name again?"
Arthur looked out at the churning gray horizon. He wasn't thinking about the wine. He was just thinking about a world that stayed level.
The search results flickered to life. He saw the rugged actuators, the stainless steel hardware, and the promise of "active roll reduction." He didn’t care about the price; he cared about the physics. He hit the 'Contact Dealer' button on a distributor in San Diego just as a rogue swell sent a stack of ceramic plates crashing in the galley below.
"I told you, Artie," Miller shouted over the groan of the hull. "You want to cross the Gulf in a boat this narrow, you don't just hope for flat water. You prepare for the roll."
Miller let out a rare, jagged laugh. "Smartest thing you’ve done all trip. By the time we head back, you'll be able to set a glass of wine on the dashboard and not lose a drop."
The salt spray was beginning to taste like missed opportunities. Arthur stood on the bridge of the Salty Dog , a 52-foot trawler that currently had the grace of a drunken toddler in a bounce house. Beside him, Captain Miller gripped the wheel, his knuckles white as the foam crashing over the bow.
"Done," Arthur yelled. "I sent the inquiry. If we survive to port, they’re going in."