Page 9 of Head Over Eels in Laguna (Ports of Call #1)

By Kristy Tate

2025

H igh on the bluffs , I stood at the railing, staring out at the endless water, waiting for my own sighting of the legendary oarfish.

Of course, there was nothing but waves stretching into the horizon.

A warm breeze carried the scent of salt and gardenias, mingling with the laughter, clinking glasses, and sultry music behind me.

The wedding reception was in full swing—guests in linen suits and pastel dresses twirled under string lights, while Millie and Walter shared a slow, effortless dance on the wooden deck. It was beautiful, magical even.

But I wasn’t in the mood to dance. I nursed a champagne flute that had long since lost its bubbles, my gaze locked on the darkening sea.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ellie’s voice came soft beside me.

I turned and managed a small smile. “It really is.”

Ellie’s auburn waves lifted in the breeze, and she held them back with a practiced hand. We’d been friends for years—single moms building our careers side by side, navigating life’s ups and downs together. She studied me for a moment, then leaned against the railing. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

I exhaled, tightening my fingers around the delicate stem of my glass. “Clare’s starting her own firm.”

Saying it aloud made the reality sharper, heavier.

Ellie’s brows lifted. “That’s big news. Are you going to rename yours? I always thought you should’ve called it Renee’s Renovations.”

I wanted to smile, but I couldn’t. “I named it after Clare. I built it for her... or at least, that’s what I told myself.”

Ellie wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

“She told me last night,” I continued, forcing a chuckle, though it sounded hollow. “I mean, I’m happy for her. She’s doing incredible work. Clients love her. And her success...” I shook my head. “It just feels so... capricious.”

Ellie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know how hard I’ve worked for years, how much we’ve built together. And yet, Clare’s entire firm took off because of some viral fish sighting.”

“The oarfish,” Ellie murmured.

I gave a sharp nod. “Exactly. She just happened to be here when that thing washed ashore. Next thing you know, the video goes viral, every news outlet picks it up, and suddenly she’s the ‘must-have’ renovation expert.

” I let out a breath, shaking my head. “It’s like fate just handed her everything.

And I...” I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Ellie squeezed my arm. “I know it hurts.”

“It’s not even the business,” I admitted, my voice thick with emotion. “It’s her. We’ve done everything together for so long. And now she’s with Ethan... I don’t know where that leaves me.”

Ellie was quiet for a moment, then she straightened. “I think it leaves you in need of a vacation.”

I blinked. “What?”

“A real vacation,” she said firmly. “Not some ‘conference with a beachside view’ or a work trip where you ‘just so happen’ to book a nice hotel. I mean a holiday where you actually step away from everything—Clare, the business, all of it.”

I scoffed. “And go where?”

“Anywhere.” Ellie tilted her head. “When was the last time you did something just for you?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it...and felt like a fish gasping for air.

Ellie’s smile turned knowing. “That’s what I thought.”

*

L ater that night, I sat cross-legged on my bed, flipping through TV channels with the glazed focus of someone who'd eaten too much wedding cake.

I wasn’t tired. Or maybe I was—but not in a way sleep could fix. This was more like an existential ennui seasoned with indigestion .

My thumb hovered over the remote when a grainy image of a tangled jungle filled the screen, all moss and mist and dramatic zooms. A deep, overly serious narrator intoned over spooky music that sounded like it came from a haunted house sound effects CD.

“The Chickcharney... a feathered cryptid lurking in the jungles of the Bahamas. A creature of legend, mischief, and possibly, very bad posture.”

The screen flashed to blurry footage—something vaguely owl-shaped darting between palm trees, followed by glowing red eyes peeking from the underbrush like a Halloween decoration.

I blinked. Sat up a little straighter. Was that... a bird? A muppet? A guy in a costume?

Then came the kicker:

“And now, for the first time, reclusive Bahamian billionaire and part-time coconut water tycoon, Rex Beaumont, is offering a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who can snap a clear photo of the Chickcharney.”

A graphic of a cartoonish bird holding a suitcase and wearing sunglasses popped onto the screen with the words:

“Catch the Chickcharney! Win Big!”

I stared. Then reached for my phone.

Ellie’s voice echoed in my head: “You need a real vacation.”

Was this real? A cryptid photo contest? Sponsored by a guy named Rex ?

I pulled up a travel site, typed in Flights to the Bahamas , and hovered my thumb over the button. Rational Me raised an eyebrow from somewhere deep in my subconscious.

But Rational Me had also told me to date that guy who collected ventriloquist dummies. So, Rational Me could sit this one out.

I clicked Book Now .

For the first time in ages, I wasn’t planning, or overthinking, or doom-scrolling. I was just... going.

To find a mythical jungle chicken.

No regrets.

Yet.

*JON

By the time the ceiling fan above me completed its hundredth lazy spin, I’d come to two conclusions:

My iced coffee was now mostly just ice, and

I might be the co-founder of a very expensive scam.

I stirred what remained of my drink and tried not to look as sweaty and suspicious as I felt.

The little beachside café smelled like grilled fish, sunscreen, and mild disappointment.

The kind of place where donors were supposed to show up with wide smiles and checks in hand—not go mysteriously silent after rumors surfaced that the “sustainable farms” you’d been championing might be about as real as Bigfoot.

I checked my watch. Forty-seven minutes late. I was either being ghosted, or my donor had been eaten by wild pigs.

I was rooting for the pigs.

I was just pulling out my phone to scroll through my inbox for the tenth time when I caught a flash of coral from the corner of my eye. A woman—maybe late forties, early fifties—was walking straight toward me like I held the answers to her questions.

“Rex Beaumont?” she asked in a hopeful tone.

I blinked. “Huh, no. I’m actually waiting for Rex, though.”

“Oh! So, he’s real—not a fictitious character.” She dropped into the chair across from me like we were old friends.

“Well, that’s certainly debatable.” I stirred my coffee without looking at it. “What makes someone real? Who decides what’s real and what’s not?”

Her expression told me I’d spiked her interest. “Aw. The Velveteen Rabbit .”

“The who?”

Now, I’d disappointed her. “I thought you were quoting Margery William’s children’s book, The Velveteen Rabbit .” A wave of sadness washed through her eyes. “It was my daughter’s favorite book.”

“Should I read it?”

“Absolutely. Everyone should.”

I picked up my drink and considered taking a sip. I did not. “And everyone should show up on time, even if you’re a rascally, old billionaire.”

“Do you know Mr. Beaumont?”

“He’s a business acquaintance.”

She nodded at my coffee cup. “Judging by your expression and the puddle formerly known as your iced coffee, I’m guessing we’ve both been stood up.”

“Sounds like it,” I said, still trying to process the situation. “Who... are you?”

“Renee Thompson.” She extended a hand, and I shook it automatically, noting her firm grip and sand-dusted fingers. “Photographer-slash-cryptid chaser. And you?”

“Jon Barnes. NGO guy. Questionably credible NGO guy, apparently.”

“What’s an NGO guy?”

“Sorry. Non-Governmental Organization. Non-profit organizations that operate independently from government. I work for Evergreen Initiatives, heard of it? We fund sustainable farms.” I didn’t tell her that I’d just learned we may have actually been funding someone’s beach house and a jet ski named Wet Willy, and that I booked a last-minute flight to the most remote part of the Bahamas just to see if we’ve actually planted anything besides rumors.

I stirred my ice. “What about you? What’s your business with Beaumont?”

Her face lit up in a way that made me nervous.

“I’m going to find the Chickcharney in North Andros,” she said.

I stared at her. “Is that a person?”

“It’s a creature,” she said, very seriously. “Fluffy. Owl-adjacent. May or may not have glowing eyes and vendettas. And I’m going to be the first to photograph it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said slowly, nodding like I totally understood. “For science?”

“For fun,” she said.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. She said the word fun as if it was also a rare, mythical creature that she had to capture.

She took a sip of her coffee, watching me like I was the one chasing mythological birds.

“So. You’re going to North Andros.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “ I’m going to North Andros.”

She stared at me. “What are the odds?”

“Uncomfortably high,” I muttered, mostly to my coffee.

“Wanna share a charter flight?” she asked. “I figure if the Chickcharney doesn’t get me, the mosquitoes will, and I’d rather die in front of a witness.”

I laughed. I didn’t mean to—it just kind of escaped. It felt... good.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not? What could possibly go wrong?”

She grinned.

We both left out the part where we were each keeping secrets.