The Cannibal Queen by Stephen Coonts

“I’ll steer and you just ride.” This comment also went unanswered. It was followed by the list of things he would acquire as soon as he became a millionaire that appears above.
    Last night I resolved to prove to my son that his father is not a wimp. The secret fear of every father has become reality—my manhood is suspect to the seed of my loins, the scion of the clan. I see no alternative—we will rent a jet ski. At least I don’t have to beat up the father of the kid across the street!
    I told David of my decision last night. “Rent two of them,” he replied. “We’ll race.”
    This morning he comes out of bed wide-eyed and ready. Why do parents do this to themselves?
    The man on the dock at the harbor eyes me speculatively as I stand nervously inspecting the four jet skis he has tied alongside.
    “I’ll take the blue one,” David says. His courage in the face of the unknown fills me with awe. This is the courage of youth, some juice God squirts into kids to help them face a world where everything is unknown. It leaks out as people age, which is why they get gray hair.
    “You ever ride one of these?” the ski man asks me. He is short, rotund and bald and has an enviable tan on his bare legs. His tanned belly protrudes from an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt.
    “Uh, no, but I’ve been riding motorcycles for over twenty years. I should be able to handle it.” That’s the right note—confident, macho, fearless—to exorcise all those wimp doubts from that fourteen-year-old head.
    “You won’t have any trouble,” the jet-ski mogul says reassuringly—it must be obvious that I need reassurance—and reaches for a life jacket, which he helps me don. “But I only rent to people sixteen and older. Your son can ride along behind you.”
    David takes it well, I think. He turns a shade paler and his shoulders sag. The instant the man turns away for a moment he asks, “You’ll let me drive, huh?”
    “We’ll see.”
    I had visions of us cruising slowly up and down the St. Marys River and the inland waterway for an hour or so, but that expectation dies quickly. The brown jet-ski man points out the boundaries of the area we are to stay in. It’s an area of the adjacent harbor maybe a quarter-mile long bounded on one side by the quay and the other by boats anchored out. “Avoid the oyster beds over there.” He points. The area where he wants us is completely within his sight. He can watch us every minute.
    I almost lose it the moment the engine is started. The choke sticks out. With the engine idling too fast we move smartly away from the pier. I am trying to steer, jab in the choke knob down by my left knee, and keep this damn thing right side up, all the while listening to Dave offer advice.
    At last I get the choke in and the ski pointed in more or less the right direction and we cruise out of the harbor at idle, with the man who rents these infernal devices standing on the dock shouting advice. My left wrist is strapped to the ski in case I overturn. My stomach feels like I swallowed a rock.
    Outside the harbor the water has a little wave action. Not too much. Actually it is flat as a plate, but the tiny swells make our craft bob and sway like a drunken horse. This thing is a personal injury lawyer’s dream come true. I envision the happy faces of the lawyers listening to the heirs tell how their son-husband-daughter-fool fell off a jet ski and drowned while they watched in horror from terra firma.
    I experimentally add a touch of throttle. Our craft responds and the bobbing motion becomes more pronounced. But I gradually get the hang of it and fearlessly crack the throttle another eighth of an inch.
    We motor slowly down the anchorage, hitting some chop and staying upright, David remarkably silent. Perhaps he senses I am not yet ready for a backseat driver’s comments. I steer over by some anchored yachts and David waves at the folks on deck. One is a beautiful two-masted wooden sailing vessel with