I’ve been a loner my whole life – and frankly ... that’s just fine with me. I mean, seriously ... I live in my head. Things are more interesting up there. So ... needless to say, I hated school ... really, truly hated it!! Every second that I spent chained to the golden mean was pure agony.

I spent most of my time playing video games. My folks thought I was an unmotivated loser. And they weren’t exactly wrong. But nerds DO have a big helping of larceny in their soul and we LOVE picking through things that the lesser brains don’t understand ... especially if we are committing felony trespass while doing it. That’s how I discovered zero-day vulnerabilities.

Zero-day vulnerabilities are those little software flaws that hide in every consumer product. They can literally kill you. The real beauty is that you can sell what you find out about one of those wee nasties to the highest bidder. And given the quality of most commercial software applications, finding one is like picking low hanging fruit.

Blackmail is such an ugly term. I prefer to think of myself as an “information broker.” Meaning ... I will tell you about your backdoor and you give me money. The nerd code of ethics obliges me to offer my little insights to the companies about to be plundered. But I can always hawk my wares at boutique sites on the Darkweb if the future victims aren’t interested. Those scary places are chock full of desperados who are ALWAYS interested in ways to access other people’s money. And they will pay almost any price.

I had a sliding scale. It ranged from vanilla bugs, at forty thousand dollars an instance - to the, “this could end life as we know it!! kind ... those topped out at a half-million dollars. I didn’t find many of those. But still - I had stashed a lot of ill-gotten booty in offshore accounts by the time I reached legal drinking age - and thanks to the anonymity of the internet nobody knew I was a pimply-faced teenager.

I hear you asking, “How could a teenager open an account in the Caymans?” Well ... Along the way I MIGHT have helped myself to a few identities. So, there are plumbers, machinists and housewives out there in blue-collar-land who are filthy rich – on paper at least. They just don’t know it.

I had no sex life except gamer girls. Those women were just like me - nerdy and maladjusted. They were either painfully self-conscious and shy, or so covered in grotesque tats and piercings that they were frightening. Most would give it up for a Call-of-Duty cheat code. You would have to be one of us to understand why THAT was coin of the realm. But still ... they weren’t exactly what you’d call “attractive.”

That didn’t get in the way of my taking advantage of them. Since I had only one criterion. The she needed to have a working hoo-ha and be willing to use it. I wasn’t looking for love. In fact, a relationship that lasted longer than a forty-five minutes was more than I could commit to.

Hence, my twenties passed in a ganja fueled haze. I still lived in my parent’s basement. Don’t judge me!!!! I’m a nerd. I had no desire to be a grownup. But by my thirty-first year I was getting bored with shaking down the software industry. And since I had squirreled away millions by that point. I thought I might try my first foray into the adult world.

It was the sort of naïve exploit that I am legendary for. I loaded up a backpack and bought a one-way ticket to Bimini Island. I actually had a couple of not very well thought out - but nonetheless valid – reasons for doing that. My most important motive was weather. The Midwest weather had sucked my whole life. The temperature was either setting new lows, or highs. And the clouds, rain and snow seemed to be perpetual. Hence, I wanted to live in year-around summer.

But moving to a hip-happening place like Miami was totally out of the question. Especially given my utter lack of social skills. And I am allergic to rednecks and geezers. So, the Southwest was out. But the primary reason why I chose Bimini was the population. That are all of 2,000 year-round residents total. I still didn’t have any desire to interact with the human race. And Bimini was disconnected from the U.S. by fifty miles of ocean.

I had no idea what I was getting into when I arrived in Bimini - at least in terms of the practical aspects ... like where and how I was going to live. I had some hazy idea that Bimini was the cannabis capitol of the Caribbean. But I might have gotten that mixed up with Jamaica, which it turns out WASN’T nearby.

Bimini WAS the fishing capitol of the Caribbean. But that wasn’t a selling point, since fishing is the only pastime that I can think of that is more excruciating than having my fingernails yanked out. Flying over the place, I could see that it was mostly mangrove swamps. Of course, you never get a sense of what you are facing until you step out on the tarmac.

My first impression was that Bimini was “tropical” – hot and humid. But there was a decent breeze. There were a couple of beaten up taxis at what passed for an airport. I had not thought to make reservations. You don’t get worldly, lurking in your parent’s basement. So, I asked the driver to take me to a hotel. He took me to a place that was so expensive that they must have been paying the drivers kickbacks. It was pretty clear that the islanders considered people like me legitimate prey.

The following morning was exactly like the day before, hot and cloudless. That was just what I was looking for. I am excruciatingly introverted. But I knew I would have to talk to somebody. That is ... if I ever wanted to find a place to live. So, I screwed up my courage and approached the dude behind the concierge desk.

He was a caricature of an island creole, right down to his shaven head. He was a handsome guy, tall and whip slender. And he certainly didn’t look like a concierge. He had his feet up on the desk. He was dressed in a tropical print shirt that was opened to his navel. And he had on a ratty pair of boat shorts with flip-flops. He looked happy. Maybe it was something in the air. Or maybe he sensed a newcomer ripe for the plucking.

He said, “May I help you?” It was in that musical, lilting British accented voice that I had come to associate with the locals. I told him that I was looking to move down to Bimini. But I needed advice. He literally seemed to swap hats as he said, “I can advise you sir.” The “for a small sum” part was a foregone conclusion.

He was a jolly fellow named Reg, which was short for Reginald. Reg was one very interesting dude. He appeared to be working every scam imaginable – from weed, to girls, to island tours. And he knew everybody and everything. Looking back on it I considered myself to be a very fortunate nerd to have fallen into his clutches.

If moving to a totally unfamiliar place strictly on a whim sounds a bit immature, I can assure you that it was very juvenile, indeed. I knew nothing about Bimini except that it was warm and sunny. The fact that Bimini was a legendary hangout for the likes of Jimmy Buffet, Lucille Ball and Earnest Hemingway was completely unknown to me. I just thought that the name of the island sounded cool.

That kind of ignorance can sometimes get you killed. But luckily, my new buddy only wanted a surprisingly small amount of my money to help me get acclimated. He and I toured the island – or perhaps the better term is islands since Bimini is actually two separate islands with a short passage of water in between.

The place with all of the bars and restaurants is Alice Town. That is on the North Island, just the other side of the passage. I was on the South Island, which is definitely NOT where the action is. Reg and I walked to the water taxi. That took us from the South side to the North side. It was only 11:00 in the morning but Reg suggested lunch.

I was not thinking “alcohol” as we walked over to Sherry’s Place. But that was what we were there for. The building looked like it had been put together out of driftwood and the clientele at that time of day was decidedly NOT touristy. As it turned out though ... the food was great. And the people were so friendly that I didn’t feel TOO ill-at ease interacting with them.

As I might have mentioned, I am not exactly a fan of the human race. But the camaraderie surrounding me was infectious. Of course, Reg knew everybody. So, five beers later I was part of a clan of about a dozen happy locals. All of those people had opinions.

The general consensus was that I needed to live in Alice Town. Since that was where most of the fun stuff was. I wasn’t exactly looking for fun but most of the stores were there too. So, I want along with that. I had spent the past 15 years living in a basement. And the houses were WAY too communal for my nerd-like tastes.

Finally, one of Reg’s friends said, “Why don’t you live on a boat Mon? A lot of us do.” Now THAT was intriguing. Keep in mind that I had never been on a boat in my life. But the concept of a house that was separated from land and that I could move if I didn’t like the neighborhood was offbeat enough that it was very appealing.

I said, “Do you know if there are any that I could look at?” The guy who had brought it up said, “Certainly Mon, there’s one over at Browns Marina that you probably can’t afford. But it’s a good example of what I’m talking about.”

So, Reg and I and our new friend, whose name was Basil, made our way the 400 yards between Sherry’s and Browns. The distance was also appealing. I already liked Sherry’s, and I wanted to keep hanging out there. The fact that I was willing to do anything social was an eye-opener. But the people were so friendly that they melted some of my deep-seated antisocial tendencies.

I was sold the minute I laid eyes on the thing. It was an ungainly 109 feet long, which meant that it had to be located at the end of the docks with the big multimillion dollar yachts out of Miami. However, instead of being sexy, sleek, and gleamingly white ostentatious, my boat had a bad, red and grey paint job with rusty splotches like zits. And it had clearly been a tugboat in an earlier life.

My tugboat sat among the other boats like a warthog in a herd of gazelles. It was so muscle bound and ugly that the snooty yachts of the rich and famous seemed to actually be shunning it. I didn’t need to see anything more. I loved it.

Surprisingly, the inside was marvelous. It was compact. But it was still roomier than my folk’s basement. And the living quarters were gorgeous. It was all teakwood and polished brass. And it actually had a nice galley with modern appliances. The lounge area was bright and sunny. And it had two little bedrooms along with a head that featured a real shower.

The sales guy took me back to the engine room, which was beneath the entire after-deck of the boat. It was roomy enough to walk around in. Two hulking GM Electro-Motive marine diesels provided the propulsion. They didn’t look like any boat engine that I had ever heard of. I asked the guy about them. He said, “Oh, those are the same engines they use to power locomotives.”

The thing had begun life as a tugboat after all. So, it was clear I wouldn’t lack for horsepower. Then we went up to the top part. That was where you steered it. The sales guy went through a long spiel about the electronic gear. All I got out of it was that it had a bunch of digital navigation equipment and that it could easily make the trip back and forth to Miami. That conversation went right past me since I had no intention of ever leaving the dock.

It was obvious that my two new friends and the sales guy thought that I was a wasting their time. Since, I look like an aging nerd. Well - I most-decidedly AM an aging nerd. But I also had a lot of illicitly obtained swag. They all knew that the asking price was somewhere north of six figures. So, they were surprised when I said, “How much?” The sales guy looked at me calculatedly and ventured, “How about a hundred and thirty thousand?”

That was ridiculously cheap – cheaper than most of the houses. It was obvious that he wanted to move the thing. And he hadn’t gotten any interest. I mean who sets out to impress the chicks by buying a big ugly tugboat? Fortunately, they were talking to the one guy who didn’t give a crap about impressing anybody.

The boat must have been sixty years old. But it was speaking to me, like one odd ball to another. And it perfectly matched my needs. So, I said, “I can transfer the money to you in an hour. Can I move in now?” All three of my companions looked flabbergasted.

The agent said, “Don’t you want to talk about the financing terms?” I said, “No – I’ll pay cash. But I want to move in now.” They looked at me like they expected me to say, “Just kidding #hashtag/smileyface.” I tapped one of my Cayman accounts for the money. One hundred and thirty large didn’t make a visible dent. Then I signed the papers. Reg and I made the trip back to the hotel on the South Island to grab my backpack. And just like that I was a resident of the Bahamas.

In the interim Reg had changed his attitude. I was no longer a tourist whose pocket he wanted to pick. Instead, he was treating me like I might be worth an investment in the long-term. So, he was sitting with me on the afterdeck as the sun went down on my first full day on Bimini.

The sky was an odd combination of purple, red and yellow. I later learned that pretty-much describes every sunset in the tropics. The air was beautifully warm, almost sensual. There was a nice breeze coming in off the Atlantic. And there were no bugs. That was astonishing. Since the mosquitos at home would drain the blood out of you if you sat outside at that time of night.

We were drinking a couple of cold Pirate Republics and just enjoying the tropical evening. The fact that I was sitting anywhere with a non-nerd amazed me. Reg said speculatively, “What are you going to do now that you’ve found a place to live?” I said, “Probably nothing.”

He said, “Don’t you need money?” I wasn’t going to tell him about my occupation. Even though he clearly had the same attitude about thievery. Instead, I said, “I’m sure I’ll think of something.” I wasn’t planning to retire from the game entirely. In fact, I needed to talk to HughesNet about their satellite uplink. Five gigabits would fit my particular ends.

He said cagily, “You’ll have a lot more options if you learn how to operate this thing.” I said with a laugh, “And I bet there is somebody sitting nearby who can teach me how.” He showed me a lot of very white teeth and said, “Perhaps Mon – Perhaps.”

That started my tugboat lessons. I was absolutely awful – scared, tentative and clumsy. And the damn thing felt like I was driving the battleship Missouri. But I suppose that you’ll eventually master anything if you work at it hard enough. And I AM smart.

Reg was an extremely patient and knowledgeable teacher. Eventually I got to a point where I wasn’t too embarrassing. Nobody would ever mistake me for Tugboat Willie. But at least I could park the thing without ramming the dock ... too hard. I had never had a friend in my life. But Reg was working his way in that direction. The island was changing me.

Then I got another friend. That was out of pure necessity. I was leaving the head one morning on my way back to my sleeping quarters. Suddenly - a mangy brown flash shot past my feet. I screamed like a little girl, yelled, “RAT!!!” and jumped up on the couch.

I told Reg about my stowaways during the tugboat lesson. So, the next day he showed up with a creature that looked like a refugee from a Pharaoh’s tomb. It was imperiousness and condescension wrapped in a singular attitude. It sat there on Reg’s arm, like Cleopatra on her barge.

The animal was most definitely in the cat family, whatever it was. But it wasn’t exactly a cat. It had a feline head on a cat body. But it was oddly muscular and exotic looking, with a shorthaired silver-grey coat covered with black ocelot-like spots that looked almost primordial. It featured a very intelligent pair of amber feline eyes. I said with some alarm, “What’s that?”

Reg laughed his infectious laugh and said, “It’s your new crewmate mon.” I said, “Where did you get it – the zoo?” He laughed again. He said, “I have a friend who specializes in delivering exotic animals to the States,” meaning he was a smuggler. “And he let me have this for a mere two thousand dollars,” meaning he probably gave it to Reg for free.

I said, “What is it, a baby cheetah? And what do you expect me to do with it?” Reg laughed uproariously and said, “You have a rodent problem and every ship at sea keeps a cat for that.” I muttered uneasily, “That isn’t a cat!!” Reg laughed again and said, “You’re right. Its ancestry is much older than a cat’s. It’s called a Mau, and it dates back to ancient Egypt.”

I said, “Are you sure it wants to be here?” He said, “Let’s find out.” And he put the thing down. It wandered around the living quarters disdainfully inspecting things. Then, as it passed the couch it did something that was too fast to comprehend. Suddenly there was a mouse in its jaws. It let out a low possessive growl and disappeared down the hatch into the engine room. I didn’t have the thing more than two minutes, and it was already working on my mouse problem.

Cleopatra seemed like such a clichéd name. So, after a little internet research I named it Bastet. Bastet is the cat-headed Egyptian goddess of warfare. And that certainly matched the thing’s personality. They say that Mau’s have a special ability to bond with one person. And Bastet certainly did with me. No matter where I went, Bastet was always around. She was never in the way. But she was a good companion. And needless to say, I never saw another rodent on the boat.

I had the internet uplink by then. So, I spent some of each day cruising the Darkweb. That is roughly similar to a merchant visiting the bazaars of Marrakesh - just to see what’s available. I might be a totally unimpressive nerd in physical space. But I am somebody quite different in the virtual world. And I am well known among the super-hackers. So, nobody messes with me. My aim was to keep it that way.

I had been on the island for eight months. And I was beginning to wonder why I hadn’t moved there sooner. Each day was exactly like the last – hot and sunny. I spent most nights down at Sherry’s hanging around with Reg. I missed some nights when Reg was off doing whatever he did on the side. I still wouldn’t get off my tug without Reg to buffer me. Because I was STILL an anti-social piece of dog crap. But I was getting much better.

Every boat requires a lot of maintenance. Especially the wooden areas. One morning I was hosing down the afterdeck wearing nothing but shorts. Since I live on a boat I have a year-round deep water tan. And at six-four, I am taller than average. Plus, the time that I had spent on my boat had gotten me down to where I was more-or-less rawhide.

That was when I heard a perky voice from the dock saying, “What kind of boat is this Mister?” I turned around irritated and almost sprayed her. That was because she was absolutely spectacular. I’m a guy and this woman was like an average teenager’s wet dream.

She had obviously come in on the big motor sailor that was moored next to me. And might be the daughter, or granddaughter of the dirty old man who was driving it. She was elfin ... very tiny with a muscular little body and a pair of very full breasts. I could evaluate her boobs because she was wearing one of those bathing suit tops that looked like it was made from dental floss.

This woman was the classic blonde beach bunny from every Gidget movie. Her face was perfection. I was still pathologically shy. But I was on my own boat. More important, she wanted to know about it. And no nerd can resist the opportunity to demonstrate his technology. So instead of ducking into the cabin, like I would have normally done. I mopped the sweat off my forehead, gave her a faintly pedantic smile and said, “It’s a former Navy YTB Seagoing Tug that’s been converted to a live-aboard.”

She gave me a look of pure fascination and said, “Can I come on board? Can you show me around?” That was miles above my normal capacity to interact with a human being. But It was hard to say “no” to a sexy little thing with huge boobs and a smile like that. So, I said, “sure” and reached out to steady her on my boarding plank.

She didn’t need it. She scampered across like a squirrel on a tree limb and jumped nimbly aboard. She was wearing one of those very light wraparound tropical print skirts that women wear over bathing suits. So, I couldn’t evaluate her legs. But her hips and butt were as superb as her chest.

She had big blue eyes that complemented her dirty blonde hair - which she wore in a braid down her back. She was probably from the Miami-Fort Lauderdale area. Because she had one of those golden tans that women in south Florida can develop without putting in much sun time.

She was radiating joy and something else as she walked up to me, stuck her hand out like a guy and said, “I’m Ava.” I took her hand and said, “Everybody down here calls me the Tugboat Man - for obvious reasons – most people just shorten it to Tug.”

I showed her the lounge area and she was blown away by the teak and brass fittings. I have to admit that I had spent a lot of money on décor. I showed her the two little sleeping cabins and the head. And then I took her down the after-hatch to the engine room.

In the eight months that I had owned my tug I had become absolutely OCD about making the engines so pristine perfect that you could eat off them. And I was proud of my handiwork. Hey!!! What can I say?? I’m a natural born geek. She was astonished at the size of the two diesels. I said, “Remember - this used to be a tugboat. That’s why it is wider and more powerful than your average ship. The one you came over on is built for beauty, grace and speed. My ugly old girl is a platform to tow big ships.”

I took her up in the pilot house and showed her the navigation gear. She was so cheerful and full of life that I said without thought, “I was about to eat. If you give me a minute, I can make you lunch too.” She looked delighted and said, “That would be perfect!!”

I parked her in the lounge while I went to take a shower. I had just finished washing the grime and sweat off me, when the door to the head opened. That startled me. I yelled, “I’m in here!!!” when a giggling little apparition said, “I know.”

I didn’t need to wonder what kind of girl would want to have sex with me a mere hour after meeting me. I had known plenty women like that in my gamer days. Ava might be a talented amateur, or even a pro. Nonetheless, her generation doesn’t have any hang-ups about what sex means in the grand scheme of things. We were attracted to each other – nothing more. It was as simple as that. And as a result, we had a good time getting further acquainted. Nobody was hurt. Nobody else was involved, And I didn’t plan to give her my class ring afterward. It was just sex. And it was fun.

Ava dressed while I fixed both of us a conch salad. She had never experienced that yummy Key delicacy, and she was delighted. I didn’t tell her that a conch is just an edible marine snail. She probably wouldn’t have enjoyed her lunch quite as much. Then she proceeded to hang out with me on the boat. Being with her was like adopting an eager Welsh Corgi. She was merry and full of energy. And she was really an attractive package of femininity

I finally asked her whether the guy she was with would be angry because she’d spent the entire day with me. She said indifferently, “Oh, he doesn’t mind. He knows that I’ll take care of him tonight. I’m thirty-five years younger than he is and he’s just happy that I’m with him.” So, he WASN’T her father.

At that, Ava looked at her watch and said, “Now that you mention it, I gotta run.” She grabbed her wrap, fastened it, kissed me chastely on the cheek. And said, “Thanks for a wonderful day.” Then, without a word, she scurried back down my boarding plank across the dock and up into the boat that had brought her.

Later that night I was sitting in the warm night air drinking a last beer. There were the usual marina noises, boats coming and going in the bay, water lapping against the dock and the lurid sounds of Ava having sex. Amazing!!! Her boat left early the next morning. I think the guy she was with was jealous.

A couple of days later all of us were sitting around on the deck at Sherry’s. The thing about being on the ocean is that you can see weather without having it effect you. And we could all see the edge of something big and nasty moving along the horizon from southwest to the northeast perhaps 10 miles to our north.

The sky in that direction was blood red and the lightning was continuous. You couldn’t hear the thunder, but the almost nonstop lightning strikes were throwing up huge flashes. There were a bunch of us watching from the higher elevation of the sandhill where Sherry’s is situated. Basil was one of the group. He said with his classic island lilt, “I’d hate to be out in that.”

He had no idea what an understatement that was for me. Even though I was expert at boat-handling by that point I was decidedly not brave. Of course, that was when the god who enjoys messing with me decided that it was time to turn me into his personal speed bag.

A kid who worked the docks at Browns came running up looking panicked. He spotted me and hustled over to where Reg and I and Basil were sitting. He said, “Tug Boat Man, there’s a boat out there that needs your help!!”

A big yacht had gotten caught in the worst of that monster. They were foundering and they had radioed an SOS. My first instinct was to say, “So how does that affect me?” But before I could get the words out Reg said, “Come on Mon. We’re the only ones who can help them.”

I knew it ... I hated it ... but I knew it. And for the first time in my life, I actually did the right thing. I was astonished. Getting involved in anything that concerned other people was so totally NOT me. But thirty minutes later we were headed west at full throttle. Tugs are definitely not the greyhounds of the sea. They are more like big fat waddling bulldogs.

But my boat was not encumbered by all of the towing gear that most tugs have. So, we were making a respectable eleven knots. Even so, it was over an hour before we got into the edge of the worst of it. It was the oddest weather I have ever encountered at sea. Normally there is a spattering of rain and that increases proportionally as you progress further into the storm. The same is true with the wind. But in the case of this storm ... it was almost like we crossed an invisible boundary.

One minute we were in the clear and registering almost no wind. Then the next minute it was like somebody turned off the lights and we were in a violent storm – it was like we’d passed through a curtain into a blacked out room. It practically felt like the storm itself was a living entity. There was underlying energy in the air. It was like the constant lightning had charged the atmosphere with electricity. It even started messing with the digital navigation gear.

We were on a course that was laid out on the GPS location that they had broadcast. But we were also scanning with the tug’s Navico BR24 Broadband Radar. I had never thought I would use the radar for any practical purpose. I just like to buy geeky gadgets.

Nevertheless, the signal was coming and going irregularly. It made the radar contact seem more like an energy pulse than the usual steady blip. It was fortunate that we were using the radar though. Because we got an intermittent contact about two miles northeast of our GPS destination.

The storm was packing gale force winds, and the waves were in the twenty to thirty-foot range. But my old girl is built for weather like this. And on her two 2,500 horsepower locomotive engines she was shouldering the waves aside like they were nothing.

We finally sighted the ship. It was sideways in the trough of the waves and getting beaten up pretty badly. It was a two hundred-and-fifty-foot cabin cruiser. And its size was the only thing keeping it afloat. Reg had been on the radio as I conned us close in order to get a line across. He had them preparing to receive it.

We had a tow cable that was left over from the last owner of the tug. But no gun to shoot it to the distressed yacht. Nevertheless, Basil and Reg managed to secure our end to one of the old girl’s original towing cleats. Those were very brave men. Because everything that they were doing was happening in high wind and driving rain, which was sweeping back and forth across the afterdeck with enough force to knock you over at times.

It was also happening in total darkness – with almost no visibility except from the deck lighting. The only other light came from where I was illuminating the yacht with our searchlight. We could see the crew waving for the guideline. I timed the rising wave so that we were actually looking down at the deck of the cruiser as we were passing its forward port quarter – perhaps forty feet distant.

Reg twirled and then threw the weighted heaving line with the light guideline attached. It was an amazing display of seamanship. The crew of the yacht pulled the accompanying towline across and secured it to their own cleat. I firewalled the throttles. And the big yacht snapped around on the towline like a puppy on a leash.