On the Third Night of My Honeymoon, I Found My Own Medical Log Hidden in the Captain’s Office. One Line Told Me My Husband Had Been Lying Since Before We Left Shore.
By the third morning of my honeymoon, I had stopped blaming the sea.
I had sailed since childhood.
My father taught me to read weather before I could drive.
I knew the difference between seasickness, exhaustion and fear.
This was none of them.
This felt chemical.
My arms were too heavy.
My mouth stayed dry no matter how much water I drank.
Sometimes I would stand up and lose fifteen seconds.
Not faint exactly.
More like the world moved away while I remained where I was.
Adrian called it honeymoon fatigue.
“Your body’s finally slowing down.”
He would kiss my forehead.
Bring me tea.
Tell me to sleep.
And every time he did, I felt worse.
Our yacht, the Mercer Star, moved between the outer islands of the Evermere Isles, cutting through water so blue it looked painted.
It had been my father’s wedding gift.
Not ownership exactly.
Use of it for the season.
Thirty-eight meters of white hull, polished teak, six guest cabins, a glass-walled lounge and enough crew to make privacy difficult.
Except Adrian had somehow created plenty.
On the first day, he suggested we dismiss half the crew for “a more intimate honeymoon.”
I refused.
He laughed.
“Worth trying.”
By day three, though, most of the crew seemed unusually distant.
The steward who normally brought breakfast stopped coming.
Adrian carried the trays instead.
The chief engineer avoided looking at me.
Our onboard nurse had supposedly developed a fever and moved to a cabin near the bow.
And Thomas and Margaret Cole—my brand-new in-laws—were still aboard.
That had not been the original plan.
They were meant to join us for one celebratory dinner after the wedding, then leave the yacht at Evermere Port.
Instead, Thomas claimed bad weather disrupted their charter flight.
Margaret said:
“Surely you don’t mind family for another day.”
Adrian kissed my cheek.
“They’ll be gone tomorrow.”
Tomorrow became another tomorrow.
Then another.
By the third night, I woke at 2:13 a.m. with my heart hammering.
The room was dark.
Adrian slept beside me.
Or appeared to.
I sat up.
The cabin tilted.
Not the boat.
Me.
I waited.
Breathed.
Then noticed the glass on my bedside table.
Half empty.
Adrian had brought it before bed.
Water with an electrolyte packet.
“Drink this. You look pale.”
I had.
I reached for the glass.
There was a faint white residue near the bottom.
Electrolytes could do that.
So could a lot of other things.
I carried the glass into the bathroom.
Under bright light, I smelled it.
Nothing.
I dipped a finger.
Bitter.
Not salty.
Bitter.
A memory surfaced.
