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General Atkinson, coming from a long line of General Atkinsons, stretching back and back and back along their wealthy war-hungry English tightrope, understands this fact to a degree. To a degree, at least, that could be gathered from being a son, and having a father.

These are the premises he deduced from this worldly experience:

a. The father is solely responsible for the son’s upbringing as a proper man. b. Simultaneously, the father is absent, for months or years at a time, serving Crown and Country, and of course, making a good example for the son. c. The mother, being a female subject, and one so bland and uninteresting, is not noticed by the son. d. Rather, the son solely worships the father, for his heroism, patriotism, and holy manliness. The son desires to live up to the father’s example. e. If the son is not, despite the father’s best efforts, interested in serving Crown and Country, and carrying on the family lineage another generation, there is something defective about him (perhaps, from a hit on the head or a case of fever in infancy). f. Any defections must be spotted as soon as possible and corrected through harsh teachings, by the father. The situation is still salvageable.

It is under these assumptions that Atkinson chose to raise his son, his only son, Simon. And yet, something went wrong this time. Atkinson, now looking down instead of up, saw cracks in the foundation. Atkinson went away for months or years at a time, and Simon admired him from a distance, worshiped him as designed. However, Simon had developed a natural aversion to the “serving of Crown and Country” on the high seas. Upon closer inspection, Atkinson also observed that Simon and his mother, Davina Nightingale, were close. Dangerously close, dangerous enough to foster in Simon a love of that prissy, intellectual nonsense that threatened Atkinson war-hungry pirate-hunting tradition. Premise (e) seemed to be coming true. And as Atkinson initiated premise (f), as he beat down Simon’s interests, will, and love of his now-deceased mother, things seemed to have slotted back into place.

The factor that Atkinson has missed in his analysis is the precarity of the father-son relationship. See, Atkinson assumes what he does because that is how he was raised, what he was told, and how he behaved. Atkinson saw no value in his own mother, and worshiped his absent father. These characteristics extend back along that generational tightrope, and is in fact why it became such a tightrope in the first place.

These are Atkinson’s “ideal conditions,” which in practice are impossible to replicate. For he, despite his desires, is not his father. And Davina Nightingale was not his mother. He was him, and she was her. Davina Nightingale was not bland. Davina Nightingale was a hidden intellectual, an aspiring astronomer, and a loving mother. And she was determined to love her son, her only son, Simon, in place of the father’s absence.

This is not to say that other not-bland women such as Davina Nightingale did not also fight and struggle in the Atkinson family. Rather, it is to say that despite partial success in the past, the Atkinson Father-Son Formula is not foolproof, and was never really true. Atkinson misremembers the parts of his childhood where he was mad at his father, or when he loved his mother. It’s a severe case of selective memory loss that was passed easily from his father to him, and from himself to Simon. Simon, too, tries very hard to forget those moments where he loved his mother (which was, inevitably, all the time).

No, none of Atkinson’s premises are true. The Atkinson men are not heroic, the mothers not bland, and the sons not ideologically loyal or else medically defective. The father-son relationship of Atkinson to Atkinson, as it was built with tyranny and rigid expectations and pain and abuse, was always a flimsy, wobbling thing. And yet, for generations upon generations, the premises went unchecked. The tightrope-walking Atkinsons went un-toppled.

In saunter the Ortizs.

There is, also, a very specific, influential, and particularly precarious relationship between mother and son.

Captain Ortiz, coming from a long line of Captain Ortizs, stretching back and back and back along their outcast plunder-hungry Spanish plank, understands this fact very well. Rather than coming to this conclusion in adolescence, as Atkinson had, he came to it as a husband and father himself.

These are the premises he deduced from this worldly experience:

a. All responsible parties, mother and father or mother and father and rest of pirate crew or other combinations, etcetera etcetera, are all key players in a son’s upbringing as a good man. Though, a father-son bond is acknowledged (when the father is present, exists, or is not dead yet). b. That said, the father must not be absent. No parent should be absent, really, because who in their right mind would want to miss a god-damn moment? c. The mother, being another human being (and in his case being the one who popped that damn thing out), is a beautiful, resilient, and incredible woman, sure to be noticed and admired by the son. d. The son might very well worship the father, and if this seems to be the case, attempts must be made to lead by imperfect example (i.e. sometimes the father might have a bit too much rum and fall down the stairs, but son, every good man makes mistakes, you understand). e. If the son is not interested in carrying on the family business of piracy and plunder, then well, damn, the boy is a free spirit, who is the father to judge when he himself pushed his own father off the plank at fifteen? f. If (e) is true, some convincing might still be in order, and some assertions made that the ship will always be open to his return. Some guilt tripping is allowed in this case, to tease the boy and get petty revenge. A grand farewell feast is to be had.

As can be seen upon first glance, the assumptions above are not perfect by any means, and neither are they always true. For example, Captain Ortiz’s son, Ezra, has still absorbed a certain perfectionism when it comes to impressing his father. Such things are only natural when one comes from a lineage of successful pirates, but it is perhaps true that Ortiz could have done a better job at reassuring Ezra of his inherent value. Ortiz would sometimes forget, what with all the constant plundering.

The constant plundering is another nitpick.

The key point: Ortiz understood his wife. He understood Carmen de la Rosa. Carmen de la Rosa was a skillful fighter, a near-prophetic navigator, and a loving mother. Carmen, in her love, taught Ezra all she knew, and Ezra admired her like nothing else. (His first word might have been “mama,” or might have been “mierda,” depending on who you ask.) Ortiz did not see this as some kind of threat, rather, he relished in it, having the opportunity for love and family that he was not exactly given as a child, with mother long-dead and father meaner than hell.

Ortiz understands the precarity of the overall parent-child relationship, because he lived it, and overcame it in a way that Atkinson could not. Ortiz values his son and his wife and their love because he knows that otherwise, he will lose them, and they will lose something in themselves. He does not want that, not for himself and not for Carmen de la Rosa and not for his son. So, even after her death, especially after, Ezra admires his mother like nothing else.

An Ortiz is not an Atkinson. An Ortiz will push a bad father off a plank.

With this in mind, it becomes clear what finally toppled the Atkinson Way. For, on one stormy night, a washed-up, vengeful Ezra got a job on Simon Atkinson’s vessel. And on another stormy night, months later, that vessel crashed on an island, both men and two others being the sole survivors. Atkinson’s worst nightmare has been realized: an Atkinson must survive with an Ortiz. An Atkinson fraternizes, bonds, exchanges stories with an Ortiz.

An Ortiz will push a bad father off a plank.

Ezra Ortiz sees something in Simon Atkinson that knocks him free of his vengefulness. A reflection of himself: a father impossibly admired, a mother loved and lost. But the difference, of course, is in the father, in the upbringing, the ideology, the methodology. Ezra will not let Simon starve for an absent, angry father. Ezra will not let Simon resent a lost, loving mother.

With every passing month, every late-night exchange of admissions, Simon wobbles on the tightrope of Atkinsons, of worshiping fathers and ignoring mothers and serving Crown and Country and despising piracy. And step by step, Ezra walks General Atkinson off the plank. Simon begins to wonder if fatherly love really is pain and hurt and absence, if men are so emotionless and cruel after all, if women really are so bland and frivolous and obsessed with such useless things like astronomy.

It is a simple doctrine, a two step doctrine, that Ezra preaches:

a. Do not take shit from thy dickhead father. b. Love and admire thy dead mother, as she did thou.

And finally, after thirty-odd years, Simon rediscovers the intellect he shares with his mother, the love he has for his mother, the grief he has for his mother, the admiration he shares with his mother. And having come under the doctrines of the Ortizs, having seen what could have been, what should have been... he falls from the Atkinson tightrope, and lands on something sturdy. Something that smells like old books and sounds like a violin and looks like the stars and feels like a mother’s embrace.

“Ezra... Ezra! Jesus Ch—AGH!”

Ezra shoves Simon through the doorway, sending the poor man stumbling backwards into Ezra’s desk. Ezra kicks the door shut behind him and marches forward. He seethes.

“You. You knew.”

“Knew what?” Simon holds out his hands in a pleading fashion. Ezra huffs, face a burning red.

“YOU KNEW—” Here, he stops, and checks over his shoulder. He looms closer, meeting Simon’s blue-eyed stare. “You knew about Angel,” he continues, quieter. “And you didn’t tell me a damn thing!”

For a moment, Simon gawks. He covers his mouth with a gasp. “Oh, Ezra!”

Ezra snarls and takes Simon by his coat, shaking him severely. “I’m going to kill you!”

“Why me?” Simon begs, taking hold of Ezra’s wrists. “Why me?!”

“Because you—” Ezra jabs his finger at Simon’s chest, “are supposed to be my friend. My best friend!”

“Unhand me, you madman!” Simon shoves Ezra backwards. Ezra allows it, holding up his hands and turning away. Simon brushes himself off as he speaks with a gained air of self-assurance. “I’ll remind you that I have known Angel much longer than I’ve known you! Regardless, it’s not really my business to tell you, is it?”

Ezra sneers, but considers the point. He crosses his arms and squints. “How long.”

“Jesus, Ezra, does it matter?”

“HOW LONG.”

“Since we met you, imbecile!” It is Simon’s turn: he smacks Ezra’s chest with the back of his hand. It’s a light retaliation. “It’s not my fault you were the only one who didn’t realize he was head over heels for you.”

Ezra is too busy turning the first sentence over in his mind to care about Simon’s insubordination. He begins to pace, and he brings his hand to his chin. “Since they met him,” of course, would mean that Angel was “head over heels” for a mean, rogue, revenge-crazy creature, one who promised to kill the once-captain who now stands across from him, obsessively adjusting the frills of his sleeves. One who promised bloody mutiny, just as it had been done to him.

“Dios mío, I’m going to be sick,” he groaned, pacing around his desk and slumping into his chair with a hand on his forehead. Simon paused his preening and raised an eyebrow. “What terrible news, what awful news.”

Simon inhales, but thinks through his words for a moment. “It doesn’t have to be awful,” he says, slowly. “Why would it be so awful, if you, indeed... I mean to say... if you...”

Ezra lifts his gaze, and it is heavy with fear. His good eye twitches. “Don’t.”

Simon sighs in an exhausted manner, as if he hadn’t been equally stubborn, equally oblivious to his own emotions. Some part of him admits he’s getting a taste of his own medicine. “I’m not the one to give you advice on this,” he warns. Ezra snorts and shakes his head. “But if he... fancies you, and you fancy him—”

“Fancy, fancy, fancy!” Ezra mocks. “I do not fancy anyone. Fancy is too nice, fancy is too official, it is too—posh! Pirates don’t fancy, they hunger. And they take. And they destroy. Angel is a fool if he fancies me.”

“Well, Ezra, I simply don’t know what to tell you. It all depends on if you’re attracted to him! Are you attracted to him or not?”

Ezra ignores his friend. He stands and resumes his pacing. Simon sighs and sits. He tries again: “You ought to be honest with yourself. If you—”

Ezra interrupts with a cackle. “Says you! Says Simon!” he exclaims. Simon looks down at his hands, harboring a secret he is afraid to tell. “I know about being honest with myself, I—” Ezra falters, “I am being honest. Honest that I am... not...” his face twists, “not right. For Angel. Not right at all.”

“Now that’s ridiculous,” Simon counters. “You two are joined at the hip. You two—”

“Are good friends,” Ezra finishes. His face is warm. “It is honest for me to say that I am no romantic. If I’ve got it right, Angel is harboring something more than I can give back.”

Simon stops entertaining the thought, instead noting, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Ezra sneers at him. “Your question is stupid.”

“Are you, or are you not, attracted to Angel?”

“Vete a la mierda you and your question.”

“Are you attracted to Angel Marigold!”

“And what if I was!” Ezra whirls around towards Simon and holds out his arms. “What if I was, what good would that do! How would it change anything!”

“It changes everything, Ezra!” Simon pleads, clasping his hands together, bursting at the seams with his own untold confessions. “If you love Angel Marigold, if you really do, you should tell him! Tell him, and get it off your chest, and he can get it off his!”

Ezra laughs, though it is a dry, emotionless thing, more of a chest heave. “You read too many books, Simon. The real world does not work that way, with your happy ever afters.”

Simon cannot say anything more, for he knows that is the truth. He knows it more than anyone. The gears in Ezra’s head turn as he walks circles around the demoralized ex-soldier. “I can’t subject Angel to one of my cases of immature infatuation. He deserves better than that! He’s such a force of good, a force of kindness and happiness and love, and he deserves someone who can give that back to him tenfold!”

“And why can’t you?” Simon mutters.

Ezra scoffs and motions to himself as if it is obvious. “I’m me. I’m a playboy, a heartbreaker, a creature prone to flings and breakups! Bad breakups. Violent breakups.” He shudders at the memories. “Creatures like me know nothing of love. A something between him and me, if I were to listen to the voice in my head, would ruin everything we’ve built together. The friendship, the crew, the family! And not to mention Angel’s broken heart! It’s inevitable. It’s a certainty. So no, Simon of Britain, son of Davina, I will not tell him anything.” He huffs, done with the conversation, and he shifts his one-eyed gaze to his liquor cabinet. “Would you like a drink?”

“Please.” Simon rubs his temples. Ezra retrieves the rum, and two glasses. Simon positions his elbow on Ezra’s desk, and leans forward as the pirate captain sits across from him. “Ezra,” he says, as Ezra pours. Ezra shakes his head and pushes Simon’s glass towards him. “I just want to ask you one more thing.”

Ezra grunts and sips his drink. Simon lifts his glass and tilts his head.

“That voice in your head. Talk with me, man to man. What is it saying?”

Ezra clears his throat. There’s his face again, and now his chest: hot like a sunburn. He was never good at repressing things like this, not really. He blinks, and hums, “I’d like to say it’s none of your business.”

“Ah, but you won’t,” Simon says, holding up a finger, “precisely because you have pried into my business just as equally. If not more.”

“You and Cassie, see, that was a fling.”

“Ezra.”

“Alright, alright... que cabrón.” Ezra shifts in his seat and waves a dismissive hand at Simon. He opens his mouth, but keeps thinking. The thoughts come too fast. “It... tells me... that he has the most beautiful eyes, especially in the light of the sun.”

Simon leans his head on his hand, eyes wide, waiting for more. Ezra catches his stare, and grimaces. The embarrassment presses in on his chest, and his breath catches. He decides he cannot take much more of this, not for the rest of his god-forsaken life.

“That’s all you get.”

Simon gasps. “What? No!”

“Mmmmhm.” Ezra looks down and pretends to read the papers on his desk. “Mmmwow, so interesting. I think the voice is telling me something else.”

Simon leans forward with a sparkly look. “What?”