The captain sat at the cockpit table, staring at the chart of the Pacific. He plotted their location as 321 miles northeast of Fatu Hiva.

His first mate stood beside him, waiting for orders.

“French Polynesia?” the captain asked, pointing to the islands in the middle of the chart.

The first mate shook her head, tears caked on her face. The captain nodded and traced his hand over the north, past Hawai, until the sea ended where the empires meet.

“We have to go south,” the first mate said.

His eyes traveled down the chart, where there was nothing but sea.

The captain stood and looked at his wife with welling eyes. They buried their faces in each other’s necks.

“I love you,” the captain said.

The first mate was the first to let go. She went to the helm and disengaged the autopilot. She turned the boat to port and waited for the compass to read 180 degrees. The sails flogged until she pulled the lines and the sails went taut.

She then joined the captain, who was on his knees, sobbing on the cockpit floor. She cradled his head on her chest and rocked him back and forth until the noise stopped.

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About Me: I’m a former psychology professor now sailing around the world while writing fiction and reflections on life at sea. My debut novel, Fifteen Years to Hiva Oa, is now available. My second book, The Last Harbour, a dystopian novel, will launch in January 2027.

The tiny plane landed on the hills of Whangarei. The crew walked out. White teeth straight across. It was the energy of greenhorns.

The captain and the first mate greeted them with matching enthusiasm. “Let’s get you aboard and out to sea,” the captain yelled. So they cheered, and high-fived, and told stories about the tropical beaches they would see in the islands to the north.

But hundreds of miles away, a low grew into a storm. Buckets of rain fell from the sky. The waves picked up. And the gods sat together laughing and drinking rum.

Those early days were full of grins and optimism because no one knew. Meals were prepped, items stowed. The crew learned from daybreak to sunset about life aboard a boat. The captain spoke, often with unceasing excitement, about sail trim, and reefing, and safety protocols, and even how to flush the poop. The crew listened attentively and with purpose. And when it got late, they drank until the sun rose. Or that’s what they said, but they actually went to bed by eight o’clock.

On the third day, the weather window showed up. They left the dock and began their journey north, aiming for the land of white-sand beaches and people who wore no socks. But one stop separated them from the dreamy life they sought. It was Opua, the land of the ocean gods.

“It’ll be a quick stop,” the captain said. “Two nights at most. We’ll get some food, clear out, and up we’ll go.”

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I jumped off the pole of that boat, hoping to fly and then to glide. But I misjudged the jump like I was a dumb tern. The ship plunged as I tried to jump, and I fell forward into the sea. I flapped and flapped to get some lift. Damn you boat, I thought as I got ready to feel the water on my red feet! But then I felt the lift-off. Steady beats, and up and up I go. I’ve had enough of boats and fish. Homebound, I went. I saw the sun and felt the pull from that distant pole, and I knew I had fucked up. I should not have stayed on that boat for that long. I should have gone with the gang long ago. 300km to go was my guess. So I climbed, 10, 20, 50 meters above the sea, not for fish, but for the wind that’d take me home to my sweet Clementine. It was a trick my daddy taught me when I was a kid. Fly like an albatross, he said! So I did, until one day I went to 300 meters! I got confused. I got too cold. And I almost ended up in Peru. I am no albatros, I knew, so I stayed no higher than 50 and found good wind. I glided home, smelling the distant cliffs. For hours, I went directly towards her wings. And then I saw the gang below. Boobies and gulls, and some whimbrels too, having a blast on top of a rusty Panamanian floating fridge. And I could not resist. It was time to rest. I plunged in at full speed. Kraaaka! Kraaaka! Kraaaka!! I yelled. Get out of my way! And it was enough to scare a few into flying away. I landed softly and unencumbered, laughing as I watched them climb into the skies. “That wasn’t nice,” he said. “Fernando! Why aren’t you with your mum?” I yelled. And he took off, white like a gull, and we all laughed and laughed as my scared child flew home.

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• Thank you for reading. This flash story is part of Stanley and Fernando, a series of flash fiction about a parent-son duo of red-footed boobies living near the Galapagos Islands.

• I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments section below. If you enjoy this story, click “like” to help more readers discover it.

About Me

I’m Nestor Lopez-Duran, writing under the pen name N.L. Duran. I am a former psychology professor now sailing around the world while writing fiction and reflections on life at sea.

I’m the last one left. Sitting here on this metal pole on the bow of this boat. There used to be many of us. Mostly boobies but some gulls too. We took over this place like it was our home. We rode the swell, lined up on this rope, and stalked all those fish. It was a feast! We ate. And pooped. And ate some more. But they all left when the boat turned south. “I’m going home”, Fernando said. “I’ve had enough and miss my mum”. So he flew east to the warmth of Santa Cruz. I should have gone with him. Now I’m here, alone, surrounded by filth. I wait and wait for the humans to clean up this mess. They never come, and it’s rude. I see them looking at me. I know they can see the mess. I see disgust in their eyes. I hear them talking about the poop. Blaming it on us, on me. I want to tell them… It’s not my fault. I poop. That’s what birds do! It’s really not my fault. I’ve got no diaper on my butt! And I yell, “Look at this filth! Come clean this mess, for God’s sake!” But no one does. No one speaks bird anymore. I hope they are not expecting me to clean this up. They are the ones with the thumbs. So tomorrow morning, when the sun is up, I will give up. I’ll time the swell and wind, and then I’ll jump.

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• Thank you for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments section below. If you enjoy this story, click “like” to help more readers discover it.

• This story is part of Ocean Tales, a collection of micro and flash fiction inspired by the sea and its creatures.

• The Last of the Red-Footed Boobies is the first story in the Stanley & Fernando series, which chronicles the life of a father-son duo of red-footed boobies as they search for meaning while fishing in the Pacific.

About Me

I’m Nestor Lopez-Duran, writing under the pen name N.L. Duran. I am a former psychology professor now sailing around the world while writing fiction and reflections on life at sea.