Merchant sailing is treacherous work. You need to either be hard-boiled tough or completely insane, maybe both, to get through an industry like this. It's mindless work, but somehow, it's the only career that's ever worked for me. Sometimes I stare out into the open sea, seeing nothing at all for miles and miles, and I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.

I keep asking myself that while I fumble around one of the cargo storage rooms. I know there's a broken crate of whiskey bottles around here somewhere that we'd written off.

It's the middle of the night off the coast of the French Riviera. Our ship, the Karaboudjan, is invisible from the shoreline. Most of the lights are off, and nobody but our crew knows we're here. Sometimes, the waves hit the ship's hulls hard enough to resound through the lower cabins. The rain pelts down against the bow window, and you can only hope to god that you're going in the right direction. Water is everywhere and it'll kill you if it gets the chance.

I find the crate. Seven of the twelve bottles are still left inside. I grab one bottle by the neck, and clench a fist around it, trying to put together enough extra strength to make up for my sweaty, shaky palms. God, it's dark in here...I feel as if I'm escaping a bottomless pit as I step back into the lamp-lit hallway. We've turned off the Karaboudjan's exterior lights, and it really downs the lower decks in darkness. We haven't turned those lights off in years since it's against our typical protocol, but starting tonight, we're under new management. It's all about speed and stealth, not slow and steady, like our captain prefers.

The captain's a good man. He's a salty sea dog to the core, a gruff Scotsman, but a good man...almost too good to be here, much too altruistic when it comes to this line of work. Too trusting. I don't know him too closely, but I know he considers me a "good friend". I'm sorry, captain. I'm sorry that the money won me over, but if you could've seen how much there was, you'd understand.

We were docked in Monaco for the weekend. The captain stayed aboard while most of the guys took off for the night. I was heading through the edge of town, in search of the closest inn, anywhere I could stay for the night that wasn't that sweat-stained sardine can of a ship. I stopped in at some cheap bar for a bite to eat first, but the next thing I know, my dingy little table has three European guys in slick suits sitting at it.

Apparently, they'd had their eyes on us for a while. Not just me, but the ship, its crew, and its regular travel paths. My head was spinning so hard that I was glad I hadn't had anything to drink yet. I thought these guys were here to ice me and my crew, and the balding guy in the middle of my trio of "guests" seemed to notice I was getting nervous.

He held up one hand and waved it politely; he had some damn big rings on. Some of them had gems in colors I'd only ever seen in magazines. He said to me in a thick Greek accent, "No, no, we are not here on bad business."

In a way, this was a job offer. The Karaboudjan had just dropped off its latest shipment, and we were being offered a new long-term courier contract. New upper management and new, dangerous cargo. Most of it was goddamn opium, heading right into the heart of China. If I could lead the crew through this route, we'd be paid "handsomely", as my new colleague put it.

Yeah, I could say no, but these guys had told me too much to let me go alive. None of them said my life was on the line, but I could sense it. I remember inhaling, and then asking as genuinely as I could, "How "handsome" are we talking?"

Two things were set on the table before me: a business card and a metal lockbox. The card was smaller, so I picked it up first, and I know my eyes were wide as I read it. It belonged to the guy in the middle, and it gave me an eight-syllable exotic name, and the logos of three huge companies. The guy seemed to be grinning at me. He didn't wait for me to reach for the box, and he opened it himself, revealing stacks upon stacks of American hundred-dollar bills. I was too shocked to ask how he'd learned I was American before even meeting me. That was the most money I'd ever seen up close.

"Consider this a welcome gift," he said, "If you accept my offer."

I did. Forty-eight hours later, I don't regret that decision at all.

I broke open one of the bill straps and spread the cash around the crew...the boys were immediately on board. Everybody but the captain, of course. Nobody, including me, could believe there would be more money coming in.

Something seemed to shift inside all of us. The crew no longer felt like mindless drones...every one of the boys needed this cash. Tom wants to retire one day. Lash's parents rely on the money he sends home. Jumbo is supporting a family back home, too. We're not bad people; we've just been dying to make a real living.

I make my way down the hall towards the captain's quarters. The closer I get, the more I can hear him singing a sea shanty to himself. His voice is loud and brassy even through the thick metal door. He's likely celebrating. The Karaboudjan has just finished its latest round trip, and the money had come through.

I got more money from one little metal box than a full course of honest work. The business card from that Greek guy- er, my new boss is practically burning a hole through my breast pocket.

I struggle to pronounce the name on that card. I need to get a grip on that. Some words from the new boss still ring out in my head.

"Thank you, Mister Rask...rastafar…." I stumbled, trying desperately to close out our conversation.

The man chuckled, and enunciated, "Ras-ta-pop-u-los. Please get acquainted with the name, dear Allan, you will soon be saying it often."

That really struck a chord with me. It's not often that anybody warms up to me so quickly. I've been fighting all my life to get people to like me. But then, suddenly I've got a real big-shot saying my name like we're best friends.

Best friends, eh? The captain immediately comes to mind. Poor Captain Archie, I say to myself. I suppose that's why I'm so apprehensive about visiting him tonight...everything around us is about to change. I'm not one to willingly burn a bridge, but again, money triumphs over feelings for a guy like me.

I'll miss you, Archie.

I reach the captain's cabin door. The memory of that lockbox full of money sits forefront in my head. I swallow hard, in spite of my dry, nervous throat. I rap my knuckles against the captain's door. It's a quick, unique knock, and he always knows it's me.

"Ah! Allan!" he calls out from within. "Come on in!"

I almost feel a pang of sadness. This might be the last time I'll hear him this coherent and happy.

I walk into the room, trying to just look casual. It's hard. Trying to play it cool during something like this feels like walking with shoes full of needles: I know I look overly-cautious, maybe pained, but I can't help it. I'm suddenly an actor, and my role is to pretend to be myself from the day before. The new boss is a movie producer...how fitting, maybe I can think of myself as just another one of his actors.

I open the captain's cabin door. He is sitting at his little table, parallel to his bed, jovially jotting down some notes in a lined notebook. His grin just about beams through his thick, scruffy beard. He says to me, "Another job well done, eh Allan?"

"Yeah," I laugh. Well, I make a noise close enough to a laugh.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just give him the bottle. As soon as he's one glass deep, things will only get easier. I hold up the bottle of whiskey, bringing its label up beside the smile on my face.

"Real well done," I smile. "How about a drink, Archie?"