daylight, rather than when all tangled up in it in the dark. He’d take a pass on doing that again anytime soon. They neared a raft of sea otters, and Sophie slowed the boat. Tristan counted fifteen of the cute, furry creatures. Some were asleep doing the otter back float, wrapped in a blanket of kelp; others were grooming their fur as if scrubbing to lather up in a bath. Two otters popped up to stare at the passing boat. Sam waved. Tristan wondered if she knew what they were thinking. Sophie then maneuvered the boat into the open water of Monterey Bay. She pushed the throttle forward, and soon they were speeding along the coast.
From his cushioned seat, Ryder shouted, “Where’s the boat?”
Over the roar of the engine, it was hard to hear anything, so Sophie just pointed north.
Since arriving in Monterey, there had been little time for the campers to play tourists and see anything except the area right around the aquarium. Tristan now stared curiously at the passing coastline. A road snaked along the winding shore. He could see an adjacent narrow walking trail lined with dark-green and red-tipped bushes. Behind it rose hills with rows of tightly packed, small homes in assorted colors.
They cruised by a small, sandy cove nestled between rocky headlands. Inside the cove, where the kelp grew thick, the water was calm and smooth. Outside, waves breaking against blocky, tan rocks created swirls of foamy, white water and spray. Tristan noticed a distinct smell in the air: salty ocean and seaweed mixed with the scent of pine.
They passed another rocky point. It was carpeted with dark bushes and topped by a single tall pine tree. For some reason, it reminded Tristan of a cherry on a piled-high ice cream sundae. His stomach growled noisily. Suddenly, just about everything reminded him of food. Hauled out on the rocks, the sleeping harbor seals made him think of big, fat, silvery sausages. The passing kelp beds became long, dark noodles in a bowl of chicken soup. Tristan hoped that eating on Ozdale’s yacht didn’t mean they’d be served fancy finger food like what he’d seen at the aquarium party. A big bowl of macaroni and cheese would suit him just fine. Come to think of it, the sand here was tinged a bit orange, like the gooey goodness oozing out of a grilled cheese sandwich. Tristan—and his stomach—hoped it wasn’t a long ride to Ozdale’s yacht.
Before long, the dense development of Monterey gave way to a winding scrub- and rock-covered coast backed by pine forests. A heavy, cool mist blanketed the shore.
Sophie slowed the boat. “This is part of the marine reserve and park.”
They rounded another rugged headland and entered a small, secluded cove. Floating at the center, tied up to a mooring ball and shrouded in mist, was a large, strange-looking yacht.
“What kind of boat is that?” Rosina asked.
“That’s Mr. Ozdale’s eco-yacht, Super Green,” Sophie answered proudly.
As they got closer, Tristan stared at the vessel. It looked like something out of a spy thriller—a platform the villain used as a base of operations while attempting to take over the world or, if that didn’t work, wreak global destruction. The ship was sleek, silvery-white, and nearly two hundred feet long. The stern, or back of the ship, was a raised arch between two hulls, like a catamaran. From there, the ship narrowed, curving smoothly toward the bow, which was a slightly rounded single hull. The shape of the bow reminded Tristan of a shark’s snout. Three stories tall, the yacht’s superstructure had tinted windows along its length. Several antennas and two giant white balls sat atop the yacht, along with what looked like solar panels curved to fit the roof.
Sophie slowed the skiff and pulled up beside the yacht’s stern. “Could one of you toss up the bow line?”
Being the closest, Sam threw the rope to another crew member standing by.
“Got it,” the young man said. He was dressed like Sophie and looked about the same age. Once the boat was tied up, he helped the teens climb aboard but said little. As Tristan was leaving the skiff, he noticed its name on the side: Little Green.
Sophie jumped expertly off the boat. “Right this way. Mr. Ozdale is expecting you.”
She led them from the stern up to an open deck. Ozdale was just walking out from the yacht’s interior. The first thing Tristan noticed was his cane. It was made of a light-silver, highly polished metal and undulated from thick to thin, almost like a wave, along its length. Tristan had never seen such a cane. It looked more like a shiny piece of modern sculpture. Ozdale leaned lightly on the cane as he strode forward with ungainly steps. Overall, he looked very different from the last time they’d seen him—when he’d been covered from head to toe in black neoprene, dripping wet, exhausted, and slumped on the sand. Ozdale now wore a simple white long-sleeved polo shirt and navy shorts. He was wiry thin, and his silver-gray hair was swept back as if blown by the wind. His face seemed rather ordinary, except for his eyes, which shone with a fiery glint. In general, the man definitely didn’t fit Tristan’s stereotype of a yacht owner. Then again, the two other yacht owners he’d met had been evil total nutjobs. It wasn’t really a great pool of people for comparison.
Just then, a big dog leapt out from behind Ozdale. It stopped and stared at the teens. Tristan and the others froze immediately. The dog was black with patches of brown on its broad chest and had a pointed muzzle. Its ears were floppy and its tail just a short nub. The dog was built like a missile on legs. Tristan recognized the breed—Doberman pinscher, a well-known guard dog with teeth that could tear you apart in seconds. A low growl emanated from the Doberman, and its lips pulled back in a teeth-baring snarl. No one moved.
“Stop that, Damien,” Ozdale said, chuckling.
Tristan looked at the man like he had a few marbles loose. After all, being about to be torn to pieces by a vicious dog was not something to laugh about. The dog stopped growling and cocked his head to the side.
“He’s just playing,” Ozdale told them. “Damien here knows that when people see him, they immediately think ‘mean attack dog,’ so he loves to ham it up.”
The teens still didn’t move a muscle.
The Doberman then leapt up like a puppy, licked the man’s hand, and wagged his little tail heartily. Before any of them could even breathe a sigh of relief or think to move, the dog bounded toward them. Tristan, Ryder, and Sam dove to the side, but Hugh and Rosina just stood there, frozen. The dog jumped onto Hugh, knocking him to the ground. But instead of using Hugh as a human chew toy, as Tristan expected, the Doberman slobbered wet dog tongue all over Hugh’s face.
“Damien—come!” Ozdale ordered.
The dog immediately leapt off Hugh, went to the man’s side, and sat obediently.
Hugh rubbed the dog drool off his face. “Yuck!”
Tristan couldn’t help but laugh.
Ozdale went to Hugh, bent down, and helped the boy up. “Sorry about that. We don’t have guests all that often, and he just loves company.”
“I could do with a little less love,” Hugh noted.
“Welcome aboard,” Ozdale said. “Should I call you ‘campers’?”
The teens smiled nervously.
“Oh, relax,” he said. “I had a lovely conversation with your Director Davis.” He glanced at the two crew members standing off to the side and whispered, “Don’t worry; your secrets are safe with me—and Damien, of course.” He patted the dog’s head. “Come on inside.”
As they walked past, the Doberman sniffed each of them as if performing a security check. Ozdale led them through a sliding double door into a wide sitting room. It was stunning in a minimalist sort of way. Cream-colored couches and several modernistic silver-frame chairs were arranged next to small, matching tables. Atop the shiny wood floor lay soft, white throw rugs.
Ozdale stopped, leaned on his cane, and waved with a flourish. “I’m very proud of the ship. The furniture and rugs are all made from recycled materials, and the decking is sustainably grown bamboo.” He strode through the room to a steep stairway and turned to the group