James and Carlos followed him, taking their first real steps into a new hobby—or, at the very least, a peaceful retirement backup plan.
James had lived his whole life surrounded by chaos. Maybe fishing wasn't such a bad idea after all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You two are in luck," Ross said cheerfully as he led them down a corridor lined with glass panels and digital displays. "We have model showcases for the top ten yacht brands in the world right here—complete with promotional videos, interior layouts, and performance breakdowns. Whatever you're looking for, you'll find it here."
Ross kept talking, but neither James nor Carlos listened. They weren't exactly experts in yachts, and James wasn't about to bug Cortana for assistance either. She was still deep in the process of unlocking and compiling secure data—especially on electronics. Best to let her focus.
They entered a sleek, temperature-controlled room filled with scaled yacht models in pristine display cases. Each one had a touchscreen pedestal, rotating spotlight, and digital overlay highlighting the features. Some looked like floating penthouses. Others resembled Bond villain hideouts. The variety was staggering.
Father and son split up to browse both sides of the showroom, occasionally pointing things out to each other, and sometimes just standing in silent admiration. It wasn't a rushed purchase. This wasn't a souvenir shop—they were yacht shopping. Multimillion-dollar yacht shopping.
After about an hour of walking around and getting introduced to different yachts, James brought over a selection. Carlos, on the other hand, had nothing.
"I can't decide," Carlos said, a little sheepish. "They all look great. If anyone were to ask me which one I would like I'd answer—YES."
James nodded. "Same. Honestly, I'd just picked one so we could move on. We're not buying it for daily use. It's just for fishing trips, maybe some ocean lounging, and definitely needs future-proofing."
He tapped the spec sheet in his hand. "I'll pick this one: the Boxing 92 by Boxing Yacht—Italian make. Doesn't seem to be common in the U.S., but it's got the space. Two master bedrooms, four double guest rooms, all with en-suites. If we bring guests, or if either of us decides to settle down…" he shrugged, "we won't be short on space."
Carlos nodded. "That's reasonable, trying to think ahead."
Ross beamed like he'd just won the lottery. "Excellent choice, gentlemen. European yachts are built with style, durability, and luxury in mind. American models tend to cater more to weekend family trips. The Boxing 92 is a statement. Aristocratic, sophisticated, and—most importantly—capable."
Ross flipped through his tablet. "She's 27.95 meters long, 6.22 meters wide, draws 1.65 meters of water, weighs about 69 tons, and has a top speed of 41 knots. Ideal for long trips or just cruising near the coast."
"And how much?" James asked casually.
"About six million dollars," Ross said, barely blinking.
James didn't either. "We'll take it."
Carlos gaved a nod. Decision has been made.
Ross blinked, then recovered fast. "Very good, sir. The Boxing 92 is custom-built in Italy. Delivery will take about two months. Would you like any modifications or personalized options?"
"No. Just the standard build. Quality is what we're paying for," James replied.
"One thing though," he added. "What about rainy weather? That sun deck's massive. I don't want to spend half the year wiping down mildew."
"No need to worry," Ross assured them. "Our NYYC facilities offer full professional care—daily cleaning, maintenance, and security. Personal items are logged and protected. Theft is unheard of."
"Fine," James said, already done negotiating. "I'll pay in full. Draft the contract."
Ross nearly tripped over his own growing smile as he handed over the paperwork. Ten minutes later, the yacht was theirs—well, pending delivery. James left with the instruction manual and a scale model under one arm.
Back in the car, Carlos flipped through the brochure, eyes wide like a kid with a new toy.
"This thing's a luxury," he muttered. "Big deck, deep fuel tanks, six rooms... this could be a floating house."
James glanced over. "Don't get too comfortable. You're gonna need a yacht license. No sense in owning one if you can't drive it."
Carlos waved a hand. "I'll start training tomorrow. I'll swing by the florist in the morning to check progress, then do classes in the afternoon. Shouldn't take too long."
James just smirked. "You sound a little too confident."
Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Assassins don't exactly shy away from vehicles. I'll manage."
The next day, James headed straight to SHIELD's tactical driving station. He signed up for multi-vehicle training: cars, trucks, boats, yachts, helicopters, even a light aircraft. Fighter jets were on his wishlist, but he'd need a higher clearance level—and a transfer to Washington for that.
The yacht simulator alone was a headache. James could shoot a fly's wing off at 2,500 meters, but maneuvering a seventy-ton boat into dock without crashing into another millionaire's toy? Not exactly intuitive.
He sighed. "Cortana… I'm gonna need some help."
[Recording mode active. Beginning navigational memory sync.]
It wasn't instant, but having Cortana log every motion, feedback vibration, and control response helped immensely. Learning without thinking. Learning with feedback. That was the difference between being an assassin and being an agent. One killed, the other adapted. Of course he has Cortana to help with complicated stuff.
Driving was only half the struggle. The second half was the classroom work.
SHIELD's training included infiltration skills, digital intrusion, safecracking, biometrics bypass—fingerprints, retinas, vocal mimicry, even pheromone locks. All the sci-fi spy stuff James had seen in movies? All real it seems.
And maddening.
"It's not like I can just lick someone's eyeball for retinal data," James grumbled as he skimmed the lesson plan.
[Please don't. That's inadvisable for multiple reasons.] Cortana's text box floated dryly in his vision.
James rolled his eyes and went back to studying.
Thankfully, basic chemistry, physics, and material knowledge were easy. Cortana absorbed and filed those without any problem. James simply had to be present, focused, and pass the practicals with Cortana.
Two months later, the yacht arrived.
Ross stood at the dock like a man who had just delivered a Ferrari to a farm.
"There she is, gentlemen. Your Boxing 92," he said, gesturing grandly.
The white vessel gleamed under the sun like something out of a billionaire's Instagram post. Carlos whistled. James raised an eyebrow.
"Not bad."
Ross clapped his hands together. "Fuel, freshwater, systems—everything's just about ready. You'll be seaworthy by tomorrow."
"We'll need a long-term berth rental," James added. "How far in advance can we book?"
"Three years max," Ross replied. "After that, prices adjust annually."
"Of course they do." James signed the reservation papers. "Three years then. Paid upfront."
At $70,000 per year, it wasn't cheap—but it was worth it. Now they had a yacht, a berth, and a plan.
Fishing, sailing, and swimming in the middle of the ocean where monsters could pop-out.
Knowing that this is marvel, they might very well exist.
Carlos leaned against the railing, looking at the ocean.
"Y'know, I never thought I'd be doing this with my son."
James smiled. "Neither did I. But here we are, I do wonder if the kraken exists."