❝ All right, um, if you could go home and find out Uncle T's back this instant, would you do it? ❞
❝ No chance. I'm perfectly content right here. ❞
෴⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄෴⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ ෴⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄෴⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄෴
crossing the ocean isn't about ditching the shore, but about using that sa...
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"Kooks and Pogues. It's like sand and saltwater in Kildare—always there, always tangled up, whether you like it or not. There's the ones with everything and the ones with zilch. That's the lay of the land, the lineup we were born into. Some people ride the wave, others wipe out trying to change it. We found our stoke on our side of the island, where we didn't need their riches to carve our own waves.
Then came the Royal Merchant—the buried gold that flipped our world like a rogue wave.
For my mom, it was a shot at saving her sister—a lost cause worth chasing. For Uncle John, John B, me, and the rest of the Pogues, it was our ticket out—the way we could finally paddle past the breakers and even the score. But here's the kicker: at some point, you gotta ask yourself, Was the treasure really our way out? Or was it a riptide pulling us under, a trap in disguise? Or maybe, just maybe, it's the truth we've been chasing all along.
When we were groms, John B and I would play pirates, dreaming of treasure and quoting old sailor wisdom like, 'You can never cross the ocean unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.' But here's the thing—maybe you don't have to forget the shore at all. Maybe it's the thought of that sandy line on the horizon that makes you paddle harder, fight the current, and cross the ocean anyway.
So maybe the real trick isn't losing sight of the shore—it's knowing which waves are worth riding all the way home."
- Delaia Routledge.
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warning!
This fic's got a fair bit of cheek and plenty of grit: foul language (enough to make a sailor blush), underage drinking (because we're all young and reckless here), more running around than a pack of headless chickens, plus a fair share of boozing and drug talk. Expect some steamy shenanigans, a good helping of violence (truly, it's practically a sport), and themes of loss, heartbreak, emotional scars, and the usual family-sized baggage. If that's not your cup of tea, best pop off now. Otherwise, dive in at your own risk, and don't say you weren't warned. Cheers!
disclaimer!
I do not own Outer Banks—that lovely lot of creators and owners hold all the rights, bless 'em. This little scribble of fiction was concocted purely to entertain my restless imagination. However, any original characters (looking at you, Laia), stories, plotlines, dialogues, and whatnot are indeed mine, so keep your sticky fingers off, cheers! Oh, and just a heads-up: in this here fic, Cleo won't be making her official Pogue debut. She'll be swingin' by now and then, but don't expect her to stick around for the full shebang.
