Pleasure craft bobbed on the water from a safe distance; colourful sails billowed in the stiff breeze. Without a specific role other than to sit in a designated spot and ‘look sexy for the cameras’, Jett used the lead-up time to appreciate Chasing Dawn’s all-female crew as they went about their assigned tasks. He barely felt the rocking movement beneath his feet, refused to acknowledge the tiny curl of unease beneath his breastbone. He found the helicopter-circling media’s up-close and personal interest in the Jettsetter Chef over the top. He shrugged, uncomfortable in the neon-candy-pink T-shirt and cap, and gave a double thumbs-up to a TV crew above them. It was for a worthwhile cause, and their crew’s flirtatious glances, the gentle teasing and admiration for his support made up for it. All the crew, that was, except for their preoccupied skipper, who obviously had more important matters on her mind. A monster yacht cruised by, its deck crawling with male-model types standing around looking like a shoot for a men’s magazine.
