Kelly Dasta

My dead friend isn’t supposed to be on the whale watching tour. It’s a pale summer morning, the harbor glazed with fog. I’m standing on the boat’s upper deck directing tourists aboard, gesturing to empty seats, passing out pamphlets. And there she is, lined up behind a family of five. She’s wearing a navy windbreaker, jean shorts, and muddy white sneakers.   Why are you here? I ask. You’re scared of the ocean.  Only the Pacific, she says. The Atlantic is fine.   I say, Okay, but don’t freak out the children.   We jet off, gliding over the glass panes of the…