Chantel yawned as that familiar dusk chill crawled down her body. She was beginning to feel restless on the forty-foot sloop, craving the inflated chaos that accompanied her illustrious executive career in Silicon Valley. There was nothing of the sort in an Orange County marina, and by her seventh week on the Angel II, the lack of intensity began to dull her passion for life.
She pined for the days as COO of Sociald, that startup that—ah—what did they even do again? She remembered not, as most days were spent in the throes of a bender, at the behest of their 18 year-old founder. Or ActivizeMe, where for three months she was the VP of Revenue. What does a VP of Revenue even do, she wondered. Between private jetting to venture capitalists’ offices and giving keynotes at C-list conferences, she couldn’t quite remember. Or what about ShopProQuo, that was five months she’d never forget—but now she could barely recall where the office had been. Maybe it was in Jason’s apartment? Her ex did have a large industrial loft with desks, after all.
She ruminated on those years fondly. Taken as a whole, they seemed much more tolerable and enticing, a stark contrast to their true nature as a nauseating dance between hungover and bankrupt. But for all the turmoil, her pockets came out of the Valley lined with pilfered seed money, and a résumé longer than her boat’s mainsail.