The proprietor of Barracuda Cafe had a barter system in place. You signed up for a shift on the pedalo, he paid you with food, bud, or drink.

The pedalo was a rusty stationary bicycle fitted with an alternator and voltage regulator. It fed juice to the battery that powered the refrigerant system and the feeble lights that were warm alternatives to the cold glare of stars.

The Barracuda Cafe was but one corner of Starfish Island, the flotsam and debris rig kept afloat with barrels and hunks of styrofoam. It was as if a shanty town had detached from the coast and set out to sea. In a way it was. When California dissolved piece by piece, the pacific ocean filled with refugees drifting into an unknown future.

Amorphous, and growing each day, you can hear snatches of song coming from Starfish Island when the wind is right.

"Thanks for the change"

"I didn't give any," said Barracuda Bill to the deeply tanned man at the bar. The man's hair, perched on a youthful face, was as white as snow, something remembered by few but the old timers.

The man pierced Bill with his blue eyes. "I know. I was talking about..." He spread his arms wide. "...this place." He sipped at his Marijuana Mojito. "Last I was here, it was a dive, quite literally."

Barracuda Bill had to laugh. His eyes glinted. "That Jacques!" Barracuda Cafe used to be a simple dinghy from which a fool flung himself into the Great Pacific Garbage Patch in search of mutated sea forms. He drowned, snared in his obsession. "You knew him?"

The man at the bar winked. "I'm Junior. It's always good to see one of dad's old friends. I like what you've done with the place."