Читать книгу Hooked - Jane May - Страница 12

Barring illness or bad weather, no day passed that Woody failed to work on his boat. For a guy who had avoided commitment since losing his virginity in the eleventh grade, this was the one relationship to which he could commit. He’d never desert the Sea Sponge, and he knew as long as she stayed afloat, she’d always be there for him. In good weather she would be his lover, and in a storm she would be his mother, protecting him to the best of her ability.

The Sea Sponge had been owned by Spencer Cabot, one of the founding members of the Trade Winds Yacht Club, who sadly had spent the last quarter of his one hundred years confined to a wheelchair. Cabot’s sailboat, a thirty-seven foot wooden, double-ended gaff cutter, was built in 1948 in the style of the famed Norwegian nautical architects, Colin and Archer, and had been sitting “on the hard” for a half decade while his heirs fought over his rather sizeable estate.

By the time Woody found her, the Sea Sponge was in pretty bad shape. Extensive dry rot and years of assault and battery by the elements had rendered her unseaworthy, so the only way to transport the Sponge from Coconut Grove to Key Biscayne was to haul her across land. Before Woody had lifted a finger, the cost of the boat plus moving expenses had emptied his savings account of ten thousand dollars. On a good day, he preferred to think it was a small price to pay for love. But on a bad one, he’d ruminate about the grip the Sponge had on him—emotionally, financially and physically.

As all veteran wooden boat enthusiasts knew, “In order to get to the bad it’s necessary to destroy just about everything good.” This, translated, meant stripping the Sea Sponge down to its shell. The frame completely replanked with hard pine. The teak deck salvaged, refinished and caulked. Every bronze fastener—the two thousand or more pegs that held the entire boat together—pulled and substituted with new ones. Plumbing and electrical updated, including the engine which Woody bought secondhand, of course. He rebuilt the deckhouse—from the sole to the ceiling—from scratch. And now with approximately eight months out from dropping her into the water, Woody was frantically installing cabinetry and framing out his sleeping quarters.

After dinner, as was his routine, Woody and Sweetie headed for the Sea Sponge. Hoisting his dog on his shoulder, he climbed up the ladder. The focus of tonight’s project was to put the finishing touches on the forward berth, but a half hour in, it was obvious he just wasn’t into it.

Madalina.

Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind, reviewing every moment shared with her. The good and the embarrassingly horrendous.

No sooner had Woody concluded that all things considered it was safer to steer clear of any female entanglements, than a mosquito, thrown off course by the glare of several pot-lights, decided to use his right eyebrow as a landing strip. With his one free hand, Woody attempted to smash the wayward aviator, but missed.

In a second attempt, he miscalculated the amount of space between his head and the ceiling and knocked himself out cold.

The mosquito, however, lived to tell the tale.