Читать книгу Perfect Bait - Michael Douglas Fowlkes - Страница 16

Enjoy your achievements, as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Chapter 8

Morning found us still wrapped in each other’s arms, our bodies, once again, totally fulfilled and content in celebrating the pure joys of passion. “You look beautiful,” I whispered. We just couldn’t get enough of each other. Each new touch wove bonds of steel through every fiber of our bodies. We lay together in the delicate morning light as it filtered through the uneven paned glass windows on the east side of the bedroom. Jennifer’s thick golden hair, a tangled wreck, perfectly framed her peaceful face. Her skin glowed. Her eyes were still closed.

Rolling toward me without opening her eyes, she moaned gently as her lean body stretched to greet the day. A smile found its way naturally onto her face.

I leaned over her and whispered, reliving one particular moment the previous night when she was straddled on top of me.

“Oh, yeah,” she yawned, feigning indifference. “I almost forgot about that part.”

“You’re the devil in disguise,” I said, pulling the pillow out from under her head and fighting to get it over her face.

After breakfast, we went to Jennifer’s bank, presenting them with close to ten thousand dollars, mostly in small bills we’d saved in a shoebox in the closet, which represented all of our tip money. The balance Jennifer withdrew from her savings account. The bank cut us a cashier’s check for the full twenty-five thousand dollars. The papers were drawn up in both our names. After we signed, the broker gave us the name of the service they recommended for transferring title on documented vessels.

“We’ll get everything started. It’ll take about a month for the new documentation to arrive from Washington,” the lady handling the transfer told us. “Here is your temporary.” She ran off a couple of copies, suggesting we keep the original on board when we got it. We shook hands, and she congratulated us on being the owners of a new boat—she hadn’t seen any of the photos—and we headed out to look for a slip.

We got lucky at one of the smaller marinas on Harbor Island and were able to secure a temporary slip. Thankfully, they didn’t ask for a picture of the boat; otherwise, we’d still be looking. Once again, Jennifer wrote the check, this time for the first and last months’ rental, plus a nominal utility/deposit fee. Watching her signing the checks required a conscious effort to let go of the lingering tinges of my male ego. Seeing how excited she was helped to remind me we were in this together.

The sheriff’s department wanted the boat out of their docks immediately and gave us forty-eight hours. “After that,” the female deputy informed us, “it’s one hundred twenty dollars a day for storage fees.”

“That’s two dollars per foot per day,” Jennifer protested.

“You got it, math genius,” snapped the pinched-faced deputy behind the desk. She shook her head as if we were out of our minds. “You bought it. Now deal with it.”

“Can we hose her off and get her cleaned up before—”

“No one’s allowed to work on the boats.” The girls locked eyes. “Insurance.”

Jennifer nodded, angry but understanding.

“Besides,” the deputy added, “there’s no dockside water or power.”

One of the male deputies leaned over the counter, obviously attracted to Jennifer and perhaps feeling a little sorry for her. He referred us to the tow and salvage operation the department used to move abandoned and sinking vessels. For a mere pittance of one hundred seventy-five dollars an hour, we made arrangements to have her towed to the marina. Jennifer wrote yet another check in advance for the estimated four hours of service.

“Honey, are you all right with all this?” I asked.

She nodded, balancing her checkbook. “As long as you don’t short out on me about the money, I’m fine.”

It was hard for me. I’d been brought up that it’s the man’s responsibility to provide, to pay for things, but Jennifer was so different. She’d been on her own long enough to know that was bullshit. We were in this together.

The tow was the last of the day, so the boat didn’t arrive at the marina until well after dark. Thank God. She was unceremoniously backed into slip #26 on “B” dock. The marina manager had left her office long before the tow arrived. Otherwise, she would have never allowed us in. The boat was an absolute disgrace. Most everyone else had gone home as well, except for a couple of fulltime crewmembers living on the surrounding boats. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing and smelling. The stench was overwhelming. Knowing this, we’d armed ourselves with gallons of industrial solvent, bleach, liquid soap, four-inch blade scrapers with extended handles and a pair of hard-bristled deck brushes. We knew we had until first light to get her detoxed and cleaned up if we were going to have a chance of staying there. The outgoing tide would carry most of the bleach and crap away. I felt a tinge of guilt for the surrounding clam beds and eel grass, but figured after a hundred years of people throwing worse pollutants than that into the bay, a few more gallons weren’t going to make any difference. Wrong.

“Isn’t there some law about dumping solvents and stuff into the bay?” Jennifer asked innocently.

“Maybe. Yeah. I don’t know. I’m sure there is, but we don’t have a choice. We’ve got to get her washed off tonight and cleaned up before morning, or we’re screwed.”

Even with the gallons of solvents and pure bleach we were pouring onto the layers of built up guano, the stench was still overwhelming. Inch by inch, we worked our way through the years of built up guano. Our backs ached, our hands swelled, and we were covered in slime. The clean up took us all night. As dawn’s first gray light ushered in the new day, we’d made a good dent. Sierra hadn’t come within two slips’ distance. She was eyeing the entire process from her distant post, most likely wondering if she’d hitched herself to a couple of people who had gone stark raving mad. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with the stench, but as we washed off the last traces of soap and bleach from the swim step, she sniffed the stern cautiously and jumped aboard.

We were totally exhausted, but our feelings of pride and accomplishment made it worthwhile. Standing there in the cockpit, still covered with slime and sweat, we couldn’t have been happier. I felt I was the luckiest guy alive, with my lady, my dog, a new boat and a glorious sunrise. Life didn’t get any better. The city hadn’t awakened yet, so the still, quiet dawn was all ours. A blue heron perched nearby caught our attention as he swiveled his head towards some bait. He was standing on the piling across from us, but we hadn’t noticed him until he moved.

“Beautiful bird,” Jennifer observed.

“It is. Beautiful morning, as well.”

Jen put her arm around my waist. “That it is, my friend.”

We watched the silhouette of San Diego’s skyline take shape out of the darkness, but we couldn’t enjoy it for long. Our arms and legs were filthy, our hands were throbbing and our backs were aching. For the past two hours, while I was finishing scrubbing the cockpit, Jennifer had been down below cleaning up the master stateroom so that we could sleep there.

“What do you think … let’s hit the hay,” Jen suggested, almost falling asleep on her feet as she pulled me feebly towards the stateroom.

The dull ache deep within my knotted muscles intensified as sleep slipped away. Muscles that had gone untested for far too long were now complaining loudly. I had no idea what time it was. Jennifer was fast asleep beside me. The boat was an absolute disaster inside. How Jen had managed to carve out enough room for us to sleep was amazing. But the decks were clean, and the stench had been carried away with the outgoing tide. We slept most of the day.

Lying there, I thought about how hard Jen had worked last night. Her blisters had actually started bleeding before I realized it and long before we quit. Watching her sleep, breathing in a deep easy rhythm, I thought about her waiting tables and me flipping burgers. Not a bad gig, but not something I could see us doing for the rest of our lives. Maybe we’d be able to make this boat work for us. I had no idea how. For the moment, just being on board was enough.

The next morning, covered with oil and grease, with a couple knuckles bleeding from being cracked open trying to turn a wrench in tight quarters, I glanced up to see Sierra looking in at me. Her head hung partway into the engine room hatch; her body was spread out across the deck. With her tongue out and facial muscles drooping, completely relaxed, I swear to God she was laughing at me. “What are you smiling at, you ol’ dog? You get in here and do this.”

Sierra didn’t answer, nor did she bark, nor move, so I had no warning.

“You know, you’ll be lucky if her chines aren’t split,” a deep, unfamiliar voice boomed in through the hatch, scaring me half to death. I was wedged behind the outboard side of the port main and had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that it was just going to be Sierra and me today. Bryon had called Jen this morning from Hodad’s, asking her to cover because a couple of the girls didn’t show.

The voice continued, “The timber under those teak decks is rotten. You can tell by the way she’s buckling here. The glass below the waterline will likely peel right off her hull when you get into any kind of weather—if you ever manage to get her running again.”

I knew it wasn’t Sierra talking, but couldn’t see the source of the voice. Working my way out from beside the engine and toward the hatch, I emerged, heaving another wad of tangled wiring onto the deck ahead of me. The stranger stepped aside. After being in the poorly lit engine room, my pupils were closing as fast as they could in the direct sunlight, so all I could make out was the outline of a big man. I extended a filthy hand across the growing pile of debris on deck. I introduced myself. “I’m Corey Phillips. We just got her.”

Looking at me as if I were crazed, the stranger extended a weathered, rock-solid hand and crushed mine without even noticing. “Name’s Lloyd,” he said, as he looked over the array of old wiring, busted hoses, pumps and parts scattered all over the cockpit.

As my eyes adjusted, his face began to take shape out of the shadows below the brim of his well-worn, faded yellow CAT hat. His face was the color of dark, rich, fertile soil. Weathered and worn, with deep crevices around his eyes, he looked as if he’d spent his entire life in the sun. He had the kind of crystal clear eyes that didn’t miss much, if anything. There was a calmness about him—as if he’d seen it all and knew whatever was coming next would be here soon enough, so there was no need to rush. I could almost hear him thinking to himself, so this is the wacko who bought her.

Eventually Lloyd got around to asking me about the boat. “How come she was chained up over there?” he said, nodding toward the far end of the harbor.

“You saw her?” I asked him, surprised.

“I did. How long did they have her?”

“Three years.”

“Been at least that long,” he said more to himself than me. “Hated watching her rot away like that. How come they had her?”

“A legal mess involving some Nevada shell corporation, tax evasion or some shit. When we bought her, the bank didn’t tell us much. They were just glad to get rid of her. She was still supporting an entire ecosystem under her hull, with barnacles a foot long. It was the last thing any bank wanted to repossess, but they’d had no choice.”

“No doubt. “What’d you pay for her?” Lloyd asked, getting straight to the point.

I hesitated, appraising the guy, deciding if he needed to know the details, still wondering where he’d come from.

He looked back at me and for the first time cracked a half-smile. “Didn’t mean to pry,” he said politely. “Sorry to have interrupted your work. I’ll be on my way.”

“Twenty-five grand,” I told him before he turned away.

He nodded. “Not bad.” Pausing again, he continued to look around. “You did all right.”

“You think?” I asked him.

“Absolutely,” Lloyd assured me. “Now, do the ol’ girl right and get her back into shape. She’s something special.”

“That’s exactly how I felt when I first saw her,” I blurted out excitedly. “Something special.”

He looked directly at me and hesitated. His laser eyes bored into me. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do, and for a moment it looked as if he wasn’t sure either. The moment hung in the air, as if some fate of the gods was about to be sealed.

Breaking the silence, I said, “You’re welcome to take a look around. Go through her if you’re inclined. We could use some good advice.” I spread my arms hopelessly at the mess on the deck.

His expression didn’t change, but through the tight wrinkles surrounding his eyes, I glimpsed a twinkle deep within the dark blue that had obviously never been covered with a pair of polarized lenses—eyes that most likely had greeted a morning sun from the deck of some vessel since childhood. Everything about the man radiated knowledge gleaned from having spent his entire life around boats, from the slight tilt of his head to the quiet, precise way he moved, and the easy manner in which he spoke. They all fit—this guy knew boats.

A half-smile crossed his lips. “Do you think the timbers under these old teak decks will hold both of us at the same time?” He stepped out of the cockpit and started up the starboard side.

“Let’s find out,” I said, following him to the bow.

With that, the old girl found her guardian angel. If ever a vessel needed the knowledge of an old shipwright, this one did. He didn’t say another word. Instead, he focused on the sounds his weight made walking forward while studying the decks as though he could see right through the wood. He circled the bow, moved aft along the port side, across the cockpit and into the hatch. With not so much as a glance into the salon, he descended into the engine room.

“You got a flashlight?”

I reached inside the salon, grabbed one of the new Maglights we’d bought at the Marine exchange, handed it over and followed him into the dimly lit engine room. “Let’s take a look at what she’s got,” he said again, more to himself than me. After thoroughly inspecting both mains, he asked, “Have you tried firing ’em off yet?”

“No.”

“Good.” Smelling the dipstick and rubbing the pitch-black oil between his finger and thumb, he added. “This oil is messed up; it’s obvious they haven’t run in a long time. Trying to light ’em off would only have made things worse.”

Lloyd sat on an overturned five-gallon plastic bucket, and I perched on one of the stringers. He automatically wiped the dipstick clean on a faded red mechanic’s rag he had in his back pocket before sliding it effortlessly back into the big starboard main.

“Best we drain this old oil, pour through a few gallons of fresh stuff, drain that, and then refill ’em before we try light ’em off.” There was just over six feet of headroom if you straddled the keel, but the engine room was full of junk, making it crowded and hard to move around, so I stayed put as he spoke. “Best we do the same for the fresh water,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s what worries me most. The damn cooling system.” He asked for a three-quarters inch wrench.

Scavenging through the almost empty, rusting toolbox that had been left on board, I found what he was looking for. “Amazing,” I said, handing him the wrench.

He placed it on a nut holding one of the internal zincs. Spinning off the nut, there was nothing where the zinc should have been. “Shit,” he said. “Figured as much.” Pausing, he looked around the shadowy engine room. “See if you can find any spare zincs.”

I started rummaging through a pile of old cardboard boxes that were piled up beside the fuel tanks.

Lloyd kept talking, “CAT builds the best damn motors in the world. They still got oil in ’em, so we might just get lucky. Look, here,” he said, breaking off some white and green powder that had formed a thick crust around the raw water pump. “The seal is shot, for sure. No use trying to even start ’em until we pull these pumps and go through ’em all. Heat exchangers, the works.”

“You said we.”

In the dim light from the flashlight and the single 100-watt open light bulb I’d rigged earlier to hang from an “S” hook in a ceiling beam, I saw the old man smile. His eyes sparkled as his entire face lit up. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Leave you alone down here? Who knows, you might have tried to start ’em without even bleeding ’em out first. That’d screw up any chance in hell we might have of saving these babies.” He shot me another smile. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Not knowing what to say, I simply nodded.

“So, why are you still just standing there? We’ve got to get all the old fuel siphoned out, dump it and get these tanks polished. They’re stainless, so they should be fine. We gotta pull the injectors and replace them. Filters, belts and all these hoses are cracked and shot to hell. Grab something to write on. We’ll start pulling numbers and making a list.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Like I said, they’re CATs.” Lloyd was in his element. Giving one of the eight inch stainless steel exhaust pipes a loving pat, he continued. “These three-forty-threes were built to last a lifetime. Best engines CAT ever built. Let’s take care of what we know needs tending to, then see if she wants to run.” He paused. “You ready?”

With a nod, a friendship was born. It’s hard to explain, but when people commit to something outside of themselves, they transcend time and space. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of it watching a championship team on TV. There’s a chemistry that can’t be defined by words or stats. One of the benefits about working on a boat is it gives you time to think. Lloyd and I spent the rest of the day in the engine room. When it was time to quit, we were covered in oil, grease and sweat. Standing on the deck, I reached out my hand. He took it, once again leaving my fingers numb.

“Thank you,” I said. “What do I owe you?”

He looked over at me, shaking his head. “Did I ask you for anything?” he inquired politely.

“No.”

“Then don’t worry about it.”

“Can’t do it. Can’t have you working all day for nothing.”

“Who said it was for nothing?”

“Well, if you don’t want any money, what do you want?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“That isn’t fair,” I told him. “I wasn’t brought up like that. An honest day’s work deserves an honest day’s pay.”

“Good motto to live by,” he agreed. “Then let’s settle up.” This time he took a deep breath before speaking. Turning to look me in the eye, he said, “Do you want me to help you, or not?”

“I do. Yes sir, you know that. We got more done today than I would have been able to do in a week.”

“Then you trust my work?”

“Completely.”

“Fine. Then trust me, too. I’ll let you know if I need anything.” He paused. “You quit worrying about paying me, or any of that nonsense, and I’ll be glad to keep lending you a hand.”

Our eyes met again. I didn’t understand where he was coming from, but decided not to argue. I nodded in agreement, grateful for the much needed help, and that was that.

Lloyd and I spent the better part of the next two weeks below deck, ‘the heart of the beast,’ he called it. Bolt by bolt, piece by piece, part by part, we tore into the big iron. He taught me more about diesels in a week than I’d learned in my entire life. The maze of manifolds, valves, injectors, lines, pumps, hoses, fittings and filters slowly started to make sense as we worked to simplify the systems, each independent part working as part of the overall system, and each system supported and interdependent upon the next. I was learning from a master.

I was working on one of four bolts holding the salt-water pump Lloyd had rebuilt the night before when he shouted, “Hold it! Hold it! Think about what’s going to happen if you button that down all the way.” I paused to think for a moment. He smiled patiently at me. “Just like we did with the valve cover. You want to apply the pressure evenly, one bolt at a time. Snug it up, and then move to the next one. Snug that one and so forth until they all have about the same amount of pressure. Then go back and run the rack again … a little tighter each time. Nice even pressure across the entire surface so the gasket’ll seal evenly. We don’t want it leaking. Got it?”

I should have remembered that from earlier. “Sorry,” I said.

“As long as you’re learning, there’s no reason to be sorry. She’s trusting herself to your hands,” he said affectionately, patting the motor. “You take good care of her, and she’ll do the same for you when you need it most.” He was right. I would have had to loosen that initial bolt to get the pump properly aligned, and compromised the seal. Reading my mind, Lloyd added, “Every single detail’s important. Like a domino. If one fails, it affects the entire system.”

As the weeks went by, Lloyd completely redesigned the engine room. “There’s only a few things that belong in an engine room,” he said. “The mains, generators, the fuel manifold, filters and the tools to work on ’em. Everything else belongs somewhere, but not in here.” Once so cluttered and messed up you could hardly get around the generators, the engine room was soon open and spacious. The only exception to Lloyd’s rule regarding engine room equipment was a new set of deep cycle batteries. We’d built a custom battery box outboard of the starboard stringer. It fit in there perfectly. It kept the weight low and made the cable runs short. Given all its advantages, Lloyd had agreed to bend his rules.

Everything in the engine room had been meticulously thought out. Each piece of equipment in its proper place served a unique purpose. But as I lay upside down, half wedged under several tons of metal, working to break free a frozen bolt on the underside of the alternator, I wondered which rocket scientist had designed this system. “I’d like to see that asshole climb in here and do this,” I complained to Lloyd. “What a moron.” Lloyd chuckled as I handed him the bolt I’d finally freed.

Through it all, we were making significant progress. We’d managed to pump all the old diesel oil out of the four 600-gallon tanks and had them hydro-washed and inspected with remote fiber optics. Fortunately, the boat had been impounded with full tanks, so the tanks were rock solid. The fuel oil had prevented the tanks from rusting from the inside out. We were learning to count the smallest of life’s blessings.

Every evening after work, Jennifer would bring us dinner from Hodad’s. She and Lloyd took to each other immediately. She became the daughter he never had. She loved doting on him. They made me smile. In the evening, sitting on the settee together, Lloyd would spin tales of his early days as a merchant marine, and then jump to when he crewed on a tuna clipper.

“Those four pole fish were incredible,” he’d recount. “There were days when we’d be in the racks for ten, twelve hours straight. You’d be so tired by the time the bite was over you could hardly make it to your bunk.”

“About the way I’ve felt lately,” I said with a sigh.

With sparkling eyes, he replied, “This is nothing, son. I’m talking about real work.”

And so it went. Day after day. Busting our humps, getting the job done. Always looking forward to seeing Jennifer, sitting down to each meal and spending the remainder of the evening talking.

“You guys come up with a name for her yet?” Lloyd asked one night.

“Vintage,” Jennifer said immediately. It was the first time I’d heard it. We’d been kicking around names, but we hadn’t come up with anything we really liked. A vessel’s name is important. Vintage felt right.

“What do you think?” she asked, looking at me.

“I like it,” I said, repeating the name out loud. “Vintage. I like it a lot.”

“How did you come up with that, Jennifer?” Lloyd asked, nodding his approval.

“I was driving over here tonight thinking about when we first found her. How we’d been walking along and it was all foggy and cold, and I wanted to turn around and go home, but Corey said he just wanted to keep going a little farther. I trusted him, and he trusted his instincts.” She smiled. “I thought about the name Instinct, but it just didn’t quite fit. Then, as Sierra and I were walking up to her tonight, it hit me. She’s a classic. Vintage just felt right.”

“I love it,” Lloyd said immediately.

“Me, too,” I piped in.

“Then so be it,” Jennifer beamed. “But first let’s ask her.” In a quiet voice, Jen said, “Vintage, what do you think?” Another boat must have run past us a couple minutes earlier. A small wake gently rocked the vessel almost on cue, as if she were nodding in agreement. We all laughed out loud.

“Perfect timing,” Lloyd said, “but since you’re going to rename her, we’re going to do it right.” His voice became serious. First of all, we have to make sure everything on board that has her old name on it gets chucked. Everything—life rings, paperwork, pictures, the works. We can’t leave a thing on board with her old name on it.”

The boat had been abused, so there were no photographs of her on board. We’d been through her guts for over a month, and other than a few receipts stuffed in parts boxes, we hadn’t found anything with the old name on it. Jennifer offered to go through and double-check all the cabin drawers and lockers.

“Good. Double check the wheelhouse, as well,” Lloyd suggested. “Once we finish below and get her running, we’ll start on her cosmetics. When we get there, we’ll sand off what’s left of her name from her bow and across the stern. We’ll take it all the way down to bare glass and start fresh. When we get her painted, then and only then, Jennifer will bless her with her new name.”

The gentle kindness in his voice, his compassion and knowledge spoke volumes.

“We want you there when we do,” Jennifer said.

“Appreciate your offer. I really do. I’d be honored to be there. Most folks don’t think much of it—they throw a christening party and invite their friends and make a big production out of the whole thing. But listen to me,” he said in his serious tone. “She’s your boat. When you’re out there,” he said, pointing his chin toward the open sea, “she’s your life’s blood, your guardian angel. Your lives are going to be in her hands. So, by my way of thinking, the blessing should be a little more sacred than a party.” He paused again, looking Jennifer in the eye. “You and Corey make it a special moment. Don’t worry about formalities. For the most part, the ‘rules’ are a bunch of bullshit anyway. Just make it special. Trust your instincts. Do what feels right in your hearts, and she’ll know.” With a big grin, he gently patted the teak salon table. “When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”

One tough month stretched into two, but late one Friday, we were finally ready to try the mains. Jennifer had gotten off early and was in the engine room with Lloyd and me. Vintage had her start/stop controls right where they belonged—in the engine room.

“Being in sight of the machinery when she turns over, you can see any problems immediately,” Lloyd had said while we installed the panels.

Our pulses were racing as Lloyd rechecked the oil and water levels, and then checked the trainee fluid for the umpteenth time. Finally, he depressed the green starter button located on the bulkhead just above the port main. The deep, unmistakable rumble of a giant awakening from a deep sleep echoed through the engine room. Within seconds, another defining sound filled the air as the big CAT roared to life. Jennifer and I squealed like little schoolgirls. Thank God Lloyd didn’t hear us! He was jammed between the forward bulkhead and the main, looking, listening, searching for anything wrong. But she just kept purring like the big old cat she was. I jumped out of the engine room and checked the exhaust. The water flow was good and true. The initial plume of black smoke was dissipating by the time I got on deck, and now just a trace of steam was escaping, just like it was supposed to.

One of the crew a couple boats over nodded his head approvingly.

After she’d come up to temperature, Lloyd throttled her up to about 1500 and held her there. Inside the engine room, the noise was deafening. He was holding her steady, well below red line, but it sounded as if she were going to explode. Lloyd looked up. Seeing the terrified looks on our faces, he shot us one of his patented ‘nothing to worry about’ looks. She held true. He throttled her all the way back. The roaring immediately stopped. Jennifer took her hands away from her ears as an incredible sound came out of the motor. As the deafening full power roar ended, a snarl filled the engine room, as the big main settled back down into a low purr at idle.

Lloyd was pleased about the motor’s performance. “Did you hear her snarl at us? That’s one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.” He loved his machinery. “The big ol’ CAT’s giving us a little growl at having been brought down from speed. This lady wants to get up and run. Listen to how content she is now. You take care of her the way I’ve been showing you, and she’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

Oh, the simple pleasures of life—the three of us standing in the engine room grinning from ear to ear at each other, all because an old motor was purring happily along beside us.

“Let’s see what her twin has to say,” Lloyd suggested, pointing to the starboard’s ignition button. “Go ahead.”

I knew I’d be doing this for the rest of my life. Though Lloyd was as tough as steel, I could see at the end of each day he moved a lot slower than he did in the morning. This was his day. He’d been the one who had come along and jumped in without asking for a thing. Without him, I don’t know what we would have done. This was his moment. He’d earned it. “No, sir,” I said, “She’s all yours.”

He nodded in appreciation.

“Go on.” I said, “You’ve got the magic touch.”

This meant more to him than I’d ever expected. All the while we’d been working together, I couldn’t help feeling guilty because he hadn’t asked for a thing. And since our talk, I sure as hell hadn’t broached the subject.

With his bear claw of a hand, he reached up again and depressed the starboard starter. Within seconds we had a repeat performance. Both mains were fully operational. We were ecstatic as we shut them down and climbed out of the engine room.

My emotions overwhelmed me. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t come along.”

He looked at us with confidence. “You would have managed just fine, son. You’ve got a knack for this. We’ve still got a lot of work to do, replacing the generator and going through the rest of her systems. But as long as those mains are happy, everything else will be a piece of cake. Besides, it’s been my pleasure helping to bring this fine lady back on line. She’s as sound as they come.” He patted the bait tank. “Going to make you two a fine charter boat.”

“Charter boat?” Jennifer said, looking at me with raised eyebrows. We’d been so immersed in working, running around getting parts and focusing only on the motors that we hadn’t even talked about what we were planning to do with the boat.

Lloyd saw us thinking about it. “What the hell else you going to do with her? Run cocktail cruises around the bay?”

Jennifer and I looked at him without answering. To be honest, we had no idea what we were going to do with her.

He realized we didn’t have a clue, so he laid out his ideas. “You’ve got plenty of time to decide. First, we’ll get the rest of her systems on line. You’re going to have to get all this old paint off, but that’s no big deal. Just a lot of hard work. Strip the varnish and polish out the stainless. These decks, here,” he said, kicking at the blackened teak under his work boots, “they’re two inches thick and will sand out and come right back to life, good as new. There’s no wood in the world like teak. All in all, she’s going to be just fine.” He paused again and looked into the salon. “Some new carpet inside, fresh wallpaper, linens and things, and you guys will be ready to roll. Besides, how else you plan on making her pay? A boat’s got to earn her keep, you know. Otherwise, she feels neglected.”

“We haven’t thought about any of that stuff,” I said. “By the time we wrap it up every night, I’m so beat I can hardly eat, never mind think about the future.”

“Pussy.” He turned to Jennifer. “No offense.”

“You were right,” Jennifer said, finishing another bite in a little restaurant tucked away on a side street between Scott and Rosecrans. “This is the best calamari I’ve ever had.”

Lloyd reached over to give her a loving pat on the arm. “Glad you like it.”

We’d all worked our tails off the last couple of months. Other than the nights in the salon, when we were almost too tired to talk, this was the first time we’d all been together away from the boat.

I could tell Jennifer was up to something. She finished off her plate and caught Lloyd’s attention with a look. “So Lloyd, what gives? You show up out of nowhere, spend every waking minute working with us, won’t take a dime, and we don’t have a clue why.”

“I love boats,” he said, pausing to let that simple statement sink in. “Loved them all my life. I knew your Vintage here when she was first launched. One of the prettiest boats I’d ever laid eyes on. Beautiful lines. She was a proud lady and served her original owners well. I knew them both. Elderly couple from up north someplace. Hollywood or Pasadena, I think. Anyway, when I ran the fuel dock, they’d come in, and we got to be friends. They ran that darn thing alone. Just the two of them. Damnedest thing I ever saw. For years, they’d take her down to the Cape for the season. Then out to the islands. Took good care of her, too. Oil changes like clockwork. He was ex-Navy and did it by the book.”

A look of sadness came over his face. “Don’t know what happened to them, though. One day the boat was here; next thing I know, she’s gone. Someone told me they’d sold it to a family from Florida, and they’d run her through the Canal and left her in Fort Lauderdale. But that’s all I knew until one day I saw her being towed by the Harbor Patrol. Wouldn’t have recognized her if I hadn’t known the boat before. She was a disaster, a total mess. Rust running down her hull, busted out windows, bird shit all over her—pretty much the way you found her. I asked around and found out she’d been impounded, but you know the damn cops—they wouldn’t tell me a thing. Said she was in the middle of some legal mess. No one was making the mortgage payments, slip fees, nothing, so they came and got her.”

He took another sip of wine. I was astounded. He’d known the history of the Vintage all along. He continued. “I’d been keeping my eye on her, wondering what was going to happen. About that time, I decided running the fuel dock was getting to be too much. Especially during the season when we were pumping twenty thousand gallons a day for the sport boats. I had a couple of real good guys working for me, so I just turned the business over to them. But I’d been keeping my eye on her, wondering what was going to happen to her.”

“You owned the fuel dock?” I asked, more astonished.