Most people don’t know boats have souls, and the few who do, don’t talk about it much. It doesn’t matter if it’s been carved out of ironwood, cedar, spruce or white oak, welded from half-inch steel plates or aluminum, glued together with layers of marine plywood, cold molded, injected, hand laid or laminated. Once a boat’s keel has touched water and she’s sailed from her safe harbor, she takes on a soul of her own—a soul as real as anything on earth. If you’re one of the fortunate few blessed enough to be able to hear them talking, then you know. You’ve listened to their stories of waves as tall as buildings and winds that blew so hard they took the top of the ocean with them—stories of storms so fierce they reshaped coastlines, taking lives and ships with them. But by the grace of God, the boats recounting such tales—the ones that somehow managed to ride out the fury and stay afloat, delivering their crews safely home—are the ones whose tales of heroism, bravery and tragedy shape the lives of those who work the sea for a living. Every vessel, large or small, has her story, and we were about to become a part of one.
We inched closer to the edge of the seawall. She must have sensed us before we saw her. She was now only a dozen feet away—broken, abandoned and covered with guano, but still holding on like a trapped animal—too wounded and exhausted to run away, too proud to cower. Her dull, lifeless paint was blistered in random, ugly blotches. Jagged pieces of half-inch glass protruded from her cracked and broken wheelhouse windows. Her uneven teak decks were warped, buckling, split and black with fungus and neglect. Rust stains streaked her hull. She was listing hard to port, sitting well below her waterline. Looking at her powerful, bold lines standing out against the fog, I could only imagine how proud she must have once been. She had strong, classic lines, but definitely was now a lady in distress. We stood and listened, but heard not a whimper. No cries for help. Only silence. She’d been beaten hard and put away wet, but she wasn’t dead. How much life she had left was anyone’s guess, but from the looks of things, she didn’t have much. Yet, in spite of everything, she still held herself with pride and dignity, as if she’d accepted her fate and was going down with class.
“How come she’s chained to the dock?” Jennifer asked.
My stomach lurched at the injustice. “I don’t know.”
We moved along the broken chain link fence a little farther. Jennifer spotted a rusty sign hanging off the barbed wire on the rim of the fence.
WARNINGOFF LIMITS TO ALL BUT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL SAN DIEGO COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT HARBOR DIVISION KEEP OUT
“She’s in jail,” Jennifer said chuckling. “Wonder what she got busted for.” I took my eyes off the boat just long enough to give Jen a sideways glance. “What?” she asked, holding her arms out to her side playfully. Looking back at her again from the fog, her eyes dancing, I couldn’t help but laugh with her. Pausing, she asked again, “What is it? You’ve got a look in your eye.”
I answered helplessly. “I think I’m in love.”
“You’d better be,” she said immediately, throwing her arms around my waist and pulling me close. She got up on her tiptoes to half bite and half kiss my lower lip.
“You know how much I love you,” I said after a full kiss, dispelling any jealousy that might have been creeping into her brain.
“More than anything?” she asked.
“More than life, itself.” We kissed again. “But I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about her.”
She smiled as both our gazes returned to the old boat. After awhile, Jennifer nestled her head against my chest. “I’ve always wanted to try a threesome.”
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Chapter 7
We had the day off, so first thing the next morning we returned to the harbor. Jen had been right—all the impounded vessels were in jail due to their involvement in some form of illegal activity. Some had been confiscated for drugs; others had been abandoned. By the time they made it down there, most were considered beyond repair. The unofficial consensus was to just ‘tow the whole lot out to sea and sink ’em.’
“Yeah, they’d make great target practice. Don’t see why the Navy doesn’t just pull ’em out there and blow ’em to smithereens,” suggested one of the old-timers we asked about the boat. He was one of three old men who were sitting in a row, their chairs leaning up against the cargo carrier that served as the locked sheriff’s substation. They looked as though they hadn’t budged for years, but they hadn’t been there last night.
“You don’t know squat,” one of the old-timers scolded the first. “There’s not a boat in the bunch that would stay afloat long enough to get a shell in her. Once they hit the swells, they’d sink all by themselves. Some targets they’d make!”
“Hell, as soon as you untied them, they’d sink,” chimed in the third. “The damned docks are the only things keeping most of them afloat.”
And so the banter continued. They sounded worse than a gaggle of old women. We headed back to the truck, but not before we wrote down the number to call which was posted on the outside of the container’s door.
On our way home, Jennifer asked, “What exactly are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure,” I told her honestly. “So far, it’s just a feeling.” She nodded that she understood. “There’s just something about that boat. There’s something there … like she’s calling to me … asking for help. I don’t know.” I glanced over at Jen to see if she was laughing at me. She wasn’t.
“I could tell something came over you pretty strong last night.”
“What do you think?” I asked her.
“I don’t know squat about boats. But I trust you, and if there’s something inside that’s whispering to you, then I say trust your instincts.” Oh, the brave and crazy wings of youth.
Hearing her words, a wave of appreciation washed over me. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s supported me the way you do.”
“It’s my job,” she said with a big smile, “I love you.” She slid a little closer across the bench seat of the truck and put her arm around my shoulder while Sierra hung her front paws out the passenger side window.
“Let’s see if we can find out a little of her history, why she’s chained up.”
“She looked better last night, all covered in the fog.”
“That’s for sure.”
It had been hard to tell just how bad she was in the dark, but in the harsh morning light, there was no missing the piles of shit she’d accumulated serving as a temporary home for an entire flock of local sea birds. The stench alone was almost unbearable.
With a little research we discovered that a local yacht broker handled all the SDSD’s repossessions and sales. We located the broker and paid a visit.
“I’ll be right back. Just let me go pull the file, the broker said.” After a couple of minutes he sat back down in front of us. “I’m having a little trouble locating the paperwork. Would you mind coming back in a few minutes?”
Jennifer and I hadn’t eaten, so we walked across Shelter Island Drive to the Red Sails Inn. An hour later, the enthusiastic salesman met us as we walked back into the brokerage office. “I’m sorry for the delay. I don’t know how the file on such a fine