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