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