Tim
If he wanted to, Tim could break my neck with those massive hands like I was a chicken bone and it was wing night at The Halfway Inn.
I looked head-shaven Tim right in the nipples. Beside him it looked like I was standing in a hole. He was a devout church-goer, sang in the choir, played guitar in the church band, and loved his wife Deb dearly. And I really didn’t want to cross him, ever.
After those first awkward days together, Tim quickly became my mentor about all things American. For instance, I was surprised to find that the political party Tim supported was populated by the finest, most upstanding church-going people imaginable, the absolute cream of American society. Whereas that other political party regularly ate their children.
The impression of Tim formed on those awkward phone calls had been correct. The man who sold me the boat turned out to be a thinker, a private religious man and a keen observer of humanity.
Tim was manager of two convenience stores in Key West. All the local characters would wander in, stop, grab a coffee and gossip. He was constantly fed stories about the local goings on, legal or otherwise.
A friendship with this large quiet man was to develop and strengthen over the months and years to come but that was all in the future. This was now.
“What you bought is a first-class hull.” Tim said, while he ran his hands over Someday’s pocked, peeled and scarred deck.
“You can build on something like that. She’s as tough as a Sherman Tank.”
He and Roger from the church had spent the day bringing Someday through the various inlets and back into the furthest canal in Marathon. We were tied up to the dock awaiting our turn to be lifted and parked permanently ‘on the hard’ in the back of the boatyard.
My boat and I showed up unannounced at the marina’s dock asking to be admitted, never bothering to ask whether there was any room for one more boat in their boatyard, or whether they could unload me into their busy yard at a moment’s notice.
The nice lady at the front desk with the uncertain smile who said her name was Shelly, asked us to wait a day or so while the boatyard crew made space.
Tim and I passed the day waiting to be admitted onto the ‘hard’ by lounging on the boat’s deck talking. Tim studied the line of boats behind the wharf.
“You know Rick, being close to the ocean makes people do stupid things. People who normally would spend months figuring to the last penny whether a business deal makes a profit on land will throw out all common sense once they get close to an ocean. Those two words, ‘project’ and ‘boat’ have a whole different meaning in the Keys than they do anywhere else. Dreams go to die in the Keys.”
“To a Keys native.” Tim’s hand pointed to the condos on the other side of the canal. “Living on a project boat means they’ll always be a dreamer. If by some magic, they ever get that project boat sailing, chances are the Coast Guard will have to go after them because they got yourself into some trouble.”
I shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.
“One day all these dreamers on their project boats come to the conclusion that the boat really is just a piece of crap and it will always be a piece of crap. The dreamer will put up a For Sale Sign on the railing and they’ll leave, just walk away.”
“Maybe I should go to the office to check whether they can lift us early.” I changed the subject.
Tim shook his head.
“Then that boat becomes the county’s problem. Rather than go out and buy a run-down project boat, why don’t they just bite the bullet and buy a new boat. It’s cheaper in the long run.”
“They, meaning me?” I snapped. My meaning clear.
Tim looked at me then quickly away.
“No. Most of the boats around the Keys aren’t worth repairing. In fifty years-” Tim patted Someday’s roof- “Your boat will still be around, or at least its hull will. “Not like most of these egg crates.” Tim nodded to a line of half million dollar yachts in the boatyard.
“A guy retires. So now he thinks he’s going to do something for himself. He buys a boat. And he might even sail it for a couple of years. Then he dies; but the boat lives on. His problems are all solved because he’s dead. But now, that boat is somebody else’s problem.”
“This is sounding familiar.”
Tim smiled, and continued.
“So, the boatyard lowers the price, then lowers it again. Then finally all the boatyard wants is their space and lost money back. That’s when you can get great deals.”
“Tim?”
“Yeah?”
“I bought it already.” I smiled. “You can stop selling.”
Even though we both laughed Tim looked at me sharply. I was being studied.
“You don’t seem too concerned. Why are you going to be different?”
“No, you’re right, I’m not worried.”
“Why?”
“First off, I’m what you Americans call a Nuclear Rated Welder. When I’m working in power plants I can make $90,000 a year.”
Tim’s smile wavered.
“And I just lost my house, bank account, family, everything. I can’t buy something new, I’m starting from nothing. I need something that’s mine. I got no place else to go, Tim.”
He stared at me.
“I need, something to give me a reason. I need a purpose. Even if the purpose is just to fix up some shit boat. If a guy’s got no purpose, nothing he wants to make better, he dies.”
Trying not to cry, I finally blurted, “I’m sixty, Tim. And I don’t have time to get everything I lost back.”
I took a fierce gulp of my soda, and stared out into the boat traffic of the canal. We were quiet. I had kept my feeling protected by a cushion of jokes for so long the vehemence of my outburst shocked even me. Jokes were my armour. Without jokes, all I had was me.
“Everything”, I repeated.
After a while, Tim shifted position. “$90,000 dollars?”
I looked at the large man with the innocent face. I started to laugh.
“You’re not catching what I’m pitching here Tim! I’m tearing my heart out! I’m talking about personal disaster and a purpose in life. I’m almost bawling! And all you’re thinking about is the scratch!”
“Wow. $90,000.”
I looked at Tim’s open honest face. “It’s a good union.” I started to really laugh. It felt good.
“What’s that in American dollars?”
“The same. Only up in Canada they pay us in seal skins.”
“That, I knew.” Tim laughed.
“Tough on the ATMs though.” I laughed. “Ouch. My face hurts. I haven’t laughed in a while.” After that I knew Tim and I were going to get along just fine.
Any discussions about Someday lay for a couple of days while my boat was waiting to be taken out of the water. I was a little taken aback that this, what I considered the adventure of a lifetime had been attempted so many times before. Tim’s words weren’t the problem. He was simply the messenger.
Tim and I busied ourselves and our thoughts by fixing the boat. Even on a brand-new boat maintenance is constant. On Someday, repairs were going to be never-ending. Tim taught me that you can either throw money at your boat’s problems, or you can be a little, inventive.
For example, a boat’s fenders are always dirty. If they aren’t dirty when you first get them, they soon will be. So, what you do is go down to the Marathon Salvation Army store, and buy some women’s white sweat pants. Cut the sweatpants up the crotch-line and slip the two legs over the dirty fenders. Tie the bottoms of the legs and instantly your dirty fenders are now covered with white sweat pants. For about three dollars each, the fenders look new. The Salvation Army is happy they got a twelve-dollar donation. In very short order, all the scuffed fenders were covered in gleaming white women’s sweat pants.
“Those two at the back, look sort of pink, Tim.”
“Anything’s an improvement.”
Tim and I stood by the dock and admired the now beautiful, although somewhat rosy fenders.
“Kinda looks like four giant suppositories.”
Tim shook his head, and muttered. “Nice.”
Tim and I wandered down the Overseas Highway to a gleaming plastic and chrome covered chandlery that sold anything that was gleaming and plastic and chrome. Every employee wore identical starched and ironed uniforms. The Barbie and Ken dolls who waited on us all sported matching plastic smiles.
“Holy smokes! Hide your VISA Card.” I said to Tim as we walked through the gleaming doors into the air-conditioned Taj Mahal.
“Why? You’re the one who’s got all the seal skins.” Tim laughed.
The paint was $89.99 a gallon. Add some fancy-schmancy cork crumble for grip and the cost of that one application of deck paint was a cool $100.00. And that was before Florida’s State taxes.
In a state of sticker shock Tim and I retreated with our tails between our legs down the Overseas Highway to another boat store. Here everybody wore cheap matching T-shirts and service depended on whether the boss was in, or not. That same gallon of paint was $50.00, and they didn’t carry the crumble. Not good enough.
Tim and I wandered down to Jerry’s dock. Jerry was an old fisherman friend of Tim’s who charged and paid everything in cash. Rumour had it Jerry could buy most of the boats on the canal with what he had squirreled away in coffee tins over the years. If there was a deal to be had, Jerry was the man to talk to.
I had seen him at Tim’s convenience store and every time he opened his mouth to speak it was apparent that Jerry had saved a lot of money on dental bills. I looked down at the rough 2 X 4 board wharf with missing planks so large a small child would have to be carried. “His teeth weren’t the only thing that needed a dentist.”
After digging around in his locker Jerry pulled out a $10.50 gallon of paint that he bought at last year’s church auction. It had been slopping around in his bilge so long that the tin was completely covered in rust, and the soaked paper label was barely visible.
“You need ‘non-skid’?” I was fascinated with Jerry’s bulldog lower teeth. “That’s easy. Go down to the beach, and get a full tin of clean sand. Make sure it’s dry though.”
Tim and I leaned towards Jerry expectantly.
“Now when the first coat of paint is still wet spread the beach sand on top of the paint. When that first coat is dry, and the beach sand is sticking to it, slap another coat of paint on top. Make a beach-sand sandwich.”
“But”, the grizzled fisherman warned us, holding up a weathered finger. “You gotta make sure the sand is clean.”
“Why?” We asked.
“Well, you don’t want any dog shit in it, do you?”
Tim and I laughed. My cheeks ached. For the first time since Winnipeg, I had laughed more than once in a day. Standing on that decrepit dock with two new friends I had really laughed. The sun shone a little brighter.
Rick Ranson 