Ernie
The sky was overcast and silent. What should have been the happiest day in months, the culmination of a lifelong dream, and I was alone standing on a silent dock. The only noise was from the humming of the crane’s diesel engine as it swayed towards Someday.
John, the impossibly young owner of the yard idled the crane once he had it in position. He dismounted from the driver’s seat to inspect the belts that would be lifting several tons.
The lifting process was simple. One wide strap was lowered underneath the boat’s bow, in front of the cabin. Then the second strap was slung under the boat’s aft. The two slings under the boat’s keel made a simple cradle.
By pulling levers John slowly tightened the straps. Inch by inch my boat rose dripping out of the water. John stopped the lift to inspect the crane, the straps, and smile reassuringly at his terror filled client.
With a perfunctory blast of diesel, the crane, now carrying a 30-foot, 3-ton dung covered boat, slowly retraced its path, followed too closely by a white Canadian truck.
Our two-vehicle convoy wound its way down the white and blue valley of cruisers and sailboats. Some new, some old, but tarpaulins hung from every bow making the entire lane of boats look like a herd of white elephants with their ragged blue trunks stuck in the air. I followed in a cloud of coral dust looking up at the back end of my boat as it waddling down the yacht lane.
Towards the back of the yard, away from the office, garage and the canal, the tarps on the boats became ragged, the boats older, the repairs more visible. When I described my boat’s age and told Shelly and John the extent of the repairs needed to Someday, they had nodded towards each other. I realized now what that nod meant.
If there was any wind, it was blocked by the dozens of boats facing the lane. The boats were jammed so close that only the wheels of the crane could inch between them. A middle-aged couple with matching white shirts, matching white socks and matching white Nikes, had stopped working on their gleaming yacht long enough to smile with matching white teeth in the general direction of our small parade. When they saw that the latest arrival was covered in several years of bird shit, wood rot and bent stanchions, their matching smiles froze. They looked at each other, then back at Someday.
I smiled and nodded.
They didn’t.
The crane wedged my boat into a slot furthest away from those gleaming yachts. Judging by the discarded saw horses, wooden planks, and rusting steel tripods scattered around, this part of the yard was where the serious work was done; or where the boats finally went to die.
With much clanging of chains and ringing of steel, John slowly uncoupled the chains and straps. Once my boat was settled on the iron stands, the crane’s engine roared again and disappeared down the lane.
I stood beside Someday in the fading stink of the crane’s diesel smoke. In the silence my ears rang from the crane’s motor, and I studied my new boat. I walked around Someday, running my hands over its wet hull, reaching out, picking at blemishes. My fingers caressed the rare smooth spot. I looked around at the other hulls. Someday’s hull was by far in the worst condition.
“We got a lot in common.” I said to the hull.
Buy a boat and sail off had been my escape dream for years. When something bad happened, I would say, ‘When I buy that boat, all this will go away’. My family and I would sail off into a life of endless happiness and joy. Full of the laughter from the tanned and happy faces of my children. Endless sun and sand filled days beach-combing, exploring glistening deserted Caribbean coves. The laughter filled perfect day ending with sunset barbecues cooked with fresh lobster and ice cold beer.
Now? Now I was looking up at the reality of my dreams, and it stunk like low tide. This was wrong. There was never any bird shit covering the decks of my dreams nor green canal scum was ever on the sides and bottom of my perfect Someday.
I stood alone in the shade and the canal stink coming from my silent boat. My now ex-wife had a new last name and my daughters had husbands and children to share their dreams with. Life got in the way of dreams.
“It’ll get better, in that cosmic future, when I retire, when we live like we used to. It’ll get better. It’ll get better.”
I waited because of the house payments. I waited because the kids were in school. I waited because there was university fees, truck and car payments, groceries. I waited.
Wait, means no.
A murmur of conversation from a couple of yachts over broke the morning silence. I couldn’t hear the exact words but felt the emotions. The calm, droning voice came from an older throat. The voice sounded just like one of those missionaries I had met at Tim’s church. The slow see-saw cadence of the voice had a soothing feel on this warm Florida Keys day.
Suddenly the calm droning voice shouted. “I’d rather shit in my hands and clap!”
I peeked around the edge of the boats, and saw two men almost horizontal on patio chairs, their feet pointed towards an open barbecue pit. In the pit a smoldering something-or-other was becoming a black something-or-other. Behind the men was a derelict boat with a skirt of garbage under it. The scene had the look of two tired cowboys after a long and filthy cattle drive. The huge tan colored boat hung over them like it was their trusty steed. They stared into the smoldering fire.
“So. You’re not going to be nice to Bobby?”
“Ha! He once told the entire bar he flew those Spitfire jets in Vietnam.”
“Hell, he told everyone that he was a Colonel in the military. And that he had worked in Alaska. We couldn’t believe it, so the guys in the office looked it up on the Internet.”
“So?”
“There was a Colonel with that name who did work up in Alaska.”
“And?” The old voice asked.
“That’s just it. There wasn’t a picture. ”
“I asked John whether Bobby was the Yard Foreman and you know what he said? He looked at me and said ‘News to me.’”
“Bobby. Everybody’s pal. Nobody’s friend.” The white haired man said. His eyes looked up from the fire into mine.
“Hello there.” He said in my direction. Caught out, I stood and smiled an awkward greeting.
“Sorry,I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” Trying to act casual, I turned in the direction of my boat.
“My boat just got dropped off.” I pointed in the vague direction of Someday.
“I’m Ernie, and this,” motioning to the neat dark haired man, “Is Tom, and no there’s no problem.” I nodded.
Ernie had a lived-in sad face, with a full head of grey-streaked hair. Crags upon crags crisscrossed his face. His eyes were bright brown, intense with a bird-like roving quality. What should have been the whites of his eyes where rum colored. His eyes flashed constantly while Ernie talked like they were wired to his thoughts rattling around inside his head.
“Wasn’t your boat down at Boot Key Harbor? I saw it there. Been there a while.” Ernie stabbed the barbecue with a very long stick.
“How much you pay for it?”
“None of your business, Ernie.” Tom smiled. And turning to me, he grinned. “Besides, we’ll get him drunk and then he’ll tell us.”
Tom was my height but I had at least fifty pounds on him. His clothes were neat, and clean and casual. As I looked at him, I noticed that Tom, in turn was studying me.
“Here young man,” Ernie motioned. “Pull up a box.”
“I’m Rick.”
“So, Rick, what do you do?” Ernie asked.
“I’m a Boilermaker Welder. Up in Canada.”
“Is that like a plumber?”
“Well we both work on pipes. Boilermakers work on anything that has to be sealed up. Tanks, boilers, those sort of things. Plumbers work on pipes. We both work in power-houses.”
“My brother-in-law’s a plumber.” Ernie said. “He can really caulk a tub.”
Tom and I smiled.
Ernie however, had a faraway look in his eyes, and Tom turned to him expectantly.
“Have you ever noticed that most people identify themselves by their careers?” the older man mused.
“No, not really,” said Tom.
“Never noticed,” I said, looking at Ernie’s eyes working a new thought.
“Oh.” Ernie looked crestfallen. Then he brightened. “What kind of a boat do you have there, Rick?”
“It’s a 30-foot Pearson sailboat.”
He got a faraway look as if he was flopping an idea in that mixing bowl behind his eyes. After a long silence, Ernie asked no one in particular.
“How come us little people all get numbers, social security, passwords, and all. And all those big companies, and all their products have cute names like Echo, Lexus, Pacer, Sundance? Ya ever wondered why that is?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Don’t care,” Said Tom.
“Oh,” Ernie looked out beyond the boats. He shrugged. “We were just discussing the, ah, Yard Foreman.”
“Yeah, he wants to do all the repairs.” Tom snickered.
“Is he any good?”
“The Yard Foreman?” Ernie emphasized the title which both men laughed at like it was a cruel joke.
“Bobby? Bobby couldn’t pour piss out of a rubber boot if there were instructions written on the heel,” Tom barked.
“Bobby doesn’t know the difference between gold dust and lizard shit.” Ernie sneered.
“You guys ever speak English?” I laughed.
“Naw, we’ve been in the Keys too long.” Tom grinned.
Ernie’s eyes were following the conversation but you could tell his mind was working someplace else.
“You know, the bigger the boat the more the guy is usually an asshole. You ever noticed that?”
“No,” Snapped Tom.
“Power boater?” I asked Tom.
“Yeah.”
I smiled at Ernie. “No, I never noticed that,” I looked up at Ernie’s sailboat. “What’s your boat’s name? I asked Ernie as I studied his boat.
“Captiva. 35 feet of pure love.”
“Listen I have to get back.” I said. “It was nice meeting you, though.” I shook their outstretched hands. I started towards Someday. They nodded and returned to showing great interest in that burning something-or-other in the fire.
I walked past the other boats and turned the corner. A thin, almost emaciated man in over-sized blue jeans stood staring up at all the bird droppings and paint scratches that held my boat together. He had a shock of grey hair. When I appeared he smiled like I was the most important person in the yard.
“You got quite the project ahead of you. Need a hand?”
“I might.”
“Working on a boat is fun. It’s like you’re five years old and playing fort.”
I smiled and held out my hand. “Rick.” I said.
“Bobby.” He held out a grey hand attached to a bony wrist. He squinted at my boat with a practiced eye. “I’m the Yard Foreman here. You know this is going to take some work. I’ve worked on restorations like this most of my life. I could give you a hand.”
“Well, I need as much help as I can get.”
This was a small yard with few employees. If he was the Yard Foreman like he said he was, I wondered how come he wasn’t with my boat when the crane crew took it out of the canal?
I could have said no, I need to repair this boat myself, I need to work on this alone. I should have said that. I should have said that I need to bury myself in this project. I should have said that I needed to work alone. Put some time between me and my divorce.
But I didn’t.
I flickered a look in the direction towards the fire. I too briefly thought about what Ernie and Tom had said. It’s not as if I hadn’t been warned.
Rick Ranson 