29
May 15th, packing began in earnest. Due to excellent seamanship skill and previously shared washrocks diving experience, Ricky was enlisted to come along. After Seadawg picked them up at Fairsea and they were well out to sea, they laid the whole scenario out to Rick; who already knew to some degree that he could only benefit greatly to the positive if he signed on: but now:
“Two hundred thousand!? You shittin' me?”
Shit-eating grin on 'finger's face as he bellows, “Sure as shit, brainless—minimum.”
“Too huge, baby,” chimed Star, “plus a hundred coins, your choice. Whaddaya say—deal?”
Unable to conceal the gleam in his eye, Ricky moaned, “Aw, do I hafta freeze my ass again?
God, I hope those rocks aren't too hairy.”
“Relax'' ordered Miss Nitro, punching his bicep, “Hotshot here's on the jay oh bee, whoopin the snot outta his you know what,” joyous positive infectious smile melting.
“Whoop-whoop-whoopee!” went out the call as they rounded Howling Point and smoothly glided into the cove; picking up the mooring as they slid to a dead stop inches from the dock and stepped off to loop ropes onto cleats with a nonchalance only the consumate boatperson knows. To manage your boat's final drift so perfectly kool as to be able to do this, completely casually, unhurried; looking easiesr than tying shoelaces, but try it someday. You'll find it's not as easy as it may seem, but all real sailors are masters of this simple-yet-telling manuever.
Sisters embrace. “Aw, sweet thing, I missed you so much. We prayed for your safety and happiness.” Then Lise gave Stan a bearhug he wouldn't soon forget; took his wind.
“Whoa. Easy Lady. How's the boat?”
(note: Earlier in this book,Stan had helped Reddy and Lise rebuild her boat after it got wasted by storm)
“Luscious dream, what little we had to sail her before winter. I can't wait to see how she does on longer trips. Good to meet you Rick. Got any fun yarns? Check out my boat,” lurching toward it. “Come on.”
After the obligatory looksee at Lizzy, Rick added his two cents, “She sure is sweet as they come. I can not be-lieve that ass. Oughtta be a law—I mean a fun sail.” And turning to Red asked, “No more fishin'?”
Red posited, “With Ruff maybe, but we've decided our main focus is fixing a place at the lake—go be there and make it happen.”
The cat was out of the bag and Star tickled,”Great idea. I wanna help,” exuberant as always.
A mess of stuff to sift and sort, pack or put away. And finally, everything was ready. And with both boats loaded to the gills, the five troubadours headed off into the unknown.
Spring and early summer has the highest incidence of stronger west and northwesterly winds, and true to form, it blew stiff and steady, getting them up there in jig time; but the idiot wind wouldn't let up enough to try shooting the gap into Mugs Lagoon for four days.
While stalled, they sailed to North Bight for a look.
Stan and Rick took the daredevil skiff ride in through the surf and had a good long look at what they were going to have to deal with. It was too choppy to chance swinging Ruff close enough to drop off the big anchors. All depended upon them holding Ruff's bow out or the whole mess would go smashing ashore, and that would be that.
Sure looks awfully hairy,” Rick repeated more than once.
Stan tried to calm his worry, reminding him, “Winds aren't always so stiff, later on. All we have to do is wait for the right conditions. Once Ruff is set and we get our ears wet, it won't seem so bad.”
(note: they wait for 3 weeks, helping Lise and Red with homestead set up work until)
Finally, one evening it looked for sure this frustrating series of northwesterly winds might be backing off. All felt the subtle barometric glitch that said so, and for the umpteenth time, raced to ready-and-waiting patient old horse, Ruff, to sleep a few fitful hours until Rick, on watch, yelled down the hatch, “Lazy no goods: Rise and see smooth water.”
Clarion call blazing on a false dawn new moon in early August. Anchors stowed at the ready, off on the ebb they slid out onto and into the smoothest ocean swell seen for over a month. Using motor and sail, thirteen miles flew by quickly and the three out-front anchors were set by noon. It took all afternoon to get chains stretched around the rocks and bungees rigged, and the deadman (shore line) hung.
It was agreed Lise should be first in the water and she sent up the godawful biggest crusty lump of coins in the bucket, surfacing to shout, “Place is paved with it! Damn stuff's just a half a foot down in the sand,” and ducked for more. Lunging with the surge, bracing against harness jerk, her prybar peels up another clump. Lifting it to the bucket, coins broke off in the sloshing currents, cascading sun-reflected glitter as they fell in the cloudy green murk. Her twelve minutes were up just too darn soon.
The thick ropes holding the boat side-to-side stretched nearly thirty percent, taking a lot of lurch out of the jerk. And jerk you did. Lurch, jerk, pitch, and roll; every sloppy splattering wave threatened to make trouble and life difficult. The compressor, dictating live or die, got whacked regularly—daily--and killed by a backwards-fired wave. Up would pop pissed and curious diver. Ether starting fluid sprayed over the sopping unit would do its magic moisture evaporating tricks; sparkplugs would re-ignite and it was back down to the main business at hand until the next rogue slopper managed to douse it again.
Getting tugged at and heaved up from all sides was a grind. No one lasted beyond a bucket or two before bobbing up, shivering and gasping for air, waving on the next; who never seemed to make it long before heavier swells would hit or the tide started rushing in again. But then: Four glorious days of light and steady weather grew a crusty pile down in Ruff's bilges.
On the fourth afternoon the barometer announced that it was time to pull up stakes. It started blowing out of the northwest and drenched to prunes, they barely escasped the many jaws of death on Twentymile; sneasking, nip and tuck, past South Cape to make it in behind a curling bluff of land into a shelter of sorts near some ugly rocky reefs. Ugly as hell, except for the little postage stamp of semi-calm where they spent three days trapped, waiting for it to let up.
If one listened carefully from the peak of a nearby washrock, one might have heard a distant quintet of 'tap-tap' tapping a jungle drum tune—in a hollowed out log, fer cryin' out loud.
Piles of sand and shell cluttered as they tapped away at breaking down the marine glue of seventy years. Tap tap tap went the radically midas-eyed crew. Gold fever raced from bow to stern and back again in boisterous form ballet. 'Tap tap, tap tap' and three double eagles would squirt loose and disassembled themselves. Much had been melted into one, two, and five pound bars. One pile was ten pounders still lashed tight as the day they went down. A pool formed to guess the number of pounds. Speculation grew and wagers waged.
Forty-three part-full bucket loads had come up. Star said she shoveled at least two-hundred pounds of shell glue goo out.
Pencils furiously jiggled more squiggles.
Lise's mental calculator clicked, 'Forty-three times eighty . . . Five thousand six-hundred . . .hmmm . . .Forty-three times ten? That aint right . . . Forty-three times twenty . . . eight sixty. Yeah, we got to have eight sixty . . .hmmm . . . times twelve . . . times four-hundred,' pencil danced across the page and broke its lead on the exclamation point! “I bet on . . . Lise paused again . . .
Just then Stan had to say, “Thirty percent water and crust, at least.”
'Ahhh—times point seven (.7) . . .
Pencils scratched scribbly scrawls some more.
(Star:) 'Six-hundred pounds—too low. We threwe a lotta damn . . .' Peabrain's computer fizzed and sparked. Overload was achieved and Star spent the night a mumbly idiot savant, eyes glazed over, far away gaze trying to pierce the fog of numbers rapidly blurring on the paper . . . “Aw, the hell with it!”
Eleven-hundred and eleven.”
The other four gasped with disbelief at Statue's high gamble. Dawg guessed nine-hundred. 'finger stuck at seven-forty-nine. Ricky just kept chipping away at his pile but mumbled something that sounded like eight-hundred. Star woke from her stupor long enough to round out the pool with a thousand and one.
This little piece of business out of the way, they were now betting various sums on time-of-arrival back to home base at Howling Island. And secondly: which minute of the hour the final needle rises to the final number on the scale's scale. It could only handle twenty-five pounds at a time due to lost counterweights, so it went slow. The hour grew late before the final tally showed one-thousand and fifty-six pounds. Sis and Sis were in a dead heat and arm wrestled for it and of course: who won.
Stan's father had a lawyer friend with clients who shook on all he could deliver at three-seventy-five an ounce, cash under the table, no questions asked.
Whirr, click click click, the slot machine was smoling as drive gears rattled and screamed. Steaming streams of numbers revolved, mindlessly, through the next night's dreams as our war weary conquering heros and heroines slept two full days around; dreaming thousand dollar bills counted as sheep jumping fences in a nightmare shuffle stampeed and waking, daxed, to tap tap lumps and swish dustpan broomfuls.
A thousand and fifty-six pounds times twelve (troy) ounces per, equals 12,672 ounces—times$375, equals four bleepin million, seven-hundred and fifty hugeass thousand big ones!
Ricky's promised two-hundred grand was unanimously doubled, proclaiming that his lips was tight. Froggy and the Rock buckled down to work on the new place until winter threatened and they bolted for Howling again. One might imagine all manner of rosy glow going on in that little cabin. Especially after guess who flew in October first, dumped a whole huge shitpotful of hundred dollar bills, and just as quickly flew back off to, “Get Queen done and sail her up here in the spring and set up a sawmill and a boatyard. No follin'. Tha's my dream. Are you having fun yet?'
Gee-zus, babe, what do you suppose we ever did to deserve such good fortune?”
I dunno, hon. Must be grandmother and the goddess.”
Arm in arm, chuckles steered toward cabin's warmth and honeymoon times three.
*
Imagination has harmonized the clarion call.
Grandmother, you are smiling—no, you're grinning the big bleep-eating grin. For shame, you silly. The kids are only gone goo-gah for the moment. They'll settle down in a year or two. Your everwise stewardship will bend and otherwise blend their souls and they will live to do you proud.
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