© 2009 by A. Fourman 18
Queen
What had clinched Stan finally getting up and really going on the Queen's restoration project, was a job making two derelict World War Two era wooden sub-chasers that were beached on unused boatyard land disappear. Twenty years of transients throwing trash and sewer pipes down inside had finally brought health department disgust and the yard was ordered to remove or face legal proceedings. The sludge-shoveling crew had finished, and a thousand dollar bonus dangled if he could get it done within five days. The yard's offer of a space for Queen for “as long as it takes” solidified his willingness to undertake the challenge.
A crew of crazed axe, chainsaw, and wrecking bar-wielding, beer-drinking boat murderers took four days to reduce the hundred and ten feet long wood hulls to smithereens. We had bonfires every night, from whose ashes were raked enough six-inch long black iron ship's spikes to refasten all Queen's needs, which were substantial. Eight-hundred of that thousand dollars bought the monster industrial strength dream bandsaw-from-hell that gobbled radical curves through six inch thick wood like a hot knife slicing butter. Ninety percent of Queen's seventy year old frames and seventy percent of her planking needed replacing, and having free use of this vital necessity guaranteed success, given: two year's blood, sweat, and stubborn determination. Ultimately secure now, my master wooden boatwright friend, Stan was enjoying excellent progress on her. Eighteen inches off the ancient wooden skidways above high-water on blocks and scraped clean; all needed planking and framing wood rounded up; bandsaw operational; everything was go.
*
Out on the pavement near Gate Six, Waldo, young miss sparklepuss was blowing thanks-for-the-ride kisses to Big Mac as she jumped down from the big rig's cab and stomped waterward. Telltale 'whoops' coming from beyond the giant beached antique automobile ferry there that shielded us from landlubberworld's nightmarish mad dash; “Whoop! Whoop! Yeah!” raised a few eyebrows at the fire-pit out back, near the water's edge. A treat was in store for the diehards huddled there, stirring in their stupor and telling whoopers and vaguely insinuating snide asides, as they passed—or didn't—around their favorite choice of poison for 'inspection.'
“Lookout boys, Star is home, and baby I am so glad to be here! The show paraded around short but sweet, hugging everyone as she warbled with a wink, “I gotta find Stan. I'll tellya the whole story tomorrow,” and dissolved down the docks into midnight fog.
Stan-ley, honeybuns, I loves you, boy,” snuggling up to mister limpform in the bunk; stinking her lover's special stink—a familiar even—but she could sober him like no one else.
A groggy “Huh? Ohhh—hi baby. What 'n hell you doin' here?” braughhhlp-ft-ft-ft-fff belched him back out like a light for the duration.
'Poor fellah. I been gone too long again, We'll fix 'im in the morning' and breathing weary-traveler-finally-home sighs, she squeezed against the snoring man-mountain.
Over a late breakfast, she massaged sorehead's head and rubbed him up like only she knew.
“Reddy says that we have to talk Hardboy into storing his boat and coming with us to meet his future Aunt Sis in-law.”
“For true!?” orange eyebrows arching, “The red man and your sis? Ah-ha-ah – a – a – ah!”
“Come on. They are so cute, for old folks. It will be good for them both.”
“Well he's in for some radical changes. Tto hear you describe Sis, she sounds pretty hardass pickled to me. Come on, let's go see the Queen.”
To escape fans on shore, they sailed Dingy to the boatyard. The old boat didn't look like much, resting at hightide on the slimy splintery wood skidway's gently-sloping deck. He told her how after the trash and mud was cleaned out and half-floated her just enough tp scrunch her over to and winch her up the ways a bit, she had given a sickening lurch and like a huge zipper unzipping, in a series of staccato 'cr-r-rack!'s and mud-splattering plop thuds, seven planks on the starboard side and six on the port let go of their seventy year grip on Queen's stempost. They were still lying their, hanging on amidships, twisted ninety degrees out of shape, bow ends flat in the slime.
“You should have seen it,” he laughed, “a six second slo-mo unzip tease. My heart fell with those planks. But barely for a split second, you know, because it did save a lot of dissassembly. Like she's trying to help us fix her. Willya lookit all those worm-eaten frames in there. Son of a bitch, poor old gal. We can fix her good as new, now that we have the bandsaw. God, I hope Lizzy aint like this.”
“No,” Star protested, “She has ten times the life left as this old tub. She sure has a dreamy shape, though. You can just tell she will sail sweet. How long you figure?”
“Two years, if we're lucky. Everything is set except the money. One-eye will stay busy on her while we're gone. Hey! Spicebox is ready to launch” (and for their friends, Ricky and Chloe to find out how good of a boat they had near totally rebuilt.) “She'll be ready for shakedown sailing before we leave. Let's go have a look,” he beckoned.
They climbed the ramp over and down to the adjacent ways where Rick and Chlo had been plugging away on their forty year old, sixty feet long prohibition era rum-runner for three years in a project of similat scope as now faced Stan: All new frames and half her planks replaced; watertight bulkheads, mast; new engine, decks, and trunk-cabins. God awful amounts of brute work, but a sailor's love for a sweet shape will drive wooden boat enthusiasts of this almost-vanished ancient artform. Shape says it all about what a boat can (or can't) do. The water heater explosion was while steaming those new planks.
“Hey guys. Damn! Good to see you, Star.” Ricky was peeping out of the engineroom trunk-cabin porthole, “Come on aboard and check her out,” chrome-blue eyes beaming proud under curly black hair. 'Clanging' of wrenches clattering to the bilges accompanied his body catapulting up through the hatch. “Heard you had an adventure. Love to hear. Come on back in the galley. We got fresh-baked bread. Time for a bowl?”
Between pipefuls, they savored warm buttered bread. Chloe sure could cook. Ricky was her slave. But both were Spicebox's slaves. Not an involuntary servitude by any stretch of imagination in the sea-gypsy mind; pure and simply: a labor of love.
Chloe's cherubic face appeared at the hatch. “Hi Star! Baby love, girl, where you been?” throwing down two laundry bags, “You have to see what we got back here. Come on.”
Star followed her back to the rear (captain's) cabin, and in their bunk lay a tiny baby.
“A girl. Three weeks old. Isn't she sweet? Named her Melissa,” gathering the blanketed bundle and shoving it into Star's breast.
“I—I didn't even know that you were pregnant,” peeling away the blanket for a closer inspection.
“Neither did I, really, until after you left last fall. Lookit little flubber,” she cooed while gently massaging the little hairless head atop a giant pair of blinking greenish-blue eyes.
Star couldn't help bursting into the song: “bell bottom trousers, coats of navy blue” wherein Chloe made it a duet for : “she'll climb the rigging like old momma used to do” as the tiny face screwed up and began to howl.
Star related the Lizzy adventure while the boys listened in and baby nursed.
Chloe, half questioning, volunteered, “It looks like maybe we will actually be getting out of this stankhole and be able to sail up that way by next summer. What do you think, hon?”
“Could be,” hesitantly, “Tell us where you are. My folks will be shore relay when we finally get outward bound. I'll give you their number.”
The old wooden skidways' area was the most foul of waterfront holes, all of which stank that salty green slime stink. Add a hundred years of creosote, diesel, red lead and copper-bottom paint dust to the sewage of a century—well: it did smell. But after a while, the smell becomes a familiar to it's frequenters and inhabitants—and it kept idiot tourists away.
“Honey?” Star honeytoned, “I want a baby someday, okay? Let's not wait too long” a petulant pout puckering her lips while thrusting her lower jawbone out and clamping up.
“Yeah baby. Soon as Queen is ready—like Spicebox—then we'll think about it,” he teased back, buying more time—fingers crossed?
She pouted . . . until laughter erupted.
“He can run a mean boat and brutalize the big bad ocean, but he's scared of babies. Dummy,” punching his bicep, “Let's get out of here, Rum Dum,” jumping up, “there's so much to do before we leave—and to catch up on since I've been gone.”
*
She slept all afternoon while Threefinger snuck off to hustle up beer and band for a welcome home surprise party.
“Hardway! You gotta come play a party tonight.”
“Huh? Ohhh—hey, Stan. Watch the paint job, willya.”
Skiff banging as he hung over my cockpit, yelling, “At the Arkeleg. Surprise homecoming party for Star. You gotta come. They got a piano.”
“Damn.I just painted that. Put a bumper out!” It tool some time for my agitation to diminish. Yeah: I'd love to play. Just don't mess the paint job!
“Oh: And Star says that you've got to dispose of this wreck because you're coming with us to Alaska to help Reddy help Star's aunt Sis fix her boat, and Red says to bring you.”
“I was just getting this dumbass boat working right and looking forward to some cruising this spring. Damn idiot uncl can go fuck hisself.”
“You mean you don't want to be best man at his wedding?”
“What are you talking about!? You outta your head? He's a confirmed bachelor. Star has an aunt Sis?”
“No, I'm serious. He says that you must come.help us fix her boat.”
“Well, we'll see. Now will you get your damn skiff off my new paint job and leave me to think on this. How soon is this all supposed to be happening?”
“ Early May, maybe. I have to hustle up six months' worth of money first. All right, poophead, go back to bed. See you seven-thirty/ eight o'clock at the Arkeleg, okay?” and he let go.
'My damn peabrained uncle Reddy goes and winds his dumbass up in some woman's gear and I gotta go bail his bony ass out? I'll be damned if I . . .'I didn't like being woken up and told to throw my boat dream away; and for a damn total stranger at that.
'Star's aunt Sis? and my uncle Reddy? hmmm,' hint of intrigue curling a smile. Plus free ride to Alaska with Star, whom I adored; and Stan: the best boater I had ever known. I'm thinking that I better call my friend, Delta Mike, up the San Joaquin River, and see if he has room at the berm. Mike wouldn't charge for storage on his delta tule island berm. Being part Scot, I am a cheap son of a bitch. But I was smelling adventure, and that I might be up for.
(jumps ahead 9 months in the book's storyline to chapter 26, after he has salvaged some gold))
26
Twenty-one pounds of gold will make a lot of stuff happen pretty quick for a working fool. He hired Ricky to help him and the pair went at it with good will and hearty hearts, sturdily barging ahead; brutally chopping, sawing, chiseling, and shaving-to-fit new sister framing. Slid them in place and spiked them home.The keelson and floor timbers were re-clenched and pinned with long thick steel drift pins, plus five fresh keel bolts through a new Ironwood shoe. They painstakingly fitted four watertight bulkheads and over two dozen fresh butt blocks right and tight. (Because of extra stopwater needs where one plank-end meets another.)
Exacting work in wood like this filled shorter winter days and served to bleed off any tendency during the long winter nights to start fretting over the coming year's potential. Instead, he slept well; the sleep of those who work their butt off following their dream.
(again, jumping ahead in the storyline: another year's passed & he's salvaged more gold from the deep)
31
Shamrock II
To go whole hog on Queen, Threefinger Stan hired five wood boatwrights and zipped her up fairly fast. Planking and decking on; cabins up; ceiling replaced; mast step in; all caulked and shedding water and not long to her easy slide back into her element. A rainy January evening, the gang were lazing around afterdinner beers and joints when a commotion of “whoops” erupting over at Boats' place hurried them over to see. His radio was squawking, “Coast guard, coast guard, we have a Mayday. Coast guard, this is Shamrock Two. We are sinking at Seal Rocks. Mayday! Mayday!” Just outside Landsend Seal Rocks were only four miles away.
Boats was already packing his dory with wrenches, hacksaw, wrecking bar, ax, foul weather gear and such. “I know that boat. She's got superior stainless rigging, but I'm going for the anchor winch.” In went scuba gear and wetsuit.
“You leavin' now, Boats?”
“No. I figure four A.M. on the ebb. Slack water is at ten, but if not staked out by sunrise, I bet it'll be swarming with vultures by an hour after.” roly poly eyes agleam with that Harr, Matey wisecrack gleam. “If the seas aren't too bad, I'm goning to get me the finest possible right kind winch for my boat. There's thirteen tons of lead ballast in her. Hey! and your masthead irons and killer shrouds-from-hell. Thick stainless chainplates too.”
Stan yelped, “Damn! You're right! We were just talking about sailing rig hardware when you started whooping over here,” and turns to Rick, “You game, Rick? Let's go load the Betty S and go for it,” and gave a big shout up the ways toward another boat-fixing brother and friend, Peter, “PEE-TRRR!” where he was building his boat; he needed hardware too. Shamrock II had three richly rigged high grade masts, booms, spars, stout blocks, winches, and lots of quality rope.
Our little flotilla departs into a dark and drizzzly fog. As shoreside lights slide by, apprehenively anticipating goodies, our hearty crew hungers for booty as they strap on the tools of their trade.
The storm that did in Shamrock Two had blown itself on inland, and dawn revealed a lumpy, windless, sloppy calm. Though gray with low clouds, the forecast was for light winds and little rain. Two-hundred yards off the rocky cliffs of Landsend, in thirty feet deep water, three masts protruded begging their hardware be removed. On fire with thoughts of superfine sailing ship hardware, slickered figures, one and two to a boat, were buzzing out to ocean's most worrisome edges to see what's to glom and to glean.
*
A wetsuited Stan is hanging on the side catching a breather. Strapping on a fresh oxygen tank, saying,” Ten more minutes I'll have her loose. Think you can hold her steady enough that long? Aint so bad at fifteen twenty feet under,” and dives to finish undoing chainplate bolts. Fighting the slippery swells to keep Betty from smashing everything and threatening to wipe out everyone, Ricky is wrestling Betty S' helm and juggling her throttle and frowning a lot. They were inspired. Or: would crazed be more like it?Like the fellah standing on the branch to saw it off the tree, Peter is precariously perching while sawing off the top of the mast, with its topmast looking very much like Queen's mainboom, and aforementioned masthead irons to-die-for. This gear could save them both a thousand dollars or better.
Struggling under thre fathoms of surging swirly masses of cold green water, at last, on the sixtieth twist the final bolt lets go, and one shrivelskineed fair-haired puppy of a sea giant shivered his way back aboard, teeth a-chatter; fingers, chin, and forehead tingling with cold. Quick shots of brandy and he worked with a will to get the four long fat inch thick stainless steel cables to die for—long silver spaghetti, dripping in chrome-plated sauce—inched aboard and looped all around Betty's deck and cabin. Not really rigged nor designed for serious sea-going duty, Ricky's twenty-eight feet long Betty S was eeking through due to very rare calm just then; but still undulating bunches. Timing was everything, climbing all over those masts sticking out of the water; all you could see of the once proud wooden sailing ship. Salvor's adventure at its chilling lucky best smiling the braveheart.
*
Thunking the side of my boat with his rowboat, One eye awoke me at daylight with the news and an invite to come along for the (car) ride over the bridge (Golden Gate) to Landsend to watch the drama of our friends' danger-laden gamble from the high cliffs there. My binoculars spied, down on the water's edges, ripped splintered cabins and Geez!: a glint of chromed metal beckoned. On fire with dumpster-diver desire, I told One eye I was going down for a looksee, and grabbing my bag of tools, brought along 'just in case,' down to the giant boulder-strewn waters' edges. I took stock of the jumbled bunch of cabin timbers and walls; plus, of all things: a piece of the keel! 'Fukin forty feet of the keel!' Broken right out of the guts of the ship by jagged underwater rocks—to inspire humbling poetic thoughts in my boinger. Three feet long, inch-and-a-quarter diameter Monel keelbolts were sliding out of their holes much too easily. I struggled up the cliff trail, staggering under a shoulderload of these valuable bolts of exotic metal; its unique silver-gray appearance with a hint of gold is a marvel of eyeball awe. Two heavy brass portholes, two chrome-plated brass cabintop handrails, and pockets full of smaller bolts made the second trip up the treacherous trail just as difficult. Trip number three brought up another eighty pounds of booty. I went back down for my tools and it was a leg-weary Hardway who trudged the last thirty feet of cliff trail to the car, but grinning another the-sea-delivers-free-money big bleep-eating grin. Some hundred and forty pounds of dolar-forty-a-pound high class scrap, totally reusable hardware, and hundreds of highest quality silicone-bronze wood screws. Was I stoked? Uh-huh, you bet.
As we were driving back across the bridge, below us, Betty S was towing two topmasts and one mainmast through the swift incoming current on a B-line for home. Hugging the engine for warmth, Stan was starting to unfreeze, his vision even keener for the goods now in hand, and he was already re-imagining everything fitted onto his dreamboat's evolution back to usable. Vital first-order rigging! The shivering began to subside as his skin unshriveled back toward normal—another satisfied customer.
Now some might wonder, for heaven sakes why, a fellah with all the money there is would rather risk life and limb in boatkiller ocean rocks. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would probably be thinking he had more than just a few screws loose. But uh-unh. Not so with salvagemeister extroardinaire. As with man of his marine brethren, the excitement of gleaning needed parts for nothing by his (and my) own hand, thrilled more like fun, even, than paying mere money to strangers; especially saving the still-usable for further service rather than see them forever lost to the deep. No doubt a blood borne disease inherited from a long line of waterborne ancestors. Much rather make it himself if he could; and mostly, he could and did! Not by any stretch of sea gypsy imagination is working with one's hands and body meanial, blue collar, or low class.
Stan's art, wood boatwright art—and art it surely truly was and is—compares favorably with any so-called 'great' artist's art. Facts is facts: Fitting a thousand compound-curved jigsaw puzzle pieces of wood into a reliable seakindly boat is every bit as complex and difficult to achieve as must have been the Mona Lisa or the sculpted works of Michaelangelo; and just as inspired, if not even more naturally so . . .
(and forward in the book to chap 33 after Stan has salvaged even more gold in chap 29)
33
Queen shines
Down the home stretch now, Queen's crew were getting her saturated in raw linseed oil; then painted white, white, white inside and out. Three brutal days rounding the well-salted fifty feet long quarter section of an old Douglas Fir tree down to its ten inches on top and sixteen at the butt; then varnished and fitted it with the spiffy new (salvaged) hardware. Sails were readied to hang soon as the mast was stepped (installed) into its socket-like step in the giant hardwood block fitted into the bilges.
The whole community made it a party day. One by one, three dozen willing hands took turns pulling on the winch handle and ropes to raise a forty feet high stiffleg tripod “A” frame affair. Between beers and general goofing off, everyone took a ceremonial turn cranking away on the old anchor winch. Higher and higher until the nearly six-hundred pound mast, dangling its five-hundred pounds of cables, hung swaying precariously, thirty-two feet above Queen's deck. Fearless of the potentially mean mass up there, Ricky manned the winch, waiting the go ahead.
Gingerly, Threefinger pulled the butt rope through the sixteen inch diameter hole in the massive ten inch thick mast-partner deck beams.'Come to papa,' the fervent prayer as blocks groaned with the upending. Closer and closer she swung toward the hole as he pulled the butt rope through.
'Thunk' hrer butt hit the hole. With two prybars shoehorning, he's waving off “two clicks” on the winch pawls . . . “Whoa! Gotta gouge out another quarter inch here. Didn't you measure this hole?
“Sure did, skipper. Must be all that varnish on her, sir,” handing down the mallet and gouge.
“Sure did, skipper. Must be all that varnish on her, sir,” handing down the mallet and gouge.
Upside down under a half ton of sure-squash death, matter of factly banging away at gouging out another quarter inch of wood from a six inch arc of the ten inch thick mastpartner hole: “Blam, blam, blam!” All he'd done for the better part of three years on this boat now. 'Blam, blam, blam.' Steering well clear of the towering stick's potential for damage, spectators apprehensively eyeballed the goings on.
“Done! Lower away! Steady . . . Whoa!” A rope was pinched in the hole.
“Back up!” Click, click, click went the winch. The twenty-four pound sledgehammer was called for. “Blam, blam, blam!” The third mighty blam collapsed the tension and the mast slid in three inches. Linseed oil was liberally slobbed on as the mast slowly slid down.
“Whao!”
“What now?”
“Need to put a good luck coin under her.”
One of the more ancient traditions of sailors. Superstition? Good luck? Your guess good as mine.
You know who is warbling, “Oh Stan-leeee! Yoo-hoom sweetie baby darling. I got your baubel, honey bunch. Coo-tchy coo snookum wookums. Come and get it, big boy.” Hoots, guffaws, and snide howls populated the general gaiety.
“Eighteen ninety-eight double eagle, baby. I been saving it just for your big dumbass surprise. I love you, Stanley,” who blushed many shades of red under all that red hair while we “oo”ed and “ahh”ed as the novelty passed around for everyone to see. A damn fine coin and from the very year Queen had been originally built. Joyous shouts erupt through the assembled throng as the coin was placed and mast lowered into its step.
“Beer thirty!” the milling mob thirsted.
“Whiskey!” “Aarrrg!”
And the Redlegs band and I played the afternoon away and a good time was had by all.
In less than a week's time, crew and friends had sails hung, rigging strung, and went shakedown sailing around the bay; testing gear, getting the bugs out, adjusting the rig, and generally tightening everything snug as could.
Ias brought on board and stowed, items were checked off the list. In went three-hundred feet of half-inch chain, three beefy anchors, and five 'throwaways' for in a pinch. A ton of canned foodstuffs were stored in the bilges for more ballast. They would regret that later when all the labels sogged off. But hey: Food's food.
Lover doll had bunches of every possible herb and seeds imaginable weaseled away, and two kinds of sprouted apple seedlings in the burlapped balls of dirt. She hovered and mumbled protective mantras over them all the way up.
Finally, away at last: Stan, his dreamboat and his honey; and Ricky, who just couldn't resist, even though Spicebox was thinking about sailing her ass somewhere, too. Being quite beamy at sixteen feet wide, Queen heeled (leaned) over just so far and then took off forward, jumping and thumping the water in sweet slithery slide of swish that left little else to ever dream--about sailing.
A thousand miles out, seagoddess belched and farted three days of kickass southerly last-gasp-of-winter wind that blew them, along with the spring, to within shootin' distance. The old gal tightened right up and settled into her renewed fine old form; skimming along like any sweetly-tushed ladybird ought. First class sailing ma-chine. Heaven sent in an angel boat, twenty-three days to Howling Island.
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