Just Add Water (1) (26 page)

Raising the anchor under benign
conditions is easy and I soon had
Sea
Cock
standing off the dock. There were several signs on the dock, NO
TRESPASSING, PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF SAN FRANCISCO, ABSOLUTELY NO PRIVATE
VESSELS, and my favorite, DON’T EVEN
THINK
OF PARKING HERE.

I readied lines and fenders to the
middle, fore and aft boat cleats. The breast line was only a foot or so from
the downstairs steering station, so all I had to do was get it around a dock
cleat and I had it made. Unless I didn’t, in which case, with the light
northerly dead on my beam, I’d be left standing on the dock, watching my boat
blow away towards the rocks on the other side of the cove. Not a reassuring
picture.

I sidled up to the dock and, using
my rudder and throttles, walked
Sea Cock
sideways like Jenks taught me. Even with the wind directly on the beam, blowing
me off the dock, I chose the right moment, leaned over the gunwale, lassoed a
dock cleat and cinched the boat in tightly. That done, I stepped onto the dock
and tied off the other lines. I was hauling myself back aboard to shut down the
engines when I heard applause, catcalls, and whistles. Turning around, I saw a
dozen or so construction workers clapping and hooting approval. I took a bow.

* *
*

Allison arrived right on time,
lugging five bags of groceries and two bags of wine.

“Holy moly,” I said, “all I asked
for were a few frozen dinners, veggies, and some diet Coke.”

“Oh, phooey, no one can live on
that shit. I brought steaks, potatoes, Caesar salad fixin’s, and a really great
bottle of Merlot. Sorry, they were fresh out of guillotines, but I got you a
garrote. I also brought my jammies and toothbrush, cuz I’m stayin’ the night.”

“Uh, I’m not supposed to stay at
the dock overnight. I practically had to sleep with the entire construction
crew to stay here until you arrived. Actually, I promised them you would.”

“I wondered why they were so
friendly.”

“Anyhow, it looks like we have to
go back out to the anchorage.”

“Bull hockey. I ain’t spendin’ no
night swinging on no flimsy piece of chain. Gimme your phone.” She called the
Mayor, at home, and hung up with a satisfied grin. “Hizzoner says we can stay.”
Noting my raised eyebrows, she shrugged and poured us each a glass of wine.

I grabbed a Brie and fruit plate,
she carried the wine, and we went to the aft deck. “Hetta, I have a feeling you
need a good, old fashioned, whine and jeeze party. Now, tell me everything.”

God, it was good to have someone to
talk to who didn’t quack back.

I spent the next hour recounting,
in detail, my cruise out the Gate with Jenks, the storm at Pillar Point and
finished with, “Allie, I was so proud of myself. More importantly, I was
pleased Jenks thought I’d done such a good job under crappy conditions. I mean,
he even called me a wench.”

Allison almost dropped her wine,
then looked me in the eye. “Hetta,” she said solemnly, “I’m your attorney. You
can tell me where you left his body.”

I laughed, the first time in over a
week. “No silly, he meant it, and I took it, as a compliment. He said I was a
certified sea wench.”

“Well, shit, in that case, you’ll
need a whole new wardrobe. Lots of low cut blouses and dangly earrings.”

We both giggled and went to the
galley to ready steaks for grilling. I made a salad and slathered garlic and
green peppercorns on T-bones while Allison chopped anchovies for our Ceasar.
Someone rapped on the hull and we looked out to see two of San Francisco’s
finest standing on the dock.

“Okay, Ms. Friends in High Places,
you deal with ‘em,” I told Allison, trying to sound cool, but my heart was
thudding. Please, oh, please don’t let them bring bad news about Jenks.

Allison stepped outside, talked a
couple of minutes and came back in.
 

“Hey, how about that? De man sent
those guys down to see if we were safe and sound. How cool is that?” Then she
stopped dead, staring at me. “Hetta, what’s wrong? Damn, girl, you look whiter
than usual.”

“Allie, when I saw those cops my
heart almost stopped. I thought they were coming to tell me something happened
to Jenks. Not logical, I know.”

“Not totally
il
logical, either. Do you know anyone who would have a key to
Jenks’s apartment? We could have them check to see if, uh, you know, make sure
he’s not sick or something.”

“Yes, I do know someone who might.
Allison, I’m not supposed to show this to anyone, but you
are
my attorney and thereby sworn to secrecy. Watch this.”

I hit the PANIC button.

Seconds later the phone rang and I
spoke into the mouthpiece without waiting to hear who it was. “Good evening,
Ed.”

Allison cocked her head.

“Good evening, Hetta. Is there an
emergency?”

“No emergency, Ed. I was testing
the system.”

“You know I have to ask. Do you
want me to call the police?”

“No, but thanks for asking. Uh, you
haven’t, by any chance, heard from Mr. Jenkins have you?”

“Yep, sure have, Hetta. He called
in a few minutes ago, said everything was fine.”

Allison surmised Ed’s answer by the
furious rush of red to my cheeks. I could hardly hear Ed say good-bye, my ears
were so a-thud with anger. I slammed the phone shut and exploded.

“The son of a bitch.”

“What son of a bitch?”

“Jenks! He’s just fine.”

My bassackward fury sent Allison
into gales of laughter, and despite myself, I soon joined her.

I renamed my duck
Eco
, Spanish for Echo.

This change was brought about by a
new tack for diverting myself from thoughts of homicide and suicide by dwelling
on pleasant recollections from the past and positive plans for my future. By
now I was on an emotional roller coaster that dipped into depression, soared to
anger, then leveled off and raced towards the brass ring. I know, mixed
carnival metaphors. But the brass ring part was what made life bearable. Hmmm.
How about
Brass Ring
?

One particularly beautiful evening
aboard
Sea Cock
, while stargazing at
those constellations the City’s ambient light pollution let shine through, I
was reminded of another starry night, in another body of water far to the
south.

Jan and I had flown to the Mexican
city of Loreto in Baja, California, rented an overpriced VW bug, and driven
north to Conception Bay. We’d picked Conception Bay in hopes of recapturing
some measure of the Baja peninsula’s charm that once drew us to Cabo San Lucas
before Cabo became a victim of her own beautiful setting and great climate. We
weren’t disappointed by Conception Bay.

Jan and I picked up a little local
knowledge while picking up on a couple of local gringos in thatch roofed beach
bars. Taking in all the info we could garner, we packed our light camping gear
into rented kayaks and set out on a three day, two woman exploration of the
bay.

Conception Bay, her spectacular
shores sparsely inhabited by a smattering of gringo retirees and dropouts,
still held a tenuous charm by virtue of her lack of amenities such as
electricity and water. With the exception of those who felt it necessary to
import satellite TV, run generators, and build tennis courts, most residents
were hardy souls willing to rough it a little to dwell in paradise. So long as
paradise remained cheap and included enough ice for their tequila, the full
timers were a contented bunch of expat ex-malcontents.

Our final evening in the bay, Jan
and I camped at a cove the locals called Santa Barbara. We ate cold tamales,
drank the last of our wine, and lay in sleeping bags staring at stars in a
moonless sky. Stars so close we felt we could touch them. The Milky Way, barely
visible in much of the United States, resembled a bright white cloud against
velvety black heavens. And although there was no moon, starlight alone cast
shadows off the cactus and elephant trees.

Desert sounds—distant coyotes, the
rustle of night creatures—were occasionally broken by the faint echo of a truck
on Highway 1 using Jake brakes, or a passing fishing panga’s humming outboard.
The man-made noises reminded us that, as remote as we were, civilization was
inexorably marching down the peninsula.

I had just quipped that our lack of
knowledge regarding the heavens was astronomical when a loud splash jolted us
upright. The encroachment of civilization notwithstanding, Jan and I suddenly
recalled we were completely alone on an uninhabited beach and no one in the
entire world knew we were there. We sat frozen, watching and listening for
another sound. We both “eeked” and then laughed when a pair of dolphins leaped
in unison not a fifty feet in front of us.

Aglitter with the liquid gold of
bioluminescence, the dolphins frolicked, trailing fairy dust, and inviting us
out to play. Without hesitation, we dragged our kayaks into water twinkling as
if backlit by tiny white Christmas bulbs. Our paddles disturbed small fish,
creating even more scintillating bursts of phosphorescence. We spent the next
two hours in the company of the chattering, diaphanous dolphins, squealing our
pleasure over a spectacle even Mr. Disney couldn’t top.

Remembering that night, I came up
with a plan. A plan for my future. I’d take my boat to Mexico! Then the dark
shark of reality finned into my Mexican dream. And he had a calculator. If I
worked really, really, really hard for five years, triple paid my boat payments
and—hey, wait a minute, this was
my
dream. Screw reality!

I banished the shark and added
another goal to my list. TAKE MY
RENAMED
BOAT TO MEXICO.

Then a postscript: BRUSH UP ON
SPANISH.

Thus, the renaming of my duck from
Echo to Eco.

He didn’t give a quack, and I felt
I was getting a linguistic jump on my planned Mexican cruise, even though, by
realistic calculations, I was at least five years away from cutting the lines.
It pays to plan ahead, especially when trying to divert oneself from murderous
thoughts and depression.

Still no new word from or about that
shit, Jenks. After a few more days of oscillating between rage, self-pity and
worry, I leveled out to a constant state of perplexity.

One of the things that upset me the most
was my inability to forget him. Even as furious and hurt as I had been with
that lout Hudson, it didn’t take me more than a day or two to, if not forget,
then at least write him off. Maybe it was because I learned Hudson was a thief
and a deceiver so quickly. Within days of Hudson’s disappearance, I knew he was
a married, thieving liar. That sort of thing has a way of taking the romantic
edge off a relationship. Especially since one of the relations took a powder.
Jenks’s jury was still hung, so to speak.

Anyhow, I was waiting for the other
shoe to drop this time, leaving me barefoot and emotionally free. But it wasn’t
happening quickly enough. I still held a modicum of hope that Jenks was
kidnapped by a band of terrorists and, in his struggle to return to me,
suffered a blow to the head, leaving him temporarily an amnesiac. When let
free,
he‘d climb the highest mountain if
it reached up to the sky, to prove that he loved me he’d jump off and fly. Swim
the deepest ocean from shore to shore, to prove that he loved me just a little
bit more
. Wait a minute, isn’t that the lyrics to an old country western
song? I sang
One Woman Man
for Eco,
wondering if singing to a duck constituted demented behavior.

I talked to Jan daily, if for no
other reason than she actually talked back. And did not demand quackers. Lars
was taking a very annoying “what, me worry?” attitude, saying he was accustomed
to his brother’s sudden and unannounced departures. And, after all, we
had
heard from his employee, Ed Lu, that
the bastard was just fine, wherever he was. I reminded Jan that if I killed one
Jenkins brother, they couldn’t hang me twice for doing in the other.

Determined to get over my latest,
and absolutely last, amatory adventure, I continued adding stuff to my GOALS
list. I had named this list THINGS TO DO AS AN INFINITELY UNATTACHED PERSON.
The list grew daily, as did my reluctance to return to my dock at the yacht
club. There was something soothing and insular about living in my own universe,
self-sufficient, independent of outside resources. Well, not exactly so
independent.

By conserving water (I found I
could shower, wash dishes and cook with a little under ten gallons a day) I was
good for some time to come. And, with reluctant thanks to Jenks, I had enough
fuel to keep
Sea Cock
powered up at
anchor for a year. One of the first things Jenks’d done when I turned him loose
on my boat was to install two seventy-five amp solar panels on the sundeck
roof, an inverter for AC power without running the generator all the time, and
an extra bank of golf cart house batteries. When I’d bought
Sea Cock
, I couldn’t leave the dock
without the generator running, but now I only had to charge batteries a couple
of times a day, depending on how much power I used.

What with solar charging plus two
short generator charges per day, I could easily run my computer, printer, cell
phone, TV, VHF radio and refrigerator during the entire day. Any additional
required electricity, say a blender, microwave, toaster or the like, had to be
carefully considered and usually called for me to turn on the generator for a
few minutes. Or reconsider and make a sandwich.

The other, wonderful side of the
new system, for both me
and
my fellow
anchor outs, was not having to listen to the drone of a genset all day and
night. I charged batteries while cooking dinner on my electric stove or in the
microwave, then shut down and didn’t have to fire up the generator until I charged
again the next morning. My morning activities while running the generator
included making coffee, taking my shower, and drying my hair. As long as all
systems continued to work, I had it made.

Unless I got blown out.

Niggling at the back of my mind was
the possibility of a strong westerly blowing into Clipper Cove. I remembered
Jenks saying it didn’t happen often, but when it did, things got ugly, pronto.
That night at Pillar Point, which now seemed like another life ago, proved his
point as to how quickly shit happens at sea. I didn’t have any idea how I’d
handle
Sea Cock
alone under the same
conditions.

So, true to the old adage about
leopards and spots, I’d found something new to obsess over. Local weathermen
became my new saints, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, my
oracle. The droning monotony of VHF radio marine weather reports were music to
my ears. And to make sure all those weather gurus didn’t screw up, I spent an
hour each day of expensive cell time downloading Internet weatherfax data.
Which, of course, I couldn’t interpret, but it made me feel better to have a
tangible document showing little wind arrows pointing every which way but due
west. Thank God I couldn’t receive cable TV, and therefore The Weather Channel,
while away from the dock. I’d have been glued to the boob tube all day.

The slightest shift in the breeze
had me instantly on deck, planning my getaway. The good news is that San
Francisco Bay in the summer doesn’t have much wind. The bad news is if it does blow,
it can come from any direction. Clouds sent me into major anxiety, diving into
the
 
Oreos. Good thing I had a limited
supply. Oreos, that is; anxiety for me is aeonian.

Then there were the toilets.

After the holding tank fiasco on my
first weekend aboard, I had a phobia of overflowing scat. Jenks eliminated, you
should pardon the pun, part of the problem by rigging each toilet for a
specific purpose. Toilet #1 was for peeing and toilet #2 was for just that.
Toilet #1 discharged directly overboard, while the other one was plumbed to the
old dreaded holding tank. This, barring my dining on fresh salsa in Mazatlan
ever again, reduced by far the number of gallons flowing into the holding tank.
Okay, so one toilet was illegally plumbed, but tell that to all those
construction workers, fishermen, and even Coast Guardians I’ve seen spraying
the bay. What? My pee is toxic and theirs isn’t?

I still watched the rising gauge on
the holding tank ve-ry carefully. I could hardly fathom what the potty patrol
boys would charge me to come out to Treasure Island.

Even with all these little problems
to brood over, I was enamored with my new life as an anchor out. A floating
hermit.
Hetta’s Hermitage
, how’s that
sound? Nah, too Jacksonian.

Eventually I knew I’d have to go back
to the dock and reality, but for now I was handling my life and career from
afloat, thank you. I didn’t even bother calling my answering machine, which was
locked in my dock box back at the marina to pick up messages, because everyone
I wanted to hear from already knew where I was and I was afraid I’d hear
something that would force me to return.

I did call Molly the charter lady
and tell her I wasn’t dead or sunk, but that I was using the boat full time for
now. She said she understood and she was really happy for Jenks and me. I bit
my lip and mumbled something inane, but when I hung up I’d at least learned the
Jack London Square scuttlebutt hadn’t picked up on the demise of our romance.
Or whatever we’d had.

Mail was becoming a concern until I
solved it by having one of the WOEies from the yacht club drop it off on their
weekend sail. To keep the barstool gossipmongers at bay, I used the “we” word
when talking to yacht club members. When the WOEies dropped off my mail I let
them think Jenks was taking a nap. Oh, the dreaded web.

Once in a while I’d get restless,
tempted to up anchor and find a waterfront ginmill with a guest dock. Use
Sea Cock
for my original dark
intentions. But somehow without Jan, my Sancho Panza, tilting at triceps had
lost its appeal. Besides, even though I’d originally conjured up the concept of
a yacht as a mantrap, it was my home now.

Of course, there was that Jenks
thing.

Furious and hurt though I was, I
couldn’t quite get up any zeal to find solace in a singles bar. Besides, it had
been my experience that the only thing most men in singles bars have in common
is they’re married. Some of them to each other.

When the urge to prowl arose, I
diverted my energy into more productive activities. I tried fishing, an almost
counterproductive activity since, even though foraging for extra provisions
seemed like a good idea, there was no way in hell I’d eat seafood from San
Francisco Bay. At least once a day I put on a Richard Simmons tape, sweated
with the oldies, then did some commercial cleaning: watching television,
cleaning during commercials.

I read all the books on board I’d
been meaning to read forever and even began writing a few self-serving memoirs.
The fictionalized version of my life was beginning to look suspiciously like a cross
between Mother Teresa and Dirk Pitt, but the writing was fun and therapeutic.
The more I recaptured memories of being raised by a passel of adults (I could
count at least ten grownups who, like Bill Cosby’s family, all had the right to
wallop me) the more I realized what a rich, albeit internationally fractured,
childhood I’d had.