That Good Night (9 page)

Hardly a week earlier, I had no dreams, no future, my identity quashed, waiting for death. And now, with a duffle bag full of cash slung over my shoulder, I was walking ever closer to boarding my little boat and rushing off. I heard myself utter aloud, “Emma,” as if the name was a prayer of thankfulness.

Approaching the boat, I turned right and slowly walked toward the stern. On the way, I knuckled the hull like a car
buyer would kick a tire. I let my fingers drift along the teak gunnel, more caress than inspection. Every few yards I stopped to turn and look forward to admire the gentle sweep of her sheer. I walked beyond the stern to inspect her backside, a wide, no-nonsense transom with a convenient boarding platform. The boat's name was done up in italic blue:
Carpe Diem
. I couldn't count the number of boats I've seen with that cliché of a name. It sounds like a bad cup of coffee. That would have to go. There's a myth out there that changing the name of a boat brings bad luck. I don't buy into that. A boat is part of the owner's being and
Carpe Diem
certainly doesn't fit a thing about my being. When it comes time to naming her, I'll give her a proud soul-catching name, a unique handle that captures what I'm all about and her as well. She'll like that. I turned and walked slowly forward. Forty-six feet is a lot of boat. I got a stab of nervousness thinking about solo sailing this behemoth into or out of a crowded harbor. I thought maybe I should look at something smaller. I caught myself.
No way! Let's stick to the plan
. In a seaway, bigger is definitely better.

My mind had already settled on buying this boat and if Baxter was the kind of salesman I took him to be, he knew it, too. Time to set romance aside, I had business to do.

Baxter drew alongside. “How about we take a look on board?” he said. I agreed.

It had been over a decade since I'd been on a boat. The bow, the stern, the helm, the deck, stanchions and life lines, chocks and blocks, traveler and sheets, winches and rigging, all that was pretty much the same. But that's where familiarity ended. Years of warp-speed innovation caught me up short. “What's that?” I asked, pointing to a curved boom growing out of the foredeck.

“A Hoyt boom. It's got a self-tending staysail,” Baxter answered. He knew enough not to lecture me on something I should have known.

I gave him a “hmmm” and moved behind the helm, setting my duffle bag to starboard. Baxter watched me studying the gadgets and gizmos, switches and screens attached to the helm in a sweeping panorama. I was used to a gimbaled compass and maybe a toggle switch or two, not a flat screen television set. And what the hell was a joystick doing next to it? In fact, why a joystick in the first place? Baxter excused himself, “I'll go below for a minute to switch on the electronics,” he said with a bit of pride.

The screen lit up like Christmas. Icons appeared: radar, depth, boat speed, wind speed and direction, angle of heel, water temperature, navigation. “Go ahead, touch one,” Baxter said. I touched navigation. Popping up on the screen was the marina with the boat icon clearly nestled at the end of the pier. “Touch the plus-slash-minus button,” Baxter instructed. A few hits and there was the harbor entrance, buoys decked out in reds and greens. I was looking at a chart complete with depths, landmarks and aids to navigation. I must admit, I was rather astonished. Then again, I remembered how my shop was forced out of business because of computer aided machines—CNC's, Computer Numerical Control. Overnight, everything about machining changed—video games turning out gears.

I nodded my approval to Baxter. “Let's go below,” I said, grabbing my duffle bag.

I wished Bob could've been with me. Our old boats were comfortable but in a rugged sort of way. We got by with one head; this boat had two. We kept our wine in the bilge; this
boat had a wine rack. We had to pump up our alcohol-fueled stoves instead of hitting a propane switch, and the ice box was just that. A freezer was something we had at home.

I say all this as if I wasn't impressed but I was and Baxter knew it. Placing my duffle bag on the starboard settee, I moved aft to examine the engine compartment. For me, a new engine is beauty to behold. Baxter pointed out the bells and whistles including easy changing fuel and intake filters, no small convenience. It's a rare sailor that doesn't rely on a good engine. We moved forward to the owner's state room, plush and inviting. I stretched out on the berth, imagining resting at anchor with stars glinting through the overhead hatch. While I whiled away, Baxter situated himself on the port settee letting me sell this boat to myself. Romance coupled with the lure of the sea is a powerful salesman. I got up, went into the main saloon and sat opposite Baxter with my arm around the duffle bag, my faithful companion.

“How much?”

Baxter gave me the spiel: “This boat has the optional generator, electric furlers and winches plus the high-end electronic system. Less than a hundred hours on the engine. The owners are asking five-ninety-five.”

“How much?” I asked again.

The spiel: “That's the asking price. Now, this boat is a gem. The price is much lower than if you went ahead and bought a new one. Did I mention the thrusters?

“So what are you talking here?”

“I think you can get it for five-seventy-five.”

“I'll think about it,” I stalled.

“Will you need financing?” Baxter asked, trying to put some
energy back into the negotiation.

“You mean do I need a loan? The answer is no. And who in their right mind would loan an eighty-four year old a bunch of money to buy a boat?”

“People do it, Charlie. Mortgage some property. Whatever. There are ways.”

“Let's just say that I don't need a loan if the price is right.”

“And what price would that be?” Baxter asked.

“Let's start with some basics, Baxter.” I explained that I'd prefer the transaction be confidential and discreet—even though this was decades-old money it was still a bit warm.

“Charlie, look, I'm just the middle man here. I represent the seller, though to be honest, I try to be upfront with the buyer. You want the boat; the seller wants to sell the boat. I'm here to make it happen. Keeping things confidential is not in my hands, it's in yours. Once you own the boat, you can do what you want.”

All I wanted to do was buy a boat and get the hell out of there without sending up a flare to alert the authorities that nursing home escapee Charlie Lambert has taken to sea. And the money, well, that could cause all sorts of nastiness if I had to explain where I got it. Sizing up Baxter, I decided to do a bit of truth editing. I told him I left a nursing home without my kids or anybody else knowing where I was and I wanted to keep it that way. “If the authorities started snooping around,” I told him, “I'd be back in purgatory as fast as a bullet train can move ten feet.”

Leaning forward with his left elbow planted on the table and his hand gently stroking his chin, Baxter uttered a long
Hmmm
. Moving his hand to his cheek he quietly said, “You've got a lot on your shoulders, don't you?”

“I suppose that I do,” I answered. We fell quiet. Baxter could easily have old Charlie right back in Sunset. “Well,” I said, breaking the silence, “are you still willing to sell me a boat?”

Sitting tall, a slow widening grin grew from ear to ear, “If I could, I'd give you one,” he said. Standing, he offered, “What I can do is buy you lunch.”

“Lead the way, good fellow,” I declared, slinging the duffle over my shoulder.

I ordered a tuna fish sandwich with a chocolate milkshake—I still couldn't get over how wonderful it was to order things I wanted. If I had asked for a milkshake at Sunset, at best I'd get soy milk with fat-free ice cream laced with, if I was lucky, a single teaspoon of chocolate Ovaltine.

Baxter told me that the boat I was buying was put up for sale by a couple whose dreams of sailing into the sunset were dashed by losing most everything they owned to some scam. “They sold their home and business to buy the boat and live as sailors. They owe a few hundred thousand on the boat, so any deal to sell it could save them from the streets.”

“How much
do they owe?
” I asked.

“Three-hundred-twenty-five K,” he answered.

Eyeballing Baxter, I said, “Doable!”

“Is that an offer?” he said, sarcastically. “They'll never go for it, Charlie. They could sell it tomorrow for five, why accept three-twenty-five? They might be hurting, but they're not idiots. They are good people, actually. They got screwed by investment brokers and I'm not about to see them get screwed again with a distress sale. I could take them an offer of five-hundred, but no less.”

Our food arrived. We sat in silence; pondered with every bite, Baxter gnawed on his club sandwich with a pissed-off look in his eye. He was right. Of course, the boat would sell at a much higher price than I offered. I could afford it, but wasn't about to give in without some haggling. I finished my sandwich and was sipping on my milkshake when Baxter asked, “So, Charlie, what do you want to do? Make a reasonable offer, go back to the marina and take another look or call it a day?” He put a twenty on the table. “My treat,” he said abruptly.

Wind had been taken from my sails. I sat becalmed, looking at the half eaten pickle on my plate. Damn, were my negotiating skills rusted out? There was a time when I could sell a pit bull to a daycare center. Buying time, I looked up and said, “Does that twenty include coffee?”

Baxter hailed the waitress, “Two coffees,” he said, as she cleared the table. A long minute or so passed before she was back with two mugs.

“What are the consequences if I buy the boat, don't register it, avoid the taxes and sail away?”

Baxter took a sip and chuckled. “Look, Charlie, I'd like to help you here. I mean anybody that escapes a nursing home and wants to end his days sailing, well, hell, what sailor wouldn't want to rush to the rescue. But, to answer your question, if you get stopped—and with all this terrorist stuff and homeland security rushing all over the place, that's a distinct likelihood—you're going to lose the boat. The coast guard will impound it and you're probably going to spend a few nights in the hoosegow. In other words, you're nuts to even consider it.” He paused for a bit, and then added, “But there might be a way.”

“I'm listening.”

“Let's say you lease a boat. There are some to be had. People are stretched to make payments these days. Leasing gives them the chance to keep their boat until things get better. I have one in the yard, a thirty-two foot Cape Dory; a go-anywhere boat. Think about a six-month lease. If you like it, you might want to make an offer. Gives you lots of options and there's no need for you to do anything but pay the price. Want to take a look?”

Years back, one of my clients said to me,
everything's negotiable
. Whatever deal satisfies all concerned is what drives the business world. So, I said to myself, old Charlie, do whatever it takes, but get that Island Packet 460.

“Too small,” I said. “How about the 460 couple. Would they consider a lease?”

“I doubt it,” Baxter replied.

“So, what you're saying is, it might be possible.”

“Might be. What do you have in mind?

I sipped my coffee and said, “I lease the boat for a three year period for the amount they owe. Three-twenty-five, I think you said.”

“How about insurance?”

“You tell me.”

“Their policy probably will not allow them to rent the boat and remain covered. To do that, their rate will probably double, maybe even triple.”

“How about naming me as an operator of the vessel.”

“Charlie, you're eighty-four years old, right?”

“Eighty-four, that's right.”

“I could see the underwriter having a problem with that, especially single-handing.”

“Is that a bridge we can cross later?” I asked.

“Yeah, okay, but it might be a pretty long bridge.”

“So, we agree then. I offer your client three-twenty-five plus the cost of insurance and I have a boat for three years.”

“We agree that I take the offer to my client. From there, it's up to you and them.”

I reached over the table for a handshake. “Make the call,” I said.

Roslyn and Adam Burris were living in a one-bedroom flat in a skuzzy neighborhood just outside of Annapolis. Their white Lincoln Navigator, already keyed on both sides, was a pronounced incongruity in this neighborhood of lost dreams. They welcomed me as if I was their benefactor, their angel of mercy. Being old enough to be this retired couple's father, caused a raised eyebrow or two, but with their future at stake I could have had three heads and it wouldn't have mattered.

I guessed the Burrises to be in their mid- to late fifties. Casually dressed, they looked liked they belonged in a Florida condo, not this rundown apartment. The furnishings were upscale, probably left over from the house they sold to help buy the boat.

Actually, I felt sorry for these two dreamers. Roslyn, an attractive woman with blonde hair and greenish-blue eyes waxed poetically about visiting exotic ports. Adam told stories of bygone days of day-sailing and chartering, how he had spent his lifetime selling shoes all the while imagining never wearing them as he trekked warm sand beaches on some remote Caribbean Island. He was wearing sandals. No socks.

“One of these days, somebody with guts is going to set the bankers straight. All my working life, whenever the economy
went bust it was because of the banks. I'm damn sick and tired of it. The bastards!” I nodded my head in full agreement.

“Now dear,” Roslyn said, placing her hand gently on Adam's shoulder. “We all know you're right, but now's not the time. Let's hear what the gentlemen have to say and go from there.”