Barnacle Bill and the Night of Sighs
The First Part of the Tale
Life on the water comes to some people as naturally as breathing, yet to others, a life afloat comes upon them suddenly, rather like a fish pulled violently from the sea. Some are born into the life, pulled along in the undertow of a parent's passage through life. Still others happen upon a new way of life -- perhaps a chance encounter with the sea at one of life's critical junctures and a sudden tide turns within. You never know, yet even so I always thought there was something mystical about the whole thing.
I think, or perhaps I'd just like to think, that I followed in the wake of my father's noblest intentions. He wanted, and I think more than anything else in life, to be a sea captain, to sail a copra schooner between the islands of French Polynesia, running the mail and provisions to scattered European settlements among those far-flung islands. At least he told me as much when we sat in front of the television, watching an old show called Adventures in Paradise. Yet it was hard to reconcile his life, that life as it really happened, with that other life, a far distant life that came to reside only in his dreams. The road not taken, you could say.
After doing hard time at a small college in California, small of course being a relative term when anything in California is discussed, I 'worked' in Cherry Point, North Carolina for a while, then in places like Bosnia and Afghanistan, and yes, even Iraq, before finally cashing out and moving back home, to Santa Barbara. I guess I'd had dreams of my own once upon a time, even if they were little more than the distant echoes of my father's time in the Navy, yet after he passed those dreams took on a sudden, not to say a peculiar note of urgency. So, a year later, after my mother passed, I had a decision to make: keep their house and inherit all their miseries, or sell out and try to find a new path forward. Perhaps one my Old man would have taken -- under the weight of other circumstances.
Which was how, not quite a year later, I found myself tied up in a slip at a marina on Seattle's north side, wondering why I had just done what I'd done.
+++++
Marinas are, of course, full of boats. Some people call these things yachts, but such people are misinformed, and you might even say that they're misguided souls. Yachts are toys that rich people pick up to amuse themselves, while boats are anything but. Boats are expressions of the soul, and as stupid as this may seem, you can look at someone's boat and tell a lot about their dreams. And aren't dreams just expressions of the soul?
Stroll the periphery of any marina anywhere in the States and you'll find a breathtaking cross-section of the people who live here. In slips closer to shore you'll find small powerboats good for an afternoon on the water, and sometimes you'll find these bobbing along cheerfully next to small sailboats -- the owners of which often dream of fitting out their little boats to cross large oceans, and, if the dream works out as planned, to explore these far different shores. I'll leave it to your imagination to decide who owns which, but it isn't hard to make out the two types. One type often smells like expensive cologne while the other reeks of Budweiser, if you get my drift.
As you walk out this imaginary pier you run across larger boats in the fractionally deeper water; larger motorboats designed for fishing and the occasional overnight trip, and these reside next to real blue-water passage-makers, sailboats purpose built to cross vast oceans in relative comfort. The people on these sailboats have moved beyond the dutiful dreamer stage, too; they have decided to make the leap and are preparing to follow their dreams -- come hell or high water.
Walk even further out this imaginary pier of the mind and into the really deep water and you might run across a real yacht or two, but out here the old maxim still applies: if you have to ask how much these dreams cost you simply can't afford them. Among the yachts out here, you'll also find the playthings of the idle rich, racy-looking boats that for all the world remind you of penile implants. These toys change hands regularly, and yacht brokers salivate when these people walk in the door. Yet strange yachts appear out here from time to time, and strange things come to pass where such dreams meet the full light of day.
I was tied off in this middle section, and wondering just how the hell I could justify my new, uprooted, and disjointed way of life. I had been retired not even two years, and 'confirmed bachelor' fit my worldview to a T; I'd never been married and, as I thought bringing one more child into the world nothing less than a grievous felony, you could say that I was more than content to live out the rest of my life alone.
Well, not quite alone.
At the time I lived with Max. Max was then a not-quite two-year-old Golden Retriever, and I think you could safely say that he liked people a good deal more than I did. He trusted people, even strangers, whereas I had never been able to make that leap of faith, and Max positively doted on women. I mean he loved them beyond all reason, and there were times I thought he simply couldn't get enough of them.
We all have our failings, I suppose.
When a new woman appeared on our pier Max would sit bolt upright, his nose pointed into the wind, scanning the walkway that passed in front of our floating home. When this new woman appeared his tail would start swishing away, then he would look up at me -- willing me to get down on all fours and assume the position: nose forward, tail straight out, perhaps ready to pounce and retrieve?
But a few minutes later he would slink back into the cockpit and slump down beside me in utter despair. Resting his muzzle on my thigh, he would do his level best to ignore me after that -- for at least five minutes, anyway -- then all was forgiven and it was time to move on again. And that was why I had chosen to live with Max and to be around those of his kind, whenever I could.
But into every marina a little rain must fall, and in our marina this rain took on the form of an eccentric old soul who most referred to as Barnacle Bill. I assume his name might have been William, or maybe even just plain Bill, but that would be an unwarranted assumption. Barnacle Bill appeared to be in his 70s, but given this lifestyle, he might have been forty. Or eighty. You just couldn't tell, even when he spoke -- which is to say he spoke gently, if at all, though he sounded British. Not English, mind you, but very stiff-upper-lip British.
He was white-haired and as thin as a reed, with skinny legs and knobby knees that had been operated on, though he usually walked -- with great difficulty, I might add -- to and from his yacht in bare feet.
And yes. I did say yacht.
For Barnacle Bill lived on one. A big one. A seriously big fucker, as a matter of fact. Whether he owned the thing or resided somewhere down in the bilge was a matter of some debate around the marina, but one thing was certain. No matter the time of day, be it seven in the morning or coming up on midnight, Barnacle Bill smelled like he'd just finished a bottle of rum.
Or perhaps it was just his aftershave. I never figured that one out.
He wore old khaki shorts and always had on a worn-out polo shirt, but his shirts were always white. If the sun was out he had on Wayfarers, and while there was a stainless steel Rolex Submariner on his wrist I never saw him look at the thing. When he walked by in shoes you would invariably see grey-felt Stedmann clogs that looked disreputably old, and on those rare occasions when he walked up to a large, white tricycle that had baskets front and rear, he would pedal off to a nearby market in search of fresh vegetables and salmon fresh off the boat.
His yacht, for, as I have said, it was indeed a yacht, was tied off at the end of my pier, and the thing looked like something lost out of time, like a huge thing from a bygone era, and again, I assumed, like we all did, that the yacht couldn't possibly have belonged to him. Dark grey hull, varnished mahogany superstructure and acres and acres of teak everywhere else you looked, the yacht also had two hideously tall masts that stood taller than the tallest pines in the nearby forest. The name of the yacht, Haiku, seemed to fit the man perfectly, though even now I'd be hard-pressed to tell you why I feel that way.
Every now and then a woman visited, but she rarely remained onboard for more than an hour, and what transpired while she was there was anyone's guess.
When I bought my boat, which I dutifully named the Tiki IV, the brokerage helped secure my slip in this particular marina, and the location was a good fit for my immediate needs. Though she was new, Tiki IV needed a few odds and ends to let her be handled by me, myself, and I, and it was thought the additions would only take a few weeks to complete.
And yes, I actually believed that.
But when you've been around boats long enough you soon realize that "a few weeks" can mean anywhere from a month to a year, but usually somewhere in between. You need to be, in other words, flexible. Or not 'time challenged' -- in the current vernacular. You also need to understand that when you are quoted a price for a project, the final cost will be twice what was originally quoted.
At a minimum.
If you're lucky.
Yet that did not appear to be the case where Haiku was concerned. If something wasn't running 'just so' the appropriate tradesmen were mysteriously summoned and their work invariably completed in record time, and the old man in his khaki shorts and white polo shirt would shuffle by in his felt clogs as if all was right in the world. Because in his world things most certainly were. You could count on that.
And then one day there he was. Barnacle Bill, standing beside my cockpit looking up at me. There was an odd twinkle in his eye, and it was the damndest thing I'd ever seen in my life, but then again, so was his smile.
+++++
"You're the pilot, right?" he asked, his eyes smiling.
"That depends," I replied.
"Oh? On what, if you don't mind my asking?"
"If you want me to fly down to Mexico to pick up drugs, then fuck off. All other inquiries cheerfully accepted."
His head bobbed back fractionally, quizzically, then his smile deepened just a tad. "I see," he said -- as his eyes settled on Max. "No, no drugs involved. Does he bite?"
"The dog? Or me?"
"You're a rather stand-offish prick, aren't you?"
"That's the rumor," I replied. Our eyes were locked on now, as if we had suddenly engaged in a duel to the death. "Is there something I could do for you?" I added, reluctantly, and certainly not out of an abundance of caution, or even guilt.
