Part III

Disclaimer: For those of you who don't know me, I tend to embellish in the name of humor and that is certainly my modus operandi here. Although this blog is based on actual events, the part of the broker, including all dialogue, is completely fictional in order to protect the innocent.

Saturday came as quickly as your standard glacial ice flow. My tendency to get over-anxious about big changes had thrown me into a manic frenzy all week and I was scant on sleep and patience. We were buying a sailboat damn it! Should I go with Captain McLendon or William the Conqueror?

As we pulled into the HP parking lot, I was frothing at the mouth and ready to burst out of our Honda CRV. I saw myself preening down the docks with the grace of a gazelle, leaping from the weathered wood onto the decks of the Cal 36, grasping her deck in a warm embrace and claiming her as my own. But Melanie said we had to talk to Bobby first.

Bobby was the broker, a self-made man of backwoods Georgia origin, kept alive by the occasional exchange of fiberglass for money which undoubtedly was surrendered at the breasts of Hurricane Patty's most voluptuous bartenders. He gave us a grunt and the permission to board the Cal without the pleasure of his company.

We hurried down the docks, Maryann in hand, and stepped aboard the Cal with earnest enthusiasm, making our way through the companionway and into the quirky layout that greeted us below. At first glance, the space was unexpectedly tight for a 36 footer, but its uniqueness compensated for any thoughts of claustrophobia. There were, however, missing items in the galley, some cracks and inexplicable stains, but what was most striking, was the removal of entire access panels that once hid spaghetti wires and earthworm-like plumbing. The boat's interior had a look bordering on "ghetto fabulous," a distinction that, for some reason, is held in high regard by my wife.

"It's....interesting," I said in a befuddled tone. I wasn't disheartened, but we had yet to see what creatures dwelled in the dark recesses of the bilges.

Just then, the boat rocked violently to dockward followed by Bobby's head peering down at us from the cockpit, his bald cranium glowing from an angelic solar halo.

"How's it goin' down thar? I spoke with the owner. He said he'd let ya'll have it for nine and throw in the dinghy too."

"You mean that withered bit of flaccid rubber taking on water behind us," I thought. "Score!"

Bobby continued. "Yeah, this boat was owned by this old guy who lived on it down in Miami. He brought it up here and sold it to another guy whose wife won't let 'im keep it. She said there's too much to fix up on it."

Right then, Melanie opened a floor hatch to peer into the bilge and we saw it. Oil. Black, viscous, oil about two inches deep, pooled like an ancient tar pit.

"There's oil down here," Melanie said in the direction of Bobby.

"Oh, they just spilt some when they done changed it last."

"Sure," I thought. "The Exxon Valdez had misplaced a few quarts itself."

Then there was the fuel tank.

"Bobby," said Melanie. "I read there were some problems with corrosion on these tanks that caused leakage."

"No," he said assuredly. "This one's solid."

"Then why did they install a temporary tank further aft?"

"Oh, they was some dirty gas in that old tank and she wasn't startin'. The owner put in that other'n to just get her goin'."

It wasn't adding up and with reluctance, we thanked Bobby and ambled over to HP for a much needed alcoholic refreshment (Maryann had a virgin White Russian). This wasn't the one and we knew it. After doing a post-mortem, we ordered some fried clams and gator tail and gazed out over the marina with heavy sighs.

"Well," I said. "I guess there's always next weekend with that Allied in Fernandina. Hey, look! There's Bobby!"

BOAT GIRL: A Memoir of Youth, Love & Fiberglass by Melanie Neale is now available through Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com in both print and e-book for Kindle and Nook users. Not into online shopping? You can also ask for Boat Girl in person at your local bookstore.
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