by decks, bulkheads, the galley, and various fittings. I once estimated there was less than twenty feet of actual walking-around space in my home. Boat living isn’t for claustrophobes.
By the time I finished cleaning and doing my laundry at the harbor’s laundromat, the morning fog had burned off, revealing a sky so bright and pure it stung my eyes. Once more I wished my boat had sails so I could take her out beyond the breakwater and hear nothing other than wind and gulls. But beggars can’t be choosers.
I stowed the laundry away and made my bed with fresh-smelling dolphin-print sheets and matching comforter. Chores finished, I glanced at my watch and found it already past noon. Time to take Roarke Gunn up on his offer to visit the Tequila Sunrise .
In contrast to the southern end of the harbor, where big salmon trawlers butted up against humble craft such as the Merilee , the Tequila Sunrise lay berthed at the northern end in the area reserved for yacht club members. The Northies were wealthier, and never worried about rising slip fees or the cost of decent booze, and this fostered an undercurrent of class warfare. Not today, though. When I stepped aboard the Tequila Sunrise , Frieda, Roarke’s blond wife, handed me a Sunrise Special: a Mimosa comprised of fresh-squeezed oranges, Mumm’s, and a dash of Grenadine.
She gave me an insincere air kiss. “Roarke says you should drop by more often.”
Her lack of warmth didn’t surprise me because she loved her husband almost as much as Jeanette had loved Grayson, and viewed every woman as competition for her man. Given her considerable beauty, I could never figure out why.
I contented myself with a politic reply. “You folks are so frequently away.”
Several times a year Frieda and Roarke sailed to Puerto Vallarta, where they partied with an informal armada of similarly wealthy friends. Ordinarily, they would be there now, but the danger that the Trust might be broken kept them in the harbor. They were making the best of their canceled plans by fixing the common problems that plague sea-going vessels. Today’s project was scraping the Tequila Sunrise ’s wooden hull free of barnacles. Left to themselves, barnacles would reproduce and soon cover the hull in a colony weighing hundreds of pounds, creating a drag on the boat. Worse, the pesky crustaceans might bore right through the hull.
Frieda, more gorgeous than ever in a black thong bikini, looked me over carefully. “Been working out?” The acerbity in her voice increased my discomfort.
“Just shoveling sh.., um, stuff.”
“That’s right. You’re a cage cleaner at the zoo.” Meow.
“No cages. Each of our animals is housed in a large enclosure that resembles its natural habitat.”
“Why not leave them in the wild in the first place?”
Good question, complicated answer. “That would be ideal, but what with forest clearings and civil wars and such, the animals’ natural habitats are shrinking. There’s also the continued poaching of endangered wildlife, which doesn’t help.”
She took a sip of her drink, which appeared to be pure orange juice. Hard-partying Frieda on the wagon? How odd. “Pass laws against killing them, then.”
“There already are such laws, but we’re talking international treaties, and with those, enforcement is always the problem. The U.S. can’t order an African farmer not to kill the endangered cheetah preying upon his goats. The farmer would rather see every cheetah on earth dead than let his children starve. Furthermore…”
Realizing I was becoming agitated about the seeming hopelessness of it all, I changed the subject. “I take it Roarke’s down with the diver?”
My old friend loved to watch divers scrape away barnacles with their putty knives, but having tried it once myself and resurfaced with bloody knuckles, I found the process less than enthralling.
She nodded. “He waited for you but got impatient and dove in about ten minutes ago. If you want
By the time I finished cleaning and doing my laundry at the harbor’s laundromat, the morning fog had burned off, revealing a sky so bright and pure it stung my eyes. Once more I wished my boat had sails so I could take her out beyond the breakwater and hear nothing other than wind and gulls. But beggars can’t be choosers.
I stowed the laundry away and made my bed with fresh-smelling dolphin-print sheets and matching comforter. Chores finished, I glanced at my watch and found it already past noon. Time to take Roarke Gunn up on his offer to visit the Tequila Sunrise .
In contrast to the southern end of the harbor, where big salmon trawlers butted up against humble craft such as the Merilee , the Tequila Sunrise lay berthed at the northern end in the area reserved for yacht club members. The Northies were wealthier, and never worried about rising slip fees or the cost of decent booze, and this fostered an undercurrent of class warfare. Not today, though. When I stepped aboard the Tequila Sunrise , Frieda, Roarke’s blond wife, handed me a Sunrise Special: a Mimosa comprised of fresh-squeezed oranges, Mumm’s, and a dash of Grenadine.
She gave me an insincere air kiss. “Roarke says you should drop by more often.”
Her lack of warmth didn’t surprise me because she loved her husband almost as much as Jeanette had loved Grayson, and viewed every woman as competition for her man. Given her considerable beauty, I could never figure out why.
I contented myself with a politic reply. “You folks are so frequently away.”
Several times a year Frieda and Roarke sailed to Puerto Vallarta, where they partied with an informal armada of similarly wealthy friends. Ordinarily, they would be there now, but the danger that the Trust might be broken kept them in the harbor. They were making the best of their canceled plans by fixing the common problems that plague sea-going vessels. Today’s project was scraping the Tequila Sunrise ’s wooden hull free of barnacles. Left to themselves, barnacles would reproduce and soon cover the hull in a colony weighing hundreds of pounds, creating a drag on the boat. Worse, the pesky crustaceans might bore right through the hull.
Frieda, more gorgeous than ever in a black thong bikini, looked me over carefully. “Been working out?” The acerbity in her voice increased my discomfort.
“Just shoveling sh.., um, stuff.”
“That’s right. You’re a cage cleaner at the zoo.” Meow.
“No cages. Each of our animals is housed in a large enclosure that resembles its natural habitat.”
“Why not leave them in the wild in the first place?”
Good question, complicated answer. “That would be ideal, but what with forest clearings and civil wars and such, the animals’ natural habitats are shrinking. There’s also the continued poaching of endangered wildlife, which doesn’t help.”
She took a sip of her drink, which appeared to be pure orange juice. Hard-partying Frieda on the wagon? How odd. “Pass laws against killing them, then.”
“There already are such laws, but we’re talking international treaties, and with those, enforcement is always the problem. The U.S. can’t order an African farmer not to kill the endangered cheetah preying upon his goats. The farmer would rather see every cheetah on earth dead than let his children starve. Furthermore…”
Realizing I was becoming agitated about the seeming hopelessness of it all, I changed the subject. “I take it Roarke’s down with the diver?”
My old friend loved to watch divers scrape away barnacles with their putty knives, but having tried it once myself and resurfaced with bloody knuckles, I found the process less than enthralling.
She nodded. “He waited for you but got impatient and dove in about ten minutes ago. If you want
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