Landlocked! Stuck inland and triced up. High School classrooms offer the Sophomore sailor none of the adventure or just plain fun that cruising the Morro Bay harbor provides. Charlie Hagglund yearns for sunshine, salt air, and sea breeze. His trusty Bob’s Comet, the former boatyard craft with its recently overhauled Evinrude outboard motor, and his faithful boy-powered C-Weed are nested aboard a trailer, high and dry at his Uncle Charles’ gear shed where the nets from the fishing vessel Azalea bring back memories of his earliest playground.  

Charlie has to face it. Summer is over. Peggy Phillips, sailor, Mariner Scout, and the only girl Charlie has ever kissed, returns to her home port in Alameda, way up north in the bay area.

He packs his seabag, a gift from one of his seafaring uncles, busses his Aunt Lillian goodbye then returns home, a scant five miles inland from the Pacific as the seagull flies. But it might as well be five hundred. He has to do something to escape the doldrums. So he joins the Sea Scouts.

“Ugliest boat I’ve ever seen,” Charlie thinks but does not say as the scoutmaster takes his young sailors to see their new craft.

Charlie sits through many a Tuesday night meeting at the American Legion Hall, studying boat safety and both the International and Inland Waterways navigational regulations.  He learns a bit of semaphore, provides community service as a busboy at Legion dinners, buys a set of dress blues from the Army Navy store with his paper route money, orders the required patches from the Boy Scout’s catalogue and stitches them on himself, learns to wear a white cap, and is now trained to march in formation and execute the Fifteen Count Manual of Arms.

In record time he has passed his practical factors exams to earn the rank of Sea Scout First Class. He stifles his pride as he wears the arm insignia with an eagle over three red chevrons encasing a perfect square knot, in the fashion of the old U.S. Navy Apprentice Petty Officer rating insignia.

He has also assessed and is underwhelmed by the saltiness of his mates. He finds them pleasant enough to be with, shares with them his sense of humor, joins now and again in a bit of boyish mischief, but wonders about their experience and abilities afloat. 

Doesn’t matter much. The closest he gets to a boat is manning the tiller of a whaleboat perched on a flatbed trailer pulled by a John Deer tractor, plowing through a crepe paper ocean going down Broadway in the local rodeo parade. Until now.

There she is, high above the ground on a rack of stout boat braces in an empty lot behind the 76 gas station. An old cabin cruiser of unknown vintage, close to thirty foot in length, wide of beam with no flying bridge, she looks like a scaled down P.T. Boat. Stripped of paint and partially coated with the sickly olive-green stain of Neva-rot, her hull looks like a failed attempt at jungle camouflage.

Charlie spits in the weeds. “Could use some work,” he admits. “She have a name?”

“Yes sir, lad. You’re looking at the African Queen.”

Charlie wishes he hadn’t wasted the spit.

“She’s a donation Charlie. All we gotta do is fix her up, get her engine in shape, pass the Coast Guard inspection and we’ve got us a boat.”

“All we gotta do is…” Charlie thinks but does not say. He has served his time as a boatyard boy working for Bob Comet, who died suddenly and quietly, leaving the fourteen foot yard boat to Charlie which is why he named her, Bob’s Comet. Many a time he’s heard a landlubber boat owner say those fateful words, “All we gotta do is…”

A homemade wooden ladder allows access to the boat from ground level. The Scoutmaster knowing a bit of Charlie’s experience and noting his natural leadership qualities, picks him as first to go aloft. He climbs aboard African Queen with an air of caution, but the decking seems sound. There is no wobbling or shaking so she is secure in her cradle. Ducking into the cabin he finds naught but empty space. Ribs and planking are accessible. He lifts a deck panel and sees a hint of daylight. “Not a good sign,” he thinks.

Topside Charlie finds the helm is of wood and brass and salvageable with enough hand sanding, stain, varnish and Brasso. His eye catches the gunwale moulding cap, a graceful piece of curved hardwood. Mahogany, he guesses as he raps it with his knuckles. The engine cover will require replacing but since it is of marine plywood with brass fittings Charlie hopes to convince the woodshop teacher to allow its construction and installation as a shop project. He knows nothing of inboard engines but someone else probably does.

Having assured himself of the boat’s stability he regains the ground then ducks beneath the hull. Removing his Buck knife from its sheath he probes here and there. He looks over the propeller shaft noting the condition of the threaded end as the propeller itself is missing, the rudder hangs with a peculiar sag.  New sacrificial anodes to prevent galvanic corrosion are needed, something he has learned from listening to real boatwrights, but he doesn’t really understand the chemistry involved. This is a minor item in  comparison to the rest of the work and materials needed.

“Good thing we don’t have to pay for labor, Skipper,” Charlie reports. “Going to cost us a bundle just to prep and paint her. Needs a new prop and engine cover. Refurbish the cabin. Rig a galley of some sort. All kinds of electrical, mechanical and engine work, but I don’t know much about that end. Then, if we do get her seaworthy, we’ve got to get her to Morro Bay. Some recalking to do, can’t say just how much. Might need to get that done in the boatyard, repaint her bottom and launch her from the ways.”

“Good report, Charlie,” praises the Scoutmaster, secretly pleased with his new title. “We’ve a few things going for us. While you were lollygagging around Morro Bay we were raising money selling fireworks at our Fourth of July booth. You’ll be here to stand watches at our Christmas Tree Lot, and our sponsors at the Legion are always looking for things for us to do to raise money.”

“My dad might let us have the paint and gear at wholesale,” pipes up a skinny kid Charlie knows only as Mike.

“We can run power for sanders and scrapers from the gas station if I promise Pop to mow both yards for free while we’re working on her,” chimes in a ginger-headed kid called Timmy.

Wade, one of the older boys who actually gets to drive his mom’s car to cruise Broadway on Friday nights, offers to talk to the auto shop teacher about checking out the engine. “Maybe Frenchie and I can get the use of the auto shop and some extra credit.”

Charlie hears that Jimmy has his Ham License and is a wiz at Heath Kit projects, so he can take charge of the electronics.

A chubby kid with a mouthful of bubble gum join the chorus. “My step dad’s scrapyard has a crane that might lift her and a truck to carry her if we build a cradle on the trailer. Probably have to pay for insurance or gas or something, dunno?”

“Jeeze, Louise,” Charlie thinks. “I've beached in a Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland movie. Might as well be. After all, the real African Queen was a movie star.”

“You know,” he says to the gang, “This just might work.”

***

Fathers watch with growing pride their son’s return to homes at suppertime with blistered hands turning to callus, and their paint stained dungaree shirts and Frisco “Can’t Bust ‘Em” jeans. White caps are pristine no longer. There will be a run on new ones at the Army Navy Store. No sailor can pass inspection with a dirty white cap.

Since work began in earnest on the “Queen” parents have never had to worry much about where their boys are or what they do after school or when Saturday chores are complete. Most of these men and a few women are veterans of a World War and an international police action that bonds them together in ways inexplicable to those who did not serve.

Many are Legionnaires, who gather regularly over beers and barbecue. Those who have boys in the Sea Scouts are usually sailors themselves, having served in either the Navy or the Coast Guard. A few are former Marines, who sailors adopt as their own misguided children. Charlie’s Pops, a Pacific Marine, is among these ranks.

Talk around the barbecue pit inevitably centers on their boys work on the “Queen.” It begins with a doubtful chuckle concerning a successful completion, which turns to open mouthed wonder at their progress and ends with the pledge to support their sons in the endeavor without taking away their achievement. In the ways of Legionnaires across the land who always come to the aid of their communities they throw a fundraiser barbecue for the African Queen.

Response from the community is overwhelming, partly due to the cause but mostly due to the reputation of the veteran cooks who serve up a specialty known throughout California’s Central Coast. Tri-Tip Steak, barbequed over red oak coals served with green salad featuring local truck-farm produce, pinto beans, fiery home-made salsa and loaves of fire toasted, garlic-butter-basted, sourdough bread.

The Ladies Auxiliary pitches in to help. For an extra two bits one can enjoy local strawberries served over made-from-scratch shortcake covered in sweet whipped cream.

The sit down dinner is served by the boys themselves, who also bus the tables and man the “Pearl Diving” station at the deep sink. Somehow a few bottles of cold beer, just enough for one per boy, end up unattended in the Legion’s galley after their hard day of work is done as the parents meet in the bar to settle the accounting. African Queen is now solvent.

***

Charlie is what his Aunt Lillian would call “good tired,” having finally completed his signature project on the “Queen.” While the other sailors have divided up tasks under his easygoing direction, the mahogany gunwale moulding cap that caught his eye he has taken on by himself. The rail runs the full length of the boat and across the transom. Charlie figures it to be about seventy-five running feet of finely milled timber. All of it he has stripped to bare wood with about three gallons of strip-ease, re-plugged countersink holes to hide and protect mounting hardware, lovingly hand sanded to a satin finish, stained to bring out the natural beauty of the grain and oil varnished to insure as much preservation as can be afforded any piece of wooden nautical gear.

Charlie wonders if the Mahogany was harvested from the forests of Africa. That would be a neat thing,  he thinks, as now the “Queen” boasts a wreath of wooden dignity.

The boys gather in the empty lot to appraise their work. From the waterline up the boat gleams with fresh paint and gleaming brightwork. Sunlight bounces from the new safety glass windscreen. A radio antenna reaches skyward giving the impression of motion as it slants aft.

The boys have erected a special scaffolding behind the boat to provide a working platform for the one artisan they have brought to the project who is not a Sea Scout. Miguel Gonzalez, who’s artistry graces the doors and fenders of local low riders and hot rods with the colorful arcs of the pin-striper, has agreed to paint the boat’s name across the transom: 

African Queen ~ Morro Bay

Work below the waterline including alignment of the sagging rudder, recalking and painting the hull, installation of the propeller, testing of the engine and electronic gear, will be done in the boatyard with professional help. Then she will be lifted in canvas slings, her bottom painting touched up where she rested in the cradle, then held above the water while the winner of a blind draw christens her with a bottle of sparkling cider. That day will come, but not this day.

It is a Tuesday night. Sunset ends outdoor marching drill, and a formal Sea Scout meeting requiring full-dress blue uniforms is called to order in the Legion Hall. After the posting of colors, the hand salute, the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance and the Sea Scout oath, the “Skipper,” as he is now known by the entire ship’s company, puts the formation at ease.

“Now lay to the Quarterdeck, Sea Scout First Class Charles Hagglund,” he orders.

“Jeeze, Louise. What in the heck have I done now? Never a good thing when they calls me Charles,” Charlie thinks as he snaps to attention and gains the low stage that hosts the colors and the Officer of the Deck podium. Facing the “Skipper” he renders a crisp salute which is returned in kind.

“About face, sailor.”

“Aye, Aye, Sir,” Charlie manages as he executes the order. He now faces the entire ship’s company who have closed ranks below the Quarterdeck. To his surprise a group of parents have left the Legion bar to join the meeting. Among them is Charlie’s Pops.

“Keelhauled, that’s what I’m gonna be,” Charlie imagines. “Drawn and quartered.”

“Yeoman, post and read the Order of the Day.”

Timmy the redhead boards the Quarterdeck, unrolls a scroll and begins to read in a barley controllable alto voice from which escapes an occasional squeak.

“Whereas the U.S. Navy has sent notice of a Sea Explorer Jamboree to be held aboard the aircraft carrier USS Bennington alongside the North Island Naval Air Station, Port of San Diego, California, and Whereas Sea Scout First Class Charles Hagglund has demonstrated outstanding leadership, organizational skill and effort above and beyond the call of duty in the restoration of the good ship African Queen, he is hereby officially notified of his selection as our Ship’s representative to said Jamboree.”

“So say we one, so say we all,” chants the sailors from the lower deck.

The Skipper retakes the Quarterdeck. “Your orders read ‘report for temporary additional duty aboard the USS Bennington at the published date and time.’ Parental permission has been submitted and accepted. Travel will be by Greyhound bus. All fees and expenses will be provided by the Ship. Congratulations, Charlie.” He offers his hand which is warmly accepted in a prolonged shake.

“Holy Moley, I’m joining the Navy,” Charlie thinks. “Wait ‘til Peggy finds out about this!”