Charlie Hagglund loved everything about 'Bob’s Comet' except the costs of operating her. The mixture of oil and gasoline needed for propulsion came dearly. He remembered with a blush of shame the time he had to row 'C-Weed' the length of the harbor with the 'Comet' in trail, fuel tank empty, a rarely allowed advance on weekly allowance in his pockets. Comet’s Boatyard was in limbo following the unexpected death of its owner, Bob Comet. The yard boat, fourteen-foot stem to stern complete with Evinrude outboard motor, was left to Charlie as payment for services as boatyard boy. He doubted the new owner would be as eager to employ a thirteen-year-old even if he worked for trade.
The flock of Morro Bay’s harbor watchers knew when Charlie was broke. Garbed in floppy brimmed hat, Navy gray life jacket, and aviator sunglasses, he was aboard his old boat 'C-Weed': Rowing. Budgeting was tough as Charlie had to support three vices. First, there was 'Bob’s Comet'. Mooring for her and 'C-Weed' was free in the shallows of the Boat Basin below the golf course, at the cost of cleaning docks and the gathering of parking lot trash. Oil mixed fuel at the marine service dock required cash. Second, there were Saturday Matinees at the Bay Theatre where he had seen the old film "Captain’s Courageous" four times and the newly released "Mr. Roberts" three. His third vice: Books. He had use of the small but friendly Morro Bay Library. His Auntie Lillian had signed for a card. But he just had to own the books he loved most; Forester’s tales of Horatio Hornblower, and Monsarrat’s story of the brave Corvette 'Compass Rose'.
With grit and imagination, Charlie found ways of generating income. Those who chose to live aboard their vessels midstream secured to anchored buoys often flagged him down and sent him on missions to the Embarcadero. Groceries, newspapers and, with signed note, beer and cigarettes were purchased and delivered for fair gratuity. Fastidious pleasure boaters secured his services at a fair rate for a freshwater washdown after returning from a jaunt on Estero Bay. Every so often shorthanded sailors would require help securing their boats to buoy cables. Again, Charlie made himself available. Except for the washdowns he never expected money. It was given with gratitude for a job well done.
'Bob’s Comet' was midstream of the boat anchorage secured to the ocean side of a Chris Craft forty footer. Charlie was delivering a seven-pound bag of ice- cubes, a Sunday "San Francisco Chronicle" and a six pack of Lucky Lager. Mission accomplished he coiled the bow line, allowing the boat to drift with the tide. The Evinrude started with the first pull. Charlie headed around the stern of the Chris Craft going a bit faster than the five miles per hour limit within the confines of the harbor. As he cleared the larger boat he was momentarily dumbfounded by the sight of a dinghy under sail headed right towards him.
Charlie threw the Evinrude’s throttle handle to starboard bringing his bow to port and poured on full speed, squirting out of harm’s way as the dinghy sailed on between 'Bob’s Comet' and the cabin cruiser.
“Stinkpot!” he heard from the sailboat.
“Idiot!” he yelled back. Continuing the turn he straightened out and came alongside the dinghy, noting the MRYC emblazed on the single sail. Slowing to match the sailboat’s speed he maintained a wide berth while keeping the two boats running in parallel, headed in the general direction of the sand spit that protected the harbor from the Pacific.
“Cut that corner pretty close didn’t ‘ya yachty boy?” he yelled.
“You were supposed to give way to a boat under sail.”
“I did! Damn near swamped my ass doing it.”
“Can’t help it if you don’t know ‘yer ropes stinkpot boy.”
“You ain’t from here, are ‘ya?”
“No. What difference does that make?”
“You’ll see.” Charlie cut his throttle and watched as the Morro Rock Yacht Club dinghy slid up the muddy slopes of the barely submerged “grass island”. The sailor aboard quickly released the mainsail sheet and raised the rudder.
Charlie had the decency to make sure there was no injury or obvious damage before he began laughing.
“Centerboard stuck?” he yelled, once breath was regained.
The other sailor sat with arms crossed, sailing cap pulled down over brows.
“Probably. You ‘could’a said something.”
“Figured you knew ‘yer ropes. If I toss you a line ‘ya think ‘ya can secure it to a cleat so I can pull ‘ya off? Offering aid. Law of the sea, ‘ya know. Har, Har.”
The towing operation was undertaken with care. Once free of the mud, Charlie slowly led the flotilla towards the spit.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Just over to the spit. Better check the packing around that centerboard. Taking on any water.”
“Uh, yeah, a little bit.”
“We’ll pack her with some eel grass, then I’ll get ‘ya back to ‘yer clubhouse.”
Charlie landed 'Bob’s Comet' gently on the sandy shore raising the outboard to prevent its dragging on the bottom. Taking towline to the beach he pulled the sailboat ashore stern first. Showing some nautical sense the other sailor sat forward taking weight off the stern.
Once on the beach, the other sailor removed the brimmed cap freeing golden locks of shimmering hair. Charlie noted with odd pleasure the flash of almond eyes and joined in a bright smile.
“You’re a girl!”
“Perceptive for ‘yer age.”
“Well I didn’t know, the way ‘ya were all geared up.” Charlie took in the rest of the package. White bell bottoms, jumper with naval flap. Patches with odd markings. Open life vest revealing small bumps where they should be.
“So who are ‘ya, Popeye or Olive Oil?”
“I’m a Mariner, ‘ya dumb cluck”
“Where’s ‘yer ship?”
“Not that kind of Mariner. I’m a Sea Scout.”
“But ‘yer a girl.”
“I’m a girl that’s going to bust you one right in the chops if you don’t quit with that ‘you’re a girl’ song.”
“Sorry. Just caught me by surprise.”
“Could be worse.”
“How’s that?”
“This could be a desert island we’re stranded on.”
Flood tide challenged 'Bob’s Comet’s' return to shoreside. She handled a little differently with the added weight of Peggy Phillips ensconced on the forward thwart and the drag of the sailboat in tow. Charlie learned that she was down from Alameda with her father, a retired Coast Guard Chief. Her uncle belonged to the yacht club, so she had visitor’s privileges.
Secured to the finger pier below the clubhouse Peggy explained apologetically to the boat master what had happened.
“No problem, miss. We’ll get ‘er fixed up in a jiffy. You ain’t the first out ‘a towner run afoul of ‘ol grassy. Thanks for the hand, Charlie.”
“No problem Mr. Elliott.”
“What do I owe ‘ya for the tow Charles?”
“Don’t be stupid. Law of the sea ‘n all that.”
“Well, at least let me buy you a coke.”
They sat on the clubhouse balcony overlooking the harbor, Charlie incognito with life jacket left aboard 'Comet'. Fisherman returning to shore wondered about 'Bob’s Comet' being tied up to the yacht club pier but figured Charlie was looking for another income stream. He reveled in the perfect design of the small green-glass bottle of Coca-Cola from which he was sipping. Peggy used a straw.
“Your uncle a sailor too?”
“Retired. ‘Merchy during the war. Drinker now. Pop’s trying to dry him out. You sail?”
“ ‘Naw. Figure a boat’s made for purpose more ‘n play.”
“Sailing is a purpose. Where would we be today if it weren’t for those that sailed right past that big clod out there? ‘Naw, ‘yerself. I think ‘yer just a snob.”
“I’m a snob? Never been accused of that. ‘Sides, you’re the yachtie. ‘Ya sound just like Miss Kronsnoble, my history teacher. ‘Where would we be today?’ Something she would say ‘fer sure.”
“Miss Kronsnoble?” Peggy giggled. It sounded like tinkling ice.
“My seventh-grade homeroom teacher. All the homerooms had clubs. We were the Kronsnoble Krusaders.”
“What were you in the eighth grade?”
“Snoopy Snobles!” They giggled together.
Silence. Swallow. Slurp.
“I don’t know how,” Charlie admitted.
“To sail?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how to sail. Been raised on working boats.”
Silence. Slurp. Swallow.
“I could teach ‘ya, and if you even think of that ‘but you’re a girl’ bullcrap I’m ‘gonna slap ‘ya silly.”
Charlie’s laughter was spontaneous, long and loud.
“I couldn’t pay ‘ya.”
“Could you take me to the movie Saturday? I’ll buy the popcorn.”
Counting his stashed bankroll in his mind he quickly calculated. It would mean putting off the purchase of a mushroom anchor and chain from Marine Hardware and Supply to replace the cinderblock and rope he was using now, but he could manage it if he rowed for the rest of the week.
“Sure,” he grinned.
'Bob’s Comet' cruised back up the harbor to the boat basin operated by a skipper dazed with distraction. Images of blond ringlets filled his brain and the bite of Coca-Cola left him gassy. Charlie Hagglund had found his fourth vice: Peggy Phillips.
Fascinating story. So real and vivid. Although, I am not the type of a person, who knows anything about sailboats and so forth... it felt like I was there going through the whole thing with that young boy and the girl whom he save from a major accident.
A well crafted and tightly written short story told with a dash of humor. I enjoyed this fun, boaty story, partly because I like shorts that end back at the beginning -- and partly because I have a love/hate relationship with boats and things nautical.
Dreamin’ Dreams is more than a collection of stories; it is a celebration of Irish life, adventure, and the unforgettable characters who make growing up in Ireland a journey worth remembering.
Part Three in the Mu Series - Sarah Thompson reluctantly abandons her desperate search for her soul mate on Maui and returns to her Montana hometown. Her brother has had a terrible accident...
Charlie Hagglund loved everything about 'Bob’s Comet' except the costs of operating her. The mixture of oil and gasoline needed for propulsion came dearly. He remembered with a blush of shame the time he had to row 'C-Weed' the length of the harbor with the 'Comet' in trail, fuel tank empty, a rarely allowed advance on weekly allowance in his pockets. Comet’s Boatyard was in limbo following the unexpected death of its owner, Bob Comet. The yard boat, fourteen-foot stem to stern complete with Evinrude outboard motor, was left to Charlie as payment for services as boatyard boy. He doubted the new owner would be as eager to employ a thirteen-year-old even if he worked for trade.
