HOW WE MET

Chapter 13:

THE REGATTA

Miami, here we come! I’ve been there on my Love Boat several times. It’s always an adventure. On one passage, I anchored in the lee of Fisher Island. It looked sheltered and was marked as an “anchorage area” on the charts. There were several other boats at anchor when I arrived mid-afternoon. The charts show an area of deeper water, mostly surrounded my shoals. I dropped hook a safe distance from the shallows and relaxed. About midnight, a raucous storm blew in off the Atlantic Ocean. Little Fisher Island proved no match for this dust up and I was worried about dragging anchor into the shoals. The storm raged and somehow, I survived and did not end up on the bottom. The next morning when assessing the damage, I discovered that the forces of wind and water had bent my anchor snubber, a ¼ inch thick stainless steel plate, rendering it useless. This put considerable pressure on my windlass, which, fortunately, stayed in place.

I made reservations at a large marina in Coconut Grove, just to the south of Miami proper. The marina has several hundred slips and dozens of mooring balls. I chose to pay the high price for a slip at the docks. This affords me the luxury of shore power, water, and easy access to walk or taxi anywhere. Once secured in my slip, I relaxed with my dram in the cockpit. It had been a rigorous sail, three full days at sea, and I was tired. I woke up in the cockpit at 3 a.m. from a deep sleep. I found my way below and collapsed on my soft queen size bed in the Captain’s quarters.

I had been so exhausted from my race to get to Miami, to catch up to Heather, that I slept until noon. Groggy, I brewed coffee and cooked up some sausage patties and eggs for brunch. With my belly full and my head clearing, I pondered my next move. Heather had said that she was headed to Miami and possibly the Islands in either the Bahamas or the Caribbean. This encompassed a whole lot of territory to cover, looking for my Dame Harmony. I hardly knew where to begin.

I walked to the marina office. This was a huge marina, adjacent to a large city, so everything was the opposite of the “mom and pop” marinas so prevalent elsewhere. The office staff was brusque, official, business-like and of absolutely no help whatsoever. Strike one. I wandered across the street to a café and set up my laptop at a corner table. I scoured the ‘net for anything I could find. I called every marina listed in the area to repeatedly hear “Nope, never heard of such a boat, or the lady you describe.” Strike two. I finished my Cuban coffee and ambled, dejected, back to my Love Boat.

After a late afternoon nap, I rose in a funk. It was all seeming hopeless. She had outsmarted me, disappeared, and put too much distance between us. I was losing hope that I would ever be able to find my true love, my soulmate. Her vibe had been so strong, so overpowering, and it had seemed as if it was directed at me. How could I have been so wrong? Had I missed something basic that caused the whole thing to collapse? I was fraught with depression, uncertainty, and loss of direction. I was feeling as if this was strike three. “You’rrrreee OUT!!”

Feeling the need for some company, I wandered up to the marina headquarters. There was a captain’s lounge, but it did not seem well used. This was apparently not a highly social marina. I guess most boaters were just passing through on their way to or from. The room was good sized with the obligatory televisions, tables and chairs, whatnot, but sparse and basic. What you’d expect from a city owned facility. There were a few boaters, mostly couples, either watching insipid television, reading books or huddled over charts and laptops planning their next passage. There was one older couple sitting at a cocktail table enjoying each other’s company, not otherwise engaged. I approached.

“Greetings! I’m Sailor on Blow Me. I just got in yesterday. How are you folks doing?”

“We’re fine, thank you. I’m Jerry and my first mate Matilda. We’re on the trawler Fading Away.”

I engaged them in conversation, talking about the usual boating issues: weather, calamities, breakdowns. The boating life is certainly not dull. Eventually, I turned the conversation to my quest: information about Heather and Q. My God, they knew of the boat. Holy Jesus. They had seen it in these waters just days prior. Apparently, they were returning from an outing and saw Q leaving this very marina.

“Quite the vessel, isn’t she? Both my wife and I commented. It’s not often you see boats crafted like that any longer. Matilda, honey, you even snapped a photo, didn’t you?”

Matilda reached for her cellphone. “I think so. It really was a beautiful boat. Let’s see. Yes, here it is. The picture’s not very clear, the sun was behind it, and the waves were making me unsteady.”

The picture was in fact Q, but it was blurry and you couldn’t see who was at the helm. But it had been here. Nearby, just days ago.

I peppered them with questions to which they had little to offer. The only other thing they relayed was that they had mentioned the unique boat to the office staff in passing. The staff had said that there was some sort of annual gathering of unique, antique boats that either had just happened or was about to happen, they weren’t certain.

Sure enough, my research skills from being an attorney for decades prior came in handy. A simple visit to the internet disclosed that a local boat club had sponsored and organized a Regatta of unique or antique boats just the week prior. It had involved a flotilla, of sorts, in Biscayne Bay, just south of Miami. A few dozen boats had drifted around, showing off, and streamed in a parade past several marinas in the area. I contacted the leader of the boat club. He was a liveaboard in the marina that I was currently in. I made arrangements to meet with him in the Captain’s Lounge early the next day.

Over coffee and some doughnuts, I organized my questions for Ed, it turns out. I decided to come in the back door, so to speak. My gambit was to act as if I had just seen the boat in their wonderful regatta, and wanted to purchase it. Surely, he would have some contact information for my ephemeral Ms. Harmony.

Ed did not look like the typical boater. Mid 50 yr. old, he looked more like a jock from the ‘70s. Crew cut, erect posture, muscular, tight shirt stretched at the biceps. The whole nine yards. His handshake nearly broke my fingers.

“Don’t know a whole lot about that boat. Sure was a beauty, though, wasn’t she? And that cute little captain lady. If I wasn’t married, oh, boy. Nooo… she didn’t give us much, and we discovered later that what she did give us didn’t match up.”

“I’m more interested in the boat itself, Ed. I’m not looking to buy a captained vessel. This is more of an investment for me. You see, Ed, I collect vintage and unique boats. I have a half dozen vintage Chris Craft woodens up in Cedarville, Michigan, I’ve got a few unique ones scattered about. There’s a 55 foot Hunter I have in the Keys. Most unusual boat. It’s neither deck stepped nor keel stepped. The fucking mast stops about 2 inches above the deck. Supported by 3 angled rods. 7 foot draft. Built for racing. Fucking boat feels like it gets up on a plane. 23 knots. It’s quite a ride, Ed.”

“Interesting, Mr. Sailor. Sounds like a fun boat.”

“So, Ed, what else can you tell me about this boat? Where was it headed? Maybe I can track it down elsewhere.”

“To be honest, Mr. Sailor, the captain was very vague in our dealings. And, I’m ashamed to say, her fine looks were very distracting. She certainly was a looker. She did ask a few novice questions about going through customs in the Bahamas. But she also talked about sailing around the Gulf of Trump, just to get to know her boat better. I met her as she was coming into the dock to register for the Regatta. She missed the dock entirely and had to do a go around. I didn’t judge, though. That’s an awful big boat for such a tiny lady to single hand.”

“Ed, I’m still interested in buying that boat. Money is not an object. I’ll even wager a sizeable finder’s fee if you can locate her, Ed. Maybe I could get a peek at the papers she filed with you. I might see something in there that could prove helpful in finding that boat. And if you could call some of your boater network friends maybe we can find her together. Many thanks, Ed.”

Chapter 14:

THE BOAT’S NOT FOR SALE

The papers that Ed shared with me were of no help at all. Nothing matched up with anything else, neither internally among the forms nor externally on various websites. They were mostly useless pieces of paper with no validity, and I had spent nearly a whole day chasing another dead end clue. But I had heard that she was looking at either the Bahamas or the Gulf of Trump. Either was fine but the Gulf was my stomping grounds. I knew almost every port, every marina from the Keys all the way to the panhandle and around to Mexico. I had also engaged Ed and his cronies to search for Q. Something was bound to surface sooner or later.

That night I sat in the cockpit, drowning my sorrows in yet another English cut glass double old fashioned glass filled with expensive single malt scotch. I studied the stars, I clenched my fists pounding on the deck, I howled at the moon, trying to get a bead on Heather’s whereabouts. I still felt her presence, but the signal seemed to be fading away, getting weaker by the day. I poured yet another tumblerful and slumped in the cockpit, desperate for any sign, any shred of information that would lead me to her. The scotch worked, sending me into a fantasy slumber. My brain was trying to locate her, and it was roaming endlessly, amorphously through the fog.

Out of the clear blue, my phone shrieked at me, jolting me. With clouds in my head, I found it and looked. Oh, goodness. My BFF. “Private number – Restricted.” I tapped answer and before I could even say “Hello,” I heard Heather’s voice “The boat’s not for sale.” Click. Dropped call.

All my brain would allow was “…but deliver me from evil, For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” She knew. She knew that I was searching for her. She knew that I was close. Her intellect had told her that I was persistent, I was thorough, and I had my sights set on something. Was that off-putting to her? Was this some sort of “catch me if you can” game she was playing? Hide and seek? Tag, you’re it? Was she simply toying with me to test my faith, my resolve, my desire, to see if I passed the test and was worthy?