Daniel Gumbiner - The Boatbuilder

Alejandro and Berg got into JC’s Mercedes and they drove into the hills behind Talinas. Berg sat in the front seat and Alejandro sat in the back.

“I love that new boat you guys built, man,” JC said. “The Alma. I love it. It’s perfect. With the compartments down below. It’s great. What are those made out of again?”

“Iroko,” Alejandro said. “It’s the most durable hardwood we have.”

“Amazing. I love it,” JC said.

He opened the glove box and pulled out a pack of beef jerky, offered some to Alejandro and Berg. There was a gun in the glove compartment. Berg took the beef jerky and chewed it slowly, looked out the window at the bay as it receded from view.

“I heard about your car,” JC said to Alejandro, taking a big bite of the jerky and chewing it loudly. “Some motherfuckers stole your car.”

“Yes,” Alejandro said.

“Motherfuckers,” JC scowled.

After several minutes they rounded a corner and began heading up JC’s driveway. When they got to the top of the driveway, Berg saw Lammy and her kids. They were playing soccer in a grassy field, and behind them, in the distance, Berg could see a house. The house was built in the shape of a mushroom, or perhaps a snail? It was hard to say. Lammy came over and kissed Alejandro on the cheek.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said.

“It’s good to see you, dear,” Alejandro said.

“You showing him his present?” Lammy asked.

“Yep,” JC said.

“You’re gonna like it,” Lammy said, and then she called to the kids and retreated toward the house.

JC winked at Berg and then ushered them over to his garage. He lifted up the door to reveal several motorcycles and a brand new Cadillac. JC motioned toward the Cadillac like a game-show host.

“I bought you a Cadillac,” JC said, grinning at Alejandro. Alejandro stood there silently, staring at the Cadillac. JC motioned to the Cadillac again: “It’s yours,” he said. “Happy birthday. It’s a birthday present. You can take Rebecca out on a drive.”

“But it’s not my birthday,” Alejandro said.

“It’s for your last birthday then, whatever.”

“JC…” Alejandro began.

“You don’t want it,” JC said. “I can tell. You don’t want it. That’s totally fine, man. Totally fine.”

Berg looked at JC fearfully. He had no idea if he was being serious.

“Just do me a favor,” JC said. “Just drive it down to the water. You and Berg. Follow me down to the water in the Cadillac. I’m going to take the Mercedes. Just follow me down. You don’t have to accept the gift.”

He handed Alejandro the keys, hopped into his Mercedes, and cruised down the driveway. Berg’s first thought was, of course, that JC was going to murder them and dump them in the bay. He thought of the gun in the glove compartment. His mouth was dry and tasted like beef jerky.

Alejandro said nothing as they drove down the hill but, Berg noticed, his knuckles were white from gripping the wheel.

“How bad is this?” Berg asked.

“It’s not good,” Alejandro said.

“You should have just accepted the Cadillac.”

“I hate Cadillacs.”

“Jesus. Are we about to get fucked up?”

“I hope not.”

They parked on the turnout by Miller’s Point, about fifteen yards away from the cliff. JC got out of the car and walked over to the Cadillac.

“Okay, put the thing in neutral,” he said.

“Look, JC,” Alejandro said, still sitting in the car, the door open. “Let me explain…”

“No, man! You don’t want it! No need to explain. Put the thing in neutral and get out.”

Alejandro put it in neutral and he and Berg exited the car. Then JC asked them to help him push it.

“Push it off the cliff?” Berg said.

“Off the edge, man! Off the edge!”

It was difficult to get the car rolling but JC was an absurdly strong man. With his help, they were able to get it moving and, once it picked up speed, they gave it one last shove and stepped back. Alejandro bent over and panted like a linebacker, but JC walked to the edge of the cliff and watched the Cadillac plummet to the rocks below. It must have been a fifty-foot drop.

“Fuck yeah!” JC yelled and scrambled down a path on the side of the cliff toward the car. Once he was down on the beach, he began picking up rocks and throwing them at the car, smashing its windows, denting the parts of it that were not yet dented from its fall.

“Fuck this Cadillac, man! Fuck it!” he yelled. Berg watched him from the top of the cliff, still slightly terrified, but also relieved. Several minutes later JC scrambled back up the cliff and shook Alejandro’s hand. He was covered in sweat, but he seemed relaxed, like he’d just had a massage.

“Okay, man,” he said. “I’ll drop you guys home now. Happy birthday, Ale.”

ONE SUNDAY, ALEJANDRO OFFERED to take Berg and Uffa out on one of the four boats he kept down by the dock. In the morning they drank coffee and ate rye bread with butter and then they headed down to the water. Alejandro’s dock was shaped like a T and it extended probably thirty feet out into the bay. There were two boats tied up along the body of the T, and two boats further out, tied to the top of the T. On shore, flipped upside down, were several canoes.

“See, this boat here,” Alejandro said, walking over to one of the canoes. “This boat is so light. I built this boat so you could carry it by yourself. See?” He lifted the boat and winced slightly. “It’s perfect,” he said, still wincing, “for going to get your groceries in the morning. When I lived at Dillon Beach, I used to row this down to Five Brooks when I needed provisions. And this one,” he said pointing to a larger boat, “this is the one we’re taking out: Contos. ”

The Contos was based on the Greek salmon boats that used to be sailed near Vallejo. She was sprit-rigged and beamy, but still fast and maneuverable. She was capable of carrying over two thousand five hundred pounds of fish and designed to be sailed underweight. The boat had a small cabin and she was equipped with a dory, which fit neatly on her foredeck.

Uffa uncleated the dock lines and shoved the boat off the pier, hopping onto the stern at the last moment. Alejandro’s house was located on the eastern shore of the bay and his pier edged out into a shallow cove. The cove was pretty much clear of obstacles, except for one rock near its center, which was submerged during high tide but visible during low tide, covered with slippery green seaweed. Alejandro had strung two leading lights from madrone trees near the shore so he could navigate past the rock if he had to return after dark.

They tacked their way up to the mouth and crossed the shoal with little difficulty. Once out of the bay, the winds picked up and shifted slightly to the north. To the west they could see the Slide Islands, rocky and brown, and to the east the coastal ridge, with its white, wave-cut bluffs. They sailed south now on a broad reach, less than a mile from the shore. Berg managed the jib, trimming the sheet every once in while to keep the sail full. When they passed the lighthouse they jibed and headed east, toward Wildcat Bay and Estero. This was the bay where the first English explorers had landed in the sixteenth century, looking for treasure. According to Alejandro, they had described the cliffs as reminiscent of the English Channel.

“When I first came here with my father,” Alejandro said. “I thought California was so ugly. I thought it was gray and cold and ugly. I was coming from Tahiti, you know, where everything is very bright and tropical. It wasn’t until I had lived in Talinas for several years that I began to appreciate the beauty here. It’s similar to what we were talking about the other day, Berg,” he said. “It takes time to build affection for something. You have to stay in a place. It doesn’t just happen instantly.”