Daniel Gumbiner - The Boatbuilder

“You know, now they just offer almanacs online for free,” Alejandro said. “I can’t tell if there’s a catch. Like, am I going to get hacked or something?”

“You’re not going to get hacked,” Uffa said.

“Well, in any case, it’s free, which is good, because these almanacs can be expensive. Like fifty dollars or something.”

“Shit,” Garrett said.

“Yes, exactly. So, in any case, I learned this intercept method from my father in Tahiti. At the time I had no idea what I was doing. No conceptual understanding of the thing whatsoever. I just did it by rote. I was a C-minus student in math, at the best of times, but I was still able to do this, because, as you’ll see, once you get it down, it’s not too difficult. Taking the sight with the sextant can be harder. Some people have a natural talent for it. I don’t know how.”

First, he explained, they would be learning the theoretical elements of navigation, and then, for the second class, they would go to Jensen Beach and take sights with the sextant.

“Now, the advantage of taking a sight from land, from Jensen Beach, is that you can figure out whether or not you’re on Jensen Beach. And if you’re not on Jensen Beach then you have a problem. You are either there or you’re not there. At sea you don’t have this advantage.”

Alejandro drew a globe on the board and then explained how the ancients had divided up the globe into degrees and minutes.

“These are not time minutes,” Alejandro clarified.

“What’s a not-time minute?” Simon asked.

“Let the man speak, Simon,” Garrett said.

“We’re talking about minutiae. It’s just an arbitrary measurement. It’s based on the Babylonian system. Now, in terms of longitude, they decided to divide a day into twenty-four. Again, it’s these very ancient notions of time, and they divided a day into twenty-four. So if we were to divide three hundred sixty by twenty-four, what would we get?”

“Forty,” said Garrett.

“No, it would be fifteen. So we would get fifteen degrees per hour. Okay, so now I’m going to draw a secondary sphere, which is the celestial sphere, and it’s actually infinite, but we don’t see it as infinite, we see it as a sphere.”

Alejandro lectured for two hours and then had them practice the necessary calculations using a sight he’d taken earlier in the day, at noon, at Jensen Beach. When they finished the calculations, he showed them how to plot their answer on a nautical chart. It was almost perfect. Next week, he explained, they’d head out to the beach and learn how to take a sight.

After class Alejandro went to check on the barn and Berg, Uffa, Garrett, and Simon went over to the Western. Garrett lingered outside to smoke a Black & Mild but the rest of the group went in and ordered drinks. At the bar Berg recognized Ben, Mimi’s Ben, the man who’d helped him after the chicken attack. He went over to say hi. Uffa and Simon headed to the other end of the bar to order drinks. Berg had not seen Ben since he came over and counseled him on Lansing’s injury, and it took Ben a second to remember him.

“Oh, Berg, that’s right,” he said. “Let me buy you a beer. This is my friend Billy.”

“Who?”

“Billy,” the man said, leaning over Ben and shaking Berg’s hand. “You’re Ben’s friend? I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Since when are you buying everyone beers?” Ben said. “You’re poor as shit.”

“Shut up,” Billy said, and then he turned to Berg. “Do I look poor to you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Berg said. “Not really.”

“Man, you’re poor as shit,” Ben said. Billy ordered them three beers and Ben put a coaster on top of his, headed over to the bathroom.

“So what do you do?” Billy asked Berg. He almost said he worked at Fernwood but caught himself.

“I’m an apprentice with Alejandro.”

“Oh that nutjob,” Billy said. “Always trying to rip people off with those dumb-ass soaps.”

Then Garrett walked into the room. Billy stood up immediately and stared directly at him.

“This motherfucker,” he muttered under his breath. Garrett didn’t notice him at first and walked over to Uffa and Simon.

“Hey y’all,” Billy yelled to the bar. “A bitch-ass narc just walked in. No one serve the bitch-ass narc.” Garrett turned around and looked at Billy.

“Man, I’m over that shit,” Garrett said.

“They took away my license,” Billy said, walking over to Garrett.

“Well that’s your fault, dude,” Garrett said. “Shouldn’t be chartering twenty people with a six-pack license.” Garrett turned toward the bartender. “Can I get a beer?” he said. She poured him a glass, handed it to him, and right after Garrett set down four dollars on the bar Billy knocked the glass out of his hand.

“Billy, you have fucked with the wrong dude,” Garrett said, looking up, and Billy punched him in the face. Garrett withstood the blow surprisingly well, considering how unprepared he’d been. He stumbled backward a few steps but maintained his footing. By now Uffa and Berg had positioned themselves between the two men.

“You wahoos take this outside,” an old man called from the corner of the bar.

“Bo, I’ve seen you get in like ten fights in this bar,” Garrett said. Bo shook his head and then dipped his nose into his pint glass, like a hummingbird nipping at a feeder of sugar water.

“Let’s go outside, man,” Billy said. “Or are you too afraid to ditch your two bodyguards here?”

“I’m not afraid of shit,” Garrett said.

“Then let’s go outside. I’ll knock your bitch ass out,” Billy said. Then he looked at Berg. “Dude, you need to step off and let me handle this.”

“I don’t even know you,” Berg said.

“Fucking little bitch,” Billy spat.

“What?” Berg said, stepping toward Billy. And that was all he remembered from the interaction. He woke up on the floor, with Uffa whispering in his ear. Everything around him seemed to be moving slowly and his ears hummed like a warm engine. He kept trying to say something but he wasn’t sure what he needed to say. He felt detached, like an astronaut cut from the ship, floating and waiting to die.

“Can you sit up?” Uffa said. “Do you want to sit up?”

HE WAS IN ALEJANDRO’S bed, still wearing his hospital bracelet. “He hit me in the exact same spot. Right under my left eye.”

“You can’t change what happened now,” Alejandro said.

Berg said nothing.

“Right?”

“Right.”

Alejandro took a book from the bookshelf.

“The exact same spot,” Berg muttered, incredulous.

“JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES now,” Alejandro told him. He had a book in hand now. “Just lean back and relax.”

“THIS STORY IS BY John Szerbiak,” Alejandro said. And then he began to read.

IT WAS SUCH A strange line, Berg thought. He felt addled, confused. Maybe he’d heard it wrong. He was still reeling from the concussion. Is that how the story begins? he thought. This can’t be how the story begins. But he had little time to wonder. The story kept going.

THAT SPRING THE QUAIL congregated in the hills in urban concentrations. They marched back and forth through the forest, clucking and fussing like harried commuters. Everyone in town commented on their abundance, and speculated as to its causes. All of the rain from that winter, or perhaps a decrease in the number of local bobcats, who were among the main quail predators. Woody had a different theory.

“My guess is that the lizard aliens planted them,” he told Berg, a sober look on his face. “They’re priming the habitat so that it can support them when they invade. They like to dine on wild fowl. That is widely known.”