Daniel Gumbiner - The Boatbuilder

“Going to the Oysters game later tonight,” he said.

The Muire County Oysters were the local minor-league baseball team. Their mascot was a talking oyster that looked more like a frog than an oyster. People around the county had signs in front of their homes that said SHUCK ’EM UP. GO OYSTERS.

“Who’s pitching?” Simon asked.

“Santorini,” Garrett said.

“Oh yeah, Santorini. He’s good.”

“He’s really good. He’s probably the best Oysters pitcher of all time. If not the best, then at least in the top three.”

“What about Lew Brown?” Simon said.

“He’s in the top three, too.”

“Who else is in the top three?”

“There’s one other. That’s why it’s a top three.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not going to feed everything to you like a baby bird, Simon. Go get a history book. Educate yourself.”

“You’re not going to tell me ’cause you don’t know.”

“What?”

“You just made up this arbitrary list.”

“Is the galley clean, Simon? Berg, come steer for a bit. You need the practice and Simon needs to clean the galley.”

When they got close to Pier 4, Garrett took the wheel and Berg kicked over the fenders, draped the dock lines along the lifelines for easy access. Garrett brought the boat in at an angle and then threw it into reverse, using the prop walk to swing the stern around. After Berg had made fast the dock lines, he came back on board and began placing life vests on deck.

“How many people are we?” he asked Garrett.

“Twelve. So fifteen life vests. Make sure you text Mangini after we’re underway, too.”

Once Berg set up the life vests, he gathered the liability waivers and stepped off the boat onto the pier. Garrett was sitting on top of a dock box, talking to the client on his cell phone.

“What did you say? You’re at Pier 1½? Why are you at Pier 1½? Yeah, we had you scheduled for 12:00 at Pier 4. Two-hour cruise. You guys said you were bringing an ice cream cake. Right. There’s a boat there already? You must have double-booked. Yeah. I don’t know how. We don’t pick up at Pier 1½. What’s the Captain’s name? Billy? Yeah, okay, and how many people are you again? Twelve. Perfect. Thanks, Todd. Well, you head off with them. We’ll settle this up tomorrow over the phone. Okay. Enjoy yourself. Yeah, no problem. No, no, really it’s no problem.”

He hung up and pumped his fist.

“Yes, yes, yes!” he shouted. “We are going to nail those fuckers. I am going to nail Billy. He’s been doing this for years.”

“Doing what?” Berg asked.

“Chartering out of Pier 1½ with a six-pack license. He is not licensed to carry twelve passengers. Do you know how much it cost us to get Blown Away to pass Coast Guard inspection? And these guys are fucking stealing charters out from under our noses with insufficient licenses. But oh, we ’re gonna destroy ’em. We’re gonna destroy ’em. I am so pumped.”

He climbed down into the galley and called the Coast Guard. A young man picked up and Garrett put him on loudspeaker. Garrett always put calls on loudspeaker.

“United States Coast Guard Sector Eleven,” the man said.

“Good afternoon. I want to report an illegal charter that is happening right now, departing from Pier 1½.” Garrett was rubbing his jaw, pacing back and forth in the small galley.

“Okay, sir, what can you tell me about the charter?”

“It is motor vessel Chico Rico, that’s M/V Chico Rico, and it’s departing from Pier 1½ as we speak with twelve passengers and the captain is only licensed with a six-pack, and I know this because they were supposed to be my charter but they were taken out from under my nose.”

“Sir, we currently have a rescue taking place along the coast. We will probably have to handle this administratively. Or we’ll board the vessel next time we see it. In any case, we’ll have an investigator give you a call tomorrow.”

“But they’re gonna deny it,” Garrett said. “There will be no evidence.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have the capacity to address the issue at this time.”

The Coast Guard officer hung up.

“Motherfuckers,” Garrett said. “We’ll go it alone.”

“What?” Berg said.

“You heard me. We’ll go it alone.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not scared of anyone, man. I’m not scared of anyone. Cast off the dock lines, Berg.”

“Oh yeah,” Simon said. “We’re gonna get these fuckers.”

They motored over to Pier 1½ but by the time they got there Chico Rico had departed. There was nothing around except an abandoned orange motorboat with a broken windshield and a seagull pecking at fish guts. Berg’s headache was steadily emerging. He did not want to chase down M/V Chico Rico so they could narc them out to the Coast Guard, but Garrett and Simon were galvanized, and Berg sensed that the trip was far from over.

“They probably went to Horse Island,” Simon said. “Probably doing a little spin around Horse Island.”

“Good idea,” Garrett said.

They motored southwest toward the island. Simon steered and Garrett scanned the bay with his binoculars. Berg went to the bow, held onto the forestay, and surveyed the bay. There were a few other boats out but no sign of Chico Rico. A platoon of cormorants flew low along the shore and Muire birds dipped their heads in and out of the cold water. The shiny back of a seal appeared and then slipped below the surface. At the bow, Simon and Garrett could not see him, and Berg was able to close his eyes. This held the headache at bay to a certain extent. He was able to keep his eyes closed for several minutes, until Simon shouted.

“Over there!” he said. “It’s them.”

Chico Rico was a thirty-five-foot motorboat with a small galley. There were grooves running along her hull to present the illusion of wooden planking but she was made out of fiberglass. The boat was heading straight at them, slightly to port. Simon throttled down as the vessels neared each other.

“Get your phone ready,” Garrett shouted at Berg. “We’re going to take photos when we pass them.”

A few minutes later the boats passed each other, port to port, and Garrett and Berg casually took photos. Berg tried to act like he was checking something on his phone and not photographing the other boat. It was hard to say if there were twelve people on board but there were certainly more than six. Once they passed the boat, Berg looked back at its stern: there were two men sitting in wooden chairs, drinking white wine from stemless glasses. Berg waved at them and they waved back.

“Beautiful day,” one of them called.

“It is a beautiful day,” Garrett answered. “It is so beautiful.”

TO BERG’S SURPRISE, THE Coast Guard followed through on its word and boarded Chico Rico the following day. Billy called Garrett from the water.

“Did you sic the Coast Guard on me?” Billy said. Garrett was down by the docks with Simon and Berg, refitting a window on one of the Santanas.

“I may have,” Garrett said. “Look, it’s been a long week. Hard to remember what I did or did not do.”

“I have six Coasties up my ass right now and I know it was your doing.”

“Please don’t use that foul language, Billy. Simon is right next to me and he is an impressionable young man.”

“This isn’t over, Garrett.”

“Don’t get mad, Billy.”

“Oh, I’m mad.”

Billy, Berg learned, was the brother of Deputy White, one of the two sheriffs in town. They both grew up in Five Brooks but now they lived in Talinas. Billy was unmarried and had worked for the county water district as a groundwater consultant. According to Simon he had a “light meth problem.” Garrett was concerned that Billy’s brother was going to find a way to bail him out so he called the Sheriff’s Department after he hung up with Billy to lodge a formal complaint.