Diamonds In The Rough

The early morning serenity of the boatyard was shattered by the voice of Ernie Hanson. “You in there?” the dockmaster hollered. “You gotta be. I can smell ya from up here.”

Mario Costello recognized Hanson’s voice and propped himself onto one elbow before looking down the length of the cabin. Hanson was topside, lying on his belly, with his head in an inverted position in the companionway. As he peered below to see if Mario was on board, his face appeared to be in a teak-framed portrait. Costello, being rousted from a deep sleep, lacked the alertness to focus on the skewed features. He could only imagine the two or three day’s growth of whiskers―the dockmaster’s signature look.

“Yeah, I’m in here,” Mario answered, his voice filled with sleep. “What . . . what the hell do you want . . . what time is it anyway?”

“Time to pay the slip fee you told me you were going to pay last week, and the week before that. I’ve got guys callin’ me for this space. Guys who’ll pay a lot more than you pay―or should I say what you’re supposed to pay.”

IT HAD BEEN SEVERAL hours since Mario had guided his thirty-five foot sloop named Miss Demeanor into the Melbourne boatyard. The inlet was cloaked in fog, and with her running lights extinguished, the singular mast light, high above the water line, was the only visible proof that a boat was entering. Costello dropped the mainsail and rolled in the genoa allowing her momentum to glide her between boats resting on moorings.

Miss Demeanor’s invisibility made the glow from the mast light appear mystical, stealth-like, as she cut through the pre-dawn mist. Costello’s familiarity with the waters eliminated the need for the lonely wail of the fog horn that assisted others. His eyes searched for the small light that identified his slip space. Upon its recognition, he made the short jump to the dock and looped his bow line in a figure eight around a cleat. The diesel engines of nearby boats grumbled the start of the fishermen’s day and were accompanied by cries of gulls, flying as escorts, as they guided boats out of the channel.

After Costello set fenders and secured a spring line, he made a cursory attempt at organizing the cockpit. He had made the sail from Andros Island in two days. The last leg from Miami to Melbourne had been tiring, and although the morning sounds of the Indian River were soothing, they were not necessary to assist in his needed rest. With Miss Demeanor safe in her home port, he went below, stripped off his clothing, and crawled into the comfort of the V-berth.

During the next few hours, the sun’s reflection washed the hull with a pattern of glittering diamonds. Mario’s sound sleep was the reason for his lack of awareness to the yelling that came from the dockmaster. It was the amplification of the voice that now rousted him and gave cause for a response.

“I’ll have your money in a couple of days,” Mario told him. He swung his legs off the berth and sat up. He was a man that women considered ruggedly handsome. His lanky frame was tanned from days on deck, and at twenty-eight, his muscles were developed and well-toned from years of sailing. Still groggy with sleep, he was annoyed that he’d been caught off guard by Hanson. He was usually successful in avoiding him when he owed money.

“Coupla days my ass!” Hanson yelled back. “I’m losin’ my shirt with you takin’ up this space. I get my money today or you can anchor this tub out there in the big blue sea. And if I don’t get my money today, I’ll come by later to see if you’ve got anything worth taking and help myself. I’m sure I can get a pretty penny for this nice plow anchor you’ve got sittin’ here on the bow―and I’ll keep takin’ stuff until you pay up. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

When Mario failed to respond, Hanson continued, “Where you been lately anyway? I been lookin’ for you all week.”

“Sailin’ the coast,” Mario told him, being as vague as possible. There was no need for Hanson to know he had just sailed in from a run to Cuba. However, the dockmaster’s threat about poking around the boat warranted a response. “I wouldn’t advise you taking my anchor,” Mario told him, “or anything else for that matter. I guess if you did I’d have to pay your shanty up there a return visit, if you get my drift.” The comment was made in reference to Hanson’s name for the dilapidated building he used as an office. The assumption was he believed the word “shanty” had a more nautical ring to it. A small apartment on the second floor served as the dockmaster’s living quarters.

Mario stood in his briefs as he moved to the middle of the cabin in search of the shorts he’d tossed aside before retiring. Finding them, he pulled them on as he approached the hatchway. Hanson’s face became clearer. At the closer distance, his inverted features appeared misplaced and absurdly pronounced. His forehead was a chin, his teeth were distorted, and the bristly hairs in his nostrils were tightly packed.

Without bothering to right himself, he continued shouting in Mario’s face. “You wanna visit me in the shanty? You just be my guest,” he replied. “You’re in Florida, now boy,” he reminded Mario. “This is a stand-your-ground state. I got a nine millimeter in the office just waitin’ to say hello to you if you care to come sneakin’ around. “You immigrants think you can come down here and freeload off of us but you ain’t gonna do that to me my friend.”

Although Mario had lived in Florida for several years, he was originally from Massachusetts, and in Hanson’s mind, anyone who lived―or had lived―anywhere north of Jacksonville was an immigrant

That said, Hanson maneuvered himself into an upright position and lowered himself into the cockpit. He was a heavy man and as he stepped from the boat to the dock his weight caused Miss Demeanor to rock. An empty Jack Daniel’s bottle slid across the cabin floor and came to rest on Mario’s bare foot.

“By the way, you may want to learn how to put your fenders on,” Hanson yelled from the dock. “One of ‘em isn’t even hittin’ anything out here. You’re gonna get a nice wear-spot on the starboard side if ya don’t fix it.”

Mario knew a decent sailor would’ve made the adjustment rather than criticize the placement, but the dockmaster left it unattended, chuckling to himself as he walked away.