In the past six years, Indian had constructed eight boats for the Alazar family including the Island Girl for Bobby, a 40-footer for Gordo, and Vibrations, a custom built 64-foot commercial boat for Roberto Sr., the largest venture ever completed in or around the Indian shop. Roberts called her “The Monster” and marveled at her completion.
That morning, Roberts started construction on a new boat for Alazar, another custom-built commercial vessel. The highly polished mold he was using was not one of his regulars. This mold had belonged to his father. Unlike the normal eight-foot beam of the ocean racing go-fast, this mold was thirteen feet wide and over forty-two feet long. It featured a flat planning bottom and a keel, rather than the popular deep-V. By all rights, it resembled the original wooden boats built years ago by lobstermen in the New England area. It was a commercial hull and was designed for sea farming or a large scale fishing operation.
Roberto Alazar had named his new boat the Heads Up and its conception occurred at 7:00 a.m. by the Indian crew, placing a reverse imprinted hull ID number that was affixed to the rear of the mold. The night before, some of Roberts’s men waxed and prepared the massive impression, also made from Fiberglas. An industrial, high temperature laminate ten times the strength of standard Fiberglas was blended to fend off repeated abuse of the dormant acidic resin. It was nothing less than a volatile release of energy that had to be monitored closely. Before they could wax the mold though, some house cleaning had to be performed. Inside the mold were scores of small pieces of fire-singed paper, remnants of a ritual that had gone on for decades. Whenever a boat was removed from the mold, one of the workers would throw several packs of firecrackers into the void, making a loud, deafening sound.
They applied twelve coats of the mold release wax, making sure not to miss a single square centimeter, then wiped each coat clean and applied another and then yet another until the entire mold glistened under the fluorescent shop lights. The three men worked the large shell and, despite the heat generated by the waxing and continual buffing of the surface, each man was resigned to wearing cotton gloves while in contact with the pristine mold surface. A slight fingerprint of oil could very well cause the new boat to adhere, or “marry” as those who knew better called it, to the mold, its womb. The layers of wax would repel Fiberglas resin from the mold’s surface, much like greasing a cake pan before pouring the sweet batter.
At 7:00 that morning, when the air was light and cool, Roberts donned a plastic-coated paper jumpsuit and sprayed the mold with a pigmented resin called gelcoat that would make up the outer most skin of the vessel. The gelcoat gave the boat its glossy finish and, because it was on the outer surface, determined its color.
By 7:30, Roberts’s crew started to stagger in through the open bay door at the front of the building. They had been there only eight hours before as this was a rush job. This customer couldn’t wait. If the crew did their job and did it well, Roberts would see that there were bonuses in store for all.
The crew consisted of Roberts’s head laminator, Julio Martinez, and two other laborers. As they assembled in the back of the shop, each one watched as the mold, which was a bright orange just last night, was now turning white, one square yard at a time. Julio jumped in keeping up the technique, touching up spots his boss had missed on the first pass. The molds were usually finished with a color like bright orange or lime green. These colors were used for the lining of the molds because it was almost certain a boat would never be gelcoated with these colors. Spraying white gelcoat on a white mold would be almost impossible. The person spraying would never be able to tell which part was covered and which part was not.
Julio again surveyed the rough texture of the freshly sprayed white film for its thickness and coverage. He was, for the most part, happy with what he saw, correcting minor imperfections with a quick spurt from his high-pressure spray gun.
While Julio finished his work, the crew prepared rolls of matted dry Fiberglas and pails of soupy resin. The dry patches of cloth looked like oversized snowflakes while the liquid resin resembled maple syrup. Mixed together, they would make a structure that was almost impenetrable, even to high-powered bullets.
“Hey! Take this and mix it with that acetone. Flush it out real good,” Roberts instructed one of the laborers, handing him the gun that was dripping with white gelcoat.
“How did it go? I see there are no rough spots. Alazar should be happy,” Julio suggested.
“You worry about rolling out resin and I’ll worry about Roberto Alazar,” Roberts answered, irritated by his worker’s statement.
Julio turned and gathered the pails of resin, the odor of which alone made the toughest men tear. Roberts ran his hand over the dry gelcoat in the mold. It had hardened just in time; any sooner and it would have clogged his gun. If it were slow to set up, it would run down the sides of the slick mold. What he had done was perfect.
With the gelcoat ready to accept real Fiberglas, Roberts calculated the amount of resin in a series of pails lined up next to the mold and then looked at the wall-mounted thermometer, drawing the appropriate amount of catalyst from a plastic container he kept refrigerated, just as he had done earlier when mixing the gelcoat. The catalyst would make the resin hard and it was the ratio that would determine how fast it would do so. Once the substance started to warm up, the laminating crew knew their time was starting to expire. If a resin solution contained too much catalyst, the heat generated could prove to be catastrophic and was known to spontaneously catch fire. For this reason, Roberts played the part of the chemist, calculating the volumes of the resin, taking into consideration the temperature and the factor of the chilled catalyst, all to produce a solution that would dry harder than concrete. He trusted his crew to be right behind him, ready to apply the materials to the fresh gelcoat. If they waited too long, the gelcoat would dry out and become brittle. If they applied the resin-saturated cloth too soon, it would make the gelcoat shrivel up causing the boat’s surface to look like the rough skin of an alligator, making unsightly ripples on the surface of the finished product.
Roberts felt the white surface one more time before giving the word for the crew to start with the next phase. When he did, they were ready. Julio started with a specially designed roller saturated with resin, applying the maple-colored liquid to the white gelcoat. His helper was behind him with the two others, applying the rolled cloth. Together, the two materials bonded and absorbed each other, clinging to the white surface. The procedure continued for several hours, covering one entire side of the hull. The mold, which hung on its side from the ceiling, was then rolled over and the process was repeated on the other side. Sixteen laminations made up the shell of the hull. The Indian crew could manage two laminations in a nine-hour day. After the shell was completed, the stringers and cross members, which made up the grid work of the boat’s structure, were cut from plywood and Fiberglased into place. It would take three weeks, twenty-one drums of resin, four thousand pounds of cloth fiber, and sixty-two sheets of marine grade plywood to complete the hull. On the other side of the shop, a mold for the boat’s deck was prepared and treated the same way. After a few weeks to cure in the molds, the finished parts would then be removed and the edges trimmed of excess, dry Fiberglas. The hull and deck would then be bonded and the vessel would be ready for rigging.
Today was like most, but with one exception. One of the owners of Indian was coming home for the first time in a few years and he couldn’t have come at a better time. Scott Roberts had the company surviving on a week-to-week basis. The country was in a recession and fuel prices were starting to rise again. The return of his partner meant fresh ideas and a new stream of cash to keep the doors open.
“Del, man it’s been a long time…you’ve gained some weight my friend,” Roberts said to his partner Peter Delgado, as he stretched out his arms for a tight embrace.
“That smell…you never miss that smell,” Del replied, looking around the plant.
“I’m glad you’re back. The
Miami Boat Show is coming up and we need all the help we can get. With your talent, we’ll knock ‘em dead,” Roberts declared.
“Well I’m back, but I don’t know how much help I’ll be. It’s been a while,” Del said.
If Del was anything, he was a salesman. His ways of persuasion and convincing attitude left people spellbound. Roberts remembered when Del had first bought into Indian and worked their first boat show together. The Cuban sold a record six boats at the show and another four from leads he had cultivated less than a month later. For Del, it was the perfect cover and the business made for a legitimate venue for the income he derived from his other ventures.
“Now that you’re back, we can start talking about tooling up a few new models. This stuff is starting to look dated,” Roberts said, putting his hand on the deck of an unfinished 41-footer.
“What do you have in mind?” Del asked.
“Something with rounded edges maybe…something more modern. Look at the new Stilettos. They just introduced a new 35-footer. Everyone’s talking about it, and word is that now that Donaldson has sold the company, these new Texas people are re-tooling and modernizing the whole company,” Roberts said.
Stiletto was the icon of offshore powerboats. For years, if someone looked at an ocean speedboat, regardless of the brand, they would call it a Stiletto. The long, sleek lines and bold foredeck made them an object of obsession for some. The boat’s rough-water handling ability and rugged rigging made her desirable to the clandestine markets as well. Aaron Donaldson was the creator of the Stiletto and he was to these boats what Elvis was to rock and roll.
Donaldson was a wealthy real estate developer who made his money converting vacant North Miami parcels into lavish townhomes and towering condominiums. When he decided to enter the powerboat business, Donaldson built his first shop on a canal-front property making him the envy of the competition who were sticking it out in smaller shops far inland. When Aaron Donaldson tested a new boat, he simply backed it out of his shop and into the water, cruising down a canal to the open ocean. The boating magazines ate this up. Donaldson was featured in more cover articles in a five-year period than all the other builders put together. He amassed an incredible career out of a simple hobby and now it had all come to an end…almost. A wealthy Dallas oil executive had bought Stiletto from Donaldson, now calling it quits after constructing over three hundred of the world’s fastest boats, winning numerous powerboat racing championships, and amassing a hefty profit along the way. A binding five year no-compete clause in the sales contract ensured Stiletto’s new owners that the company’s charismatic creator would not simply open up shop down the street, stealing the thunder they had just purchased.
Scott Roberts was a good friend of Aaron Donaldson. Roberts’s first boat building job was at the Stiletto factory and Donaldson served as his close mentor. Roberts was always welcome in the upscale facility and he often wandered across the street to watch what new design Donaldson was tooling for the market he had created and kept captive. On many occasions, Roberts was available for sea trials that would start down their North Miami canal and end up pounding the surf off Haulover Beach. Donaldson believed in running his boats hard. The thick Fiberglas hulls slammed into the waves, sending white spray in all directions. This was the builder’s way of ensuring quality control. If a new Stiletto could survive an afternoon with Aaron Donaldson, it would certainly perform for the waiting customer.
Donaldson was a player and was always eager to make a deal, especially one that netted him a sizeable profit. The building that housed the Indian shop was one such example. Donaldson had owned the property where the Indian factory sat and when Roberts needed a place, he went straight to his old boss. The deal was simple. Del put up the money, mostly cash, and Roberts infused the talent. The only problem was that huge amounts of cash had to be camouflaged. Donaldson found a way to make the deal work. He took the cash, neatly stacked in paper grocery bags, and signed the deed over to Roberts at the closing table, thus maintaining Del’s position as a silent partner. Since Roberts had never filed tax returns to justify such a hefty purchase, Donaldson took back a mortgage for most of the purchase price, and, at closing, simultaneously gave Roberts a mortgage satisfaction, his own private get-out-of-debt card that he quickly stowed away in a safe deposit box. The only people who knew about this arrangement were Peter Delgado, Scott Roberts and Aaron Donaldson.
* * * * *
Reversion
The dreams came to him in black, white and shades of gray and were always the same. They were Owen Sands’s door to the past, a past his conscious mind wouldn’t allow him to visit.
Through a blurry mist, a vision of Leslie Sands beamed like a portrait hanging in the back of his deepest thoughts. She was a beautiful woman and so was the house she kept. Between patients at a mental health clinic gnawing at her for eight to ten hours a day and raising two kids, she still had time to keep her family’s home spotless.
Owen could feel the warmth in the room as he watched his wife, perched atop a four-foot stepladder, hanging a length of wallpaper in the kitchen. The paper had a country pattern on it much like the rest of the house. Leslie craved a country setting. It went with her upbringing in the cool hills of North Carolina. With one more pass of a wide brush, the blue sheet of colored vinyl wallpaper was in place. She stepped down and stood back, admiring her handiwork. Owen joined her side, putting his arm around her neck and drawing her close.
“What do you think honey?” she asked.
“I think, well, I think, ducks, lots of ducks.”
“Yeah, lots of ducks silly. Is it straight?”
“You’re asking me if it’s straight?” he asked sarcastically.
“Right I forgot. Gee this house is really starting to shape up.”
FLASH
Everyone in the room wore green scrubs, all with the matching black imprints: Hospital Property. Everyone, even Owen, who stood next to Leslie’s sweating forehead.
“Breathe, two, three, four. Breathe!”
“Okay,” she said, panting.
Owen looked up at the large clock mounted on the wall. They had been at it for seven hours, another thirty minutes and Dr. Joan Gerstein, their obstetrician, was going to have to perform a C-section.
“Okay Mrs. Sands, push and hold-hold-hold! Okay let’s go!” Dr. Gerstein said with confidence. Leslie obeyed without hesitation.
“Okay, let’s try again. Push! Now come on sweetie! Okay, I can’t seem to rotate…here…we have a foot! Prepare for a breach delivery.”
More green scrub-clad people entered the room. Others that were already there scurried about grabbing sterile trays and draping blue towels about.
“Anna, call anesthesia, I want them here stat.”
“Yes ma’am,” answered one of the nurses as she reached for a phone mounted next to her on the wall. “457 to OB 3 STAT, 457 to OB 3 STAT.”
Owen heard the nurse’s voice echo down the halls outside the crowded delivery room. Now he was starting to sweat as much as Leslie. Perspiration was dripping down his face despite the temperature in the room that was kept at a constant fifty-five degrees so as to ward off germs. Owen braced himself. This was not going to be easy.
“If you want to leave, Mr. Sands, we would understand.”
“You leave this room Owen Sands and I’ll hunt you down!” Leslie said in a groggy, muffled voice from under the blue towels.
“I think I’d better stay.”
“As you wish, sir. Just stand over here and try not to touch any of the trays with instruments on them.”
Owen acknowledged with a nod. He wasn’t going to leave regardless of his wife’s plea. As a kid, he had been deathly afraid of blood and doctors. The smell of alcohol made him queasy, but somehow all those fears were buried far away at this moment. He was willing to face whatever was going to happen. Nothing ever came easy for Owen Sands and he could see that this was going to be no exception.
“Okay, we’re to the superior
thorax and she’s not crying. Anna give me an airway please while I squeeze the head out. LESLIE, PUSH!”
Owen ran back to his wife’s head, struggling for a minute to find her panting face under the blue towels.
“Push honey, this is it,” Owen whispered as he held Leslie’s hand tight.
“Here it comes…Fantastic!” Dr. Gerstein exclaimed.
Owen joined the doctor at the foot of the short table. His eyes were fixated on a sight that would never leave his mind as long as he would live. She was a crude shape, oblong with a pointed head and brown paste all over her chest. Her tiny face was purple and wrinkled, almost beyond recognition; still, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was nothing like the babies he had seen on TV. Doctor Gerstein handed him a scalpel.
“Would you like to do the honors?”
Owen took the scalpel and held it for a second in his trembling hand. Still fascinated by the baby, he just stood there, almost in a trance.
“The cord, Mr. Sands?” Dr. Gerstein repeated.
The patient nurse placed two forceps at seven and ten inches from the baby’s belly.
“Between the clamps, sir,” the nurse instructed.
With one fell swoop, the cord was cut and the baby was detached from her mother. Owen immediately took possession of the baby and handed her to Leslie who had by now cleared away all the towels.
“Do we have a name yet?” Dr. Gerstein asked the beaming couple holding their new baby. Anna stood by with an aluminum clipboard, ready to write so she could submit the information to Vital Statistics for the production of a birth certificate.
And it was here, always at this very moment in every dream that all Owen could hear was static noise. This was his first-born. He remembered having two kids, raising them to a certain point. The name of his second was Jade Marie, now fifteen and a handful. But his first, why was there such an emotional wall? He struggled, but all he could hear was muffled noise. Sometimes it was rushing water, others just a baby crying. He could see his wife’s lips moving, but was unable to read them or hear them. The key to this door remained locked.
Mid Ocean Page 6
