“My clothes are on the backseat,” he said quietly to himself, feeling rather deserted as the car spun out on the dirt road headed for the highway.
* * * * *
Trophy
With the pull lines in place attached to three overhead electric cranes, Julio Martinez gave the word. Simultaneously, all three winches turned slowly, gathering up the chain that was connected to the pull lines. Slowly, with every revolution, the 42-foot hull creaked and moaned as it was pulled upright. It was a tight fit. The Indian crew knew this. Unlike a pyramid-type shape that would release easily from a Fiberglas mold, the boat’s sides were more perpendicular, causing the surfaces to bind and create static friction. Some parts even required additional help in the release process. At the bottom of all the Indian molds, small high-pressure air fittings were embedded into the Fiberglas. If a new piece, such as the hull, were to get stuck in the mold, Julio or one of his crew could inject compressed air and free the tight grip. Water was also used on occasion to “float” the hull out of the mold. However, this was rare and usually resulted from poor waxing and preparation of the mold itself.
Nearly a foot of line and chain had been drawn before the ten-inch steel castors at the bottom of the mold levitated off the ground. For a second they hung there, hovering just inches over the resin-covered floor. And then, almost immediately, starting from the bow and working its way aft, the hull started crackling as it separated from the mold. Then with a loud snap, the mold dropped to the ground. The boat was free. Julio, lighter in hand, was the first to drop a pack of Black Cat firecrackers in between the loose hull and the corresponding mold.
POP POP POP POP POP
Small fragments of paper shot in every direction accompanied by a series of sparks and flashes as the small explosions echoed inside the metal building. Roberts knew the practice wasn’t the safest, especially with the numerous steel drums of polyester resin and acetone stacked in the back of the shop, but this was after all, a tradition and on 188th Street, traditions had their place with everything else.
“Roberto’s going to like this,” Felix, one of the Indian’s laborers, said.
“I think you’re right,” Julio replied as he felt the glossy side of the hull.
For some, the birth of a boat came at its christening, or launching. But for Julio Martinez, the spraying of the gelcoat was its conception and this was the birth. After a week and thirty-two laminations of Fiberglas, the Indian crew stood and simply looked at the suspended hull for a few minutes admiring their work.
Scott Roberts spent the rest of the day planning the next stages of the boat’s construction. Since this wasn’t a standard boat for the Indian shop, there were no templates or patterns for the numerous parts and wooden components that had to be fabricated. While Fiberglas boats were made of soupy polyester resin and rolls of fabric threads, the stringers and cross members that made up the boat’s frame were almost always made up of wood. Sheets of marine grade plywood were used over standard, cheaper household plywood primarily because the marine type had none of the pinesap found in the regular type. The sap was known to repel the Fiberglas causing it to come loose from the wood after it had been applied. The sheets of wood were cut one piece at a time and shaped to fit snuggly into the spaces of the hull, following the complex lines of the Fiberglas, which now looked like an empty swimming pool. Layers of wet Fiberglas cloth would then be rolled over the wood, attaching it to the Fiberglas hull. The process would be repeated until the wood was completely encapsulated in glass and part of the hull structure, making a grid on which the rest of the boat could be built. Before any of this could be built though, the hull had to be lowered back into the mold which would then act like a jig, keeping the flexible shell in form while the frame was being installed. For this, the shredded paper from the spent firecrackers actually served a purpose. As the boat hull came back in contact with the mold, the paper served as a cushion protecting the glossy surfaces of both the hull and the corresponding mold from the in-and-out scratching that could occur.
Roberts sat in his comfortably decorated office enjoying the air conditioning. Miami’s weather was fickle, with temperatures ranging from fifty degrees to over ninety. Today was on the high end of the scale.
Indian had several serious obstacles it had to overcome every month: the payroll, the rising cost of materials, and the marketing that included full-color spreads in the major boating magazines. His stress was increased by the fact that sales were down as the entire country was facing a recession. Having seen them before, Roberts knew that the boating public preferred to restore the boats they already had before buying new ones. Roberts had already booked a couple of rehabs, refurbishing the paint, upholstery and rigging. This kept his workers busy and brought cash into the strapped business. He also, on occasion, purchased old performance boats and reworked them. Still, with all of this, he struggled, and to top things off, what little profit he made had to be split with his partner, Peter Delgado. For the last two years, he managed to skim a small amount off the top for himself while his partner was in Eglin, but now that he was out, Del’s watchful eye was in the shop every other day.
Roberts closed his accounting books, grabbed a duffel bag filled with a days worth of clothes and headed out the front door. Eight hours later he was pulling into the parking lot of the Brunswick, Georgia, Holiday Inn.
•
The next morning Roberts was standing with a hundred others who had the same goal in mind, to buy surplus government boats and equipment. The process was a routine that the lead auctioneer had come to accept long before the sales started to take place in Brunswick. The U.S. Customs East Coast Marine Support Unit was stationed there and it was time to clean house. The facility consisted of repair and paint shops, dedicated to maintaining the aging fleet of Treasury Enforcement boats. The staff rivaled any large marine dealership and held some of the top engine and outdrive mechanics in the region. Behind the warehouses, in a securely fenced lot overgrown with wild weeds and brush, sat the bone yard. This was the place where retired vessels were put to rest in a dismantled state; their engines and equipment stripped out with gaping holes left in the transoms where the powerful outdrives were once installed.
The outdrive, the brainchild of German engineer, Karl Kiekhaefer, was half inboard and half outboard. It was the perfect solution for boaters who wanted the versatility of a steerable, shallow-water drive without sacrificing the power of a big block Chevy engine. The Customs Service owned their share of outdrives, now relics, lying on greasy wooden pallets inside the facility warehouse, listed as separate lots for the highest bidder.
The game was like that of putting together a complex puzzle. After buying a stripped hull and deck from the bone yard offered strategically at the start of the auction, a successful bidder would have to chance his skill and try to secure a pair of suitable engines, transmissions and two matching outdrives.
It was a mystery to most why the government dismantled their boats the way they did. The philosophy was simple though. The forces that were figured that the greatest return lie in the separate or breakup value of the boats. The same principle applies if one were to buy an automobile, one part at a time. They would spend three to four times as much. It was this practice that frustrated the buyers, though it didn’t seem to hamper the rolls of attendance that increased with every quarterly sale.
The bottom line was clear to the government. By breaking up the lots, they increased their return by almost seventy percent. A newly purchased, hundred thousand dollar boat depreciated down to thirty thousand after ten years. It brought in fifty thousand if sold in separate parts, its breakup value. It was a concept the government adhered to and used regularly.
Roberts didn’t care what engines or hardware came with the boat he was trying to buy. The 27-foot Stiletto was a classic hull all by itself. He needed it to copy the sleek Fiberglas impression into a mold for a new midsize line of boats he was trying to develop. For this, he needed a proven hull like
the Stiletto he was after.
Roberts was only doing what had been done many times in the past. The procedure was called splashing and, although technically a civil infraction, it was almost impossible to prove and thereby litigate. Most of the other Indians were copies of other hulls. The S-41, Roberts’s largest go-fast, was a splash of a 38-foot Stiletto and his S-32 was a stretched version of a 30-foot Mirage built by another small manufacturer. If he was successful, he could take a mold impression from the boat, rebuild it, and sell it for a profit. The auction list also had two of his 41-foot Indians on it. If he were to buy them back, he could rebuild them and, as the original manufacturer, re-title the boats with newer year model numbers, erasing the original hull number and secret hidden numbers that only he and the Coast Guard knew about, making them much more valuable in the process. Either way, his hopes for coming home with a project were high.
The head auctioneer for the GSA, the Government Services Administration, had already moved twenty-three boats in the three hours of fierce bidding that started at eight sharp. The bone yard was filled to capacity like a sold out concert.
Roberts watched as the skilled auctioneer stood atop a dry-docked and dismantled 41-foot Indian deck, a boat that had been confiscated five years before and turned over to government service. With a clipboard in one hand and a portable microphone in the other, he played the numerous bidders against each other. The two main players were a Latin man from Palm Beach with a neatly cut mustache, greased back hair and a ponytail of two-inches and an Anglo yacht broker from Fort Pierce who sported a beard and smoked a pipe with cherry-laced tobacco.
“Thirteen thousand,” the broker said, filling the air with smoke.
“Thirteen thousand, do I hear fourteen?”
“Fourteen,” replied the Latin.
“Fourteen-five,” added the broker.
“Fifteen.”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” yelled the broker.
“I have fifty thousand dollars,” said the auctioneer as silence fell over the crowd.
“Do I hear fifty-one?”
“Fifty-one,” the Latin man yelled as he spoke into a handset connected to a portable cellular phone bag. “Fifty-one is it? He can’t see this boat, man! Come on tell him, he’s really missing out.”
“Fifty-two,” said the broker.
“Fifty-three,” yelled the Latin, this time with his phone resting in his hand at waist height.
This was not for Scott Roberts. A dog and pony show. He was not there to be amused. He was on a quest. The auction bulletin he had received a week before had detailed the 27-foot Stiletto he was after.
#342 – 27-foot Stiletto Starfire, 1972, scrap salvage. Vessel previously submerged.
As Roberts walked away from the crowd, the auctioneer’s voice was still ringing out.
“Fifty-three; do I hear fifty-three-five? Fifty-three-five? Fifty-three for this 41-foot Indian. Come on people I’m not going to give it away!”
Fifty-three fucking grand, Roberts thought to himself. I built that boat for Omar Valasquez seven years ago and only got one twenty for the damn thing, turnkey! Now it’s a seven year old, bare hull and deck, and had the piss run out of it. Fifty-three grand! No warranty…no sea trial…as is! Why can’t I find buyers like these people?
As Roberts rounded the fantail of a large sloop, he saw it. She wasn’t with the other go-fasts and sat on a set of concrete blocks shoved between two much larger express cruisers. As he walked closer, his heart started to pound faster and harder. This was his dreamboat, a virtual classic in Miami boating circles. Like a 1957 Chevy or a 1962 Vet, this 27-foot Stiletto had character. Aaron Donaldson probably laid up the hull himself, he thought. Ten years ago, he used to watch the 27s cruise the Intracoastal. Back then there weren’t any of those pesky No Wake zones. No sound restrictions. It was open headers and balls to the wall. Roberts ran his hand over the weathered blue gelcoat. This boat was special. He could tell as he saw the sun-blocked, darker blue outline of the removed letters spelling something. He could barely make it out. U period, S period. Oh Shit…U. S. CUSTOMS! This was Customs private stock; one of their own. Donaldson built this boat for the government. It will be heavier than the rest. All the better, and stiffer for splashing a mold, he thought. He had to own it.
As Roberts took one last thorough look at the boat, he turned to see the crowd by the Stiletto.
“Fifty-nine-five, going once, going twice. Sold to the man with the cellular phone! Margaret, list lot number twenty-three to bidder six for fifty-nine thousand five hundred. Sir, please present your funds or letter of credit at the registration desk. You have forty-eight hours to remove the vessel. Next on the roster is lot twenty-four, a 27-foot Stiletto Starfire. Please follow me to the rear of the yard.”
As the crowd got closer, Roberts could feel the bulge of the sixty-six one hundred dollar bills growing restless in his right pocket. As the auctioneer got closer, he looked at his clipboard.
“Lot number twenty-four, a 27-foot Maltese Stiletto Starfire, 1972. This boat comes with a warning folks. It is being offered as scrap salvage. Do I have a starting bid?”
The auctioneer’s enthusiasm was chaired for this one. His audience was now looking over the hulls and running gear of a larger Hatteras next to the rundown Stiletto. He wanted to dump this one and move to better game.
“Do I hear three thousand?”
A small, portly man who arrived earlier in an old beat up tow truck raised his hand with two fingers extended.
“Two thousand, I have two thousand, do I hear three?”
Roberts tried to play it cool.
“Twenty-five hundred,” he yelled.
“I have twenty-five hundred,” the auctioneer blared, resorting to denominations of hundreds rather than thousands.
“Do I hear twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Three-thousand,” Roberts answered.
All was quiet as a man from the back of the lot was panicking, searching through his pockets, holding the bundle of thirty C-notes in his teeth. Quarters and dimes fell through his fingers.
“Three thousand going once.”
“Three thousand, one.”
The crowd exploded with laughter. The man knew he had been beaten.
“Three thousand and two dollars,” Roberts yelled.
The auctioneer, who was also laughing, threw up his hands, clipboard, megaphone and all.
“Three thousand and two dollars, do I hear three thousand, two dollars and fifty cents?”
The crowd returned with more laughter.
“Three thousand and two dollars going once, twice, and SOLD! to number, hold up your card sir, number forty-five. Margaret, lot twenty-four to bidder forty-five for three thousand and TWO dollars.”
•
The next morning, Julio and Felix blocked the traffic on 188th Street as Scott Roberts backed the trailered Stiletto into the front of the Indian warehouse. The two workers guided him in as he watched using the dually’s side-mounted mirrors. Roberts was always adept at backing the trailers. It came with the practice he gained from wet launching the Indians at the numerous Miami public ramps. Having to dodge the countless weekend warrior boaters gave him a unique quality. Maneuvering the king cab dual-wheeled pickup through the roughest of obstacles had become second nature.
Julio watched as the chaffed blue and white hull backed under the shade of the warehouse. He thought of how he would take his time doing what he enjoyed most while on the job at Indian, renovating and restoring boats. As soon as Roberts had gotten back from the auction he had the crew clear out an area of one side of the shop. Felix stood next to him and in the back of his mind wondered why, in the midst of so much mayhem, his boss would want to take on this additional task.
“That is some boat, hey?” Felix said.
“It used to be,” Roberts replied.
“I bet you got a real cheery deal on it, those auctions I hear practically give those things away,” Felix s
aid.
“Yeah, right Felix. Nothing’s free son.”
“Why are we taking this boat? Don’t we have enough work already?” Felix asked.
“Yes we do have quite a bit of work. As for the Stiletto, it is different. A man gets tired of the same old grind every day, especially when you’ve been doing this as long as I have. I build the Indians because I used to dream of the Stilettos. Every now and then you need a reminder of where you came from in order to figure out where you’re going,” Roberts explained.
“Yeah, okay, I think I understand,” Felix said.
“Felix, that would be incredible. Now what are you supposed to be doing? Didn’t I ask you to wax the thirty-two mold?”
“Yeah but Julio forgot to get more mold release so I had to put it on the backburner.”
“Okay, I want you to go help them unload the Stiletto onto that cradle over there, then you get some boxes and start to strip it down from bow to stern. I want every nut, bolt, the rub rail, everything.”
After the boat was unloaded, Felix began to work. It was a change of pace for him, one he appreciated. He didn’t consider himself a lazy man but he was getting tired of the day-in, day-out monotonous waxing of the molds. It was hot, tedious work. He turned up the boom box on the workbench next to him and started unscrewing the many fasteners that held the external fixtures on the boat. The radio was tuned to WQBA, a local Latin radio station that bounced Latin sounds from the hardened steel walls of the warehouse. The rub rail that was designed to fend a boat from pilings and docks was the most time consuming. There were two screws secured into the rigid Fiberglas hull every six inches. Felix made good time, though, with a cordless screw gun in one hand and a can of penetrating lubricant in the other. Julio had helped him get started by preparing three labeled boxes: engine parts, hull fixtures and gauges. Roberts wanted all the stripped parts segregated and available for inspection. Felix guzzled the quart bottle of ice water as fast as he could. The heat inside the warehouse was immense and Felix was not used to working this hard. He was interested though, kind of a new beginning for this old boat. Maybe his boss buying this Stiletto wasn’t such a bad idea. He had been at it for a little over four hours. The foredeck was stripped. Cleats, chalks, rub rails, and even a small polished horn came off with little persuasion. Felix had worked his way into the cockpit. There was collectively more hardware here than the rest of the boat combined. The dashboard looked like a suitable place to start. It was mainly a Fiberglas extension of the deck that originated just behind the Plexiglas windshield. It was mounted at an angle so the operator could have an adequate view of all the running gauges. On the face of this Fiberglas box was a laminate panel of plastic. The gauges and switches, including the keyed ignition switches, were all mounted on this panel. Felix took great care in unscrewing the eight number ten stainless screws that held the delicate piece in place. At the top of the dash, an original Maltese Stiletto Starfire insignia was etched. If he were to damage it in any way, Roberts would have his ass. Plastic, being what it is, after many years of being in the sun loses its flexibility. It becomes brittle, less pliable. He had to be careful.
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