by Chris Knopf
(
The next morning we mounted another expedition to the mainland. Amanda gave away the destination by tucking her laptop into her backpack.
"Broadband hunting?" I asked.
"Already found. Just follow me."
Happily for Eddie, the route was over untrod territory, redolent with fresh smells, each of which he lingered over with intense interest. So the journey across the island toward the southern coast was accomplished at a polite pace, which was fine. The humans in the party were in no particular hurry.
We filled the unhurried time by dishing on our dinner companions of the night before.
"I think Fey senior could be an okay guy," said Amanda. "At least he wants you to think so."
"I think that's praise too faint to damn."
"Better than his creepy kid."
"Autistic kid," I said. "Not the same thing."
"Oh, thanks. I get to be creeped out and politically incorrect."
"You're right. He's creepy. But he doesn't want to be, and has no way to know for himself that he is."
"So now you know how insensitive I can be-Del Rey's boobs, what do you think? Fake or real?" she asked.
"Fake as a twenty-dollar Rolex. At least based on what I could see, which was nearly everything."
"Del Rey? By that naming standard I'd be Oak Point Anselma."
"I like it. Oaky to your friends."
"Derrick, on the other hand, no read. Seemed cocky and edgy at the same time. And condescending, though he didn't know I noticed, which is typical of condescenders. So he sells some freaking software. So the hell what."
"N-Spock revolutionized large-scale computation. I loved it. Saved me huge time and money. Very robust analytical application. Jillions of if/thens a minute. Way ahead of its time. Can't imagine what they can do now, given the speed of modern platforms."
"I keep forgetting you weren't always a dumb carpenter. Is that insensitive of me?" she asked.
"Why would it be?"
"So what's their story? Derrick and his entourage? Can you have an entourage with only two people?"
"Don't know, on either count," I said. "But it doesn't smell right."
"I'll be glad to be out of here," said Amanda. "I feel like we're in some third world country and on the verge of getting thrown into a squalid prison filled with rats and Peace Corps volunteers. Unless we pay some huge ransom. Or worse. 'Money eez not the only currency we accept from women such as you, Madame,"' she added, in a generic foreign accent. "Grrr."
"Stay cool. Burton's sending the letters of transit."
We were interrupted by a pair of West Highland terriers who raced around Eddie as they tried to decide whether to attack or cavort. Eddie settled the question by doing a doggy-down and running out the length of his very long tether as the Westies joined the game. Lots of chasing, wrestling and slobber ensued.
We waited it out.
Ten minutes after resuming the trek, we crested a hill and walked down to a ragged row of shops behind a white picket fence that looked handmade by a team of drunken colonial artisans. The last store in the row was on its way to dissolving back into the earth. It had a sign that said SALUBRIA, ANARCHIA, HEONIA. YOU DECIDE.
"Let me guess," I said.
"Keep an open mind."
The first trick was to step over the bulldog lying in the middle of the front door. We let Eddie break the ice, while holding the tether slackless for quick extraction. No need. The bulldog hardly acknowledged he was there. Eddie hopped over and we followed.
Inside was a wall of incense complemented by the smell of decaying carpets and scented candles. Abba was on the stereo and the lighting made the room feel like there was no outside, no brilliant autumn sun nor azure sky. The store's trade seemed to be a random display of ragged crafts, sandals made from recycled beach debris, esoteric books, voodoo dolls wearing three-piece suits, healthful fruit drinks with handmade labels and a desktop Apple MacIntosh computer on a desk against the wall. The sign above it said, THE WORLD AWAITS. TEN BUCKS AN HOUR.
"Cover your ears," said Amanda before ringing the ship's bell hanging in the middle of the room. My hearing was saved, but I felt the sound in the pit of my stomach. A few moments later a woman came out of a door behind the counter at the back of the store.
"Oh goody," she said. "Company."
"Customers," said Amanda.
The woman's age was hard to pin down, given her pure white hair, pulled back into a lavish ponytail, clear, pinky complexion and straight posture. She wore a heavy cotton shirt under a pair of overalls, and motorcycle boots.
"Even better," said the woman. "Buy anything you want. Even me. Hey, I know you," she said, pointing at Amanda.
"I was in before," said Amanda. "I used your computer and bought a set of salt and pepper shakers in little crocheted cozies."
The woman reached up with both hands and scratched Amanda's head.
"I remember you," she said. "The hair. Thought it was a wig."
Amanda, a private person, took the affront with grace. She gripped the woman's hands by the wrists and gently disentangled them from her hair.
"We'd like to buy some more computer time," said Amanda. "Cell service is still down and we need to connect with home."
"With reality, you mean," said the woman. "Won't find that here. Who's the hooligan?" she added, looking at me.
"Sam Acquillo," said Amanda. "Don't let him fool you. He's worse than he looks."
"I'm Gwyneth Jones. Welsh witch, part-time, so don't try any of your peccadilloes on me."
"Noted," I said.
"I take Visa and MasterCard. And cold cash, or trade, though I doubt you folks have a set of brake pads for a '69 Citroen Deux Chevaux."
"I can get them," I said. "And do the installation. I just need a garage bay and the tools. Metric. And a manual. Prefer it in the original French. Can't trust the translations from those days."
She looked at me for a moment, then waved us over to her computer.
"Go ahead and log on," she said. "We'll discuss little French lemons later. Coffee anyone? I have Nigerian and Chock full o'Nuts."
I sat next to Amanda and watched her log on to her email. She sent a message to Burton's private mailbox asking when he thought the parts would arrive. Then I asked her to go to the NOAA marine forecast site, which featured, in brilliant red letters, a small craft warning beginning late the next day, Tuesday, and running through Thursday afternoon. She went deeper into the site and found speculation that we were in for a full-out gale. Most big winds came out of the northwest or northeast that time of year, but this was a rare sou'wester.
The commentator included a link to a climate change site called itstoolatebaby.com. I clicked on it for the hell of it. They said we were in for a series of big storms, in rapid succession, and that the corporate executives responsible should be tried in the world court for crimes against humanity. I thought I probably wouldn't go that far, though I might make exceptions for a few, not for the same offenses.
We heard a little ding. It was the email program telling us Burton had written back. He wrote that the plane he'd chartered would be delivering the goods the next morning, in time to get back to Maine before the storm hit.
"Put up more vodka. You'll be pinned to the dock for a few days," he wrote, signing off.
Gwyneth brought us our coffee orders.
"Your friend told me you're staying at the Swan," she said.
"At one of their docks."
"They have the only rentable rooms on the whole island," she said.
"Get out of here," said Amanda, not looking up from the screen.
"I'm surprised the town didn't buy the place so they could shut it down," said Gwyneth. "Not the worst thing. I've got a sleeping porch with a fold-out cot. I could corner the market. What happened to the nose?" she asked me.
"Rene Ruiz, the Filipino Phantom, took advantage of a moment's distraction and busted it with a right jab."
"You could have that str
aightened out."
"Not without losing a daily reminder to pay attention, especially in a boxing match," I said.
"Those Swissies who bought the Swan, what do you think?" she asked.
"They'll try to make a success of the place," said Amanda, rescuing me from having to dodge the question. "What do you think?"
"I thought they'd already thrown in the towel and you two were the next owners."
"Really," said Amanda.
"Are you?"
"No," said Amanda. "We want what everyone else wants of us. To leave here as soon as possible."
"Not me," said Gwyneth. "You can stay forever far's I'm concerned. Improve the gene pool. Though you're a little old for that. I'm forty-two. Tell me I don't look a day older than seventy-five. What's your position on cannabis? Stuff grows like Topsy on the island."
"We're all set, but thanks," said Amanda, vaguely, her attention still thoroughly absorbed by what she had on her screen.
I didn't know much about the Internet, not owning a computer or committing much time to learning the ins and outs. What little I did know I'd learned from Jackie Swaitkowski, my lawyer friend, who like Amanda, seemed to have a remarkable facility with the thing. I realized much of the world's information was now literally at your fingertips, an alluring concept. Maybe after I finished all the books at the Southampton Library I'd give it a shot.
"Subversive Technologies, headquartered in Weston, Massachusetts and developers of the software N-Spock, has a market capitalization of one point five billion dollars. Golly," said Amanda, reading off her screen. "That should help cover the Swan's new paint job."
"And Fey sold out?" I asked.
She scrolled down the page. "Apparently. The other cofounder, CEO and CFO Myron Sanderfreud, now holds the controlling shares, followed by Derrick Hammon, formerly head of sales and marketing, who succeeded Fey as Chief Technology Officer. He's in charge of the next big release, N-Spock 5.0, projected for the 1st Q next year."
"What's a Q?" asked Gwyneth.
"Quarter," I told her. "We're now in the 4th Q of this year-October, November, December."
"N-Spock is the dominant application for massive analytical processing, serving notably scientific research, securities trading and industrial R&D," read Amanda off her screen. "Though in recent years a number of competitors have eroded this position with applications that take better advantage of Next Gen processors and cloud computing. Whatever the hell that means."
"The march of progress is catching up to them," I said. "Happens to everybody."
"It's more drag race than march," said Amanda.
"I wouldn't feel too bad for them. Dominant share is still dominant share, and it'll be years before people are willing to chuck their proven N-Spock platforms for the flavor of the month."
"Throwing in the towel on the Swan will not be a financial decision," said Amanda. "The Feys are crazy rich."
"They're in the right place," I said.
Gwyneth scoffed.
"New money means nothing here, folks. No matter how much you have."
"According to the corporate press release, Fey simply announced his retirement, apparently in keeping with a succession plan, and that was that," said Amanda. "There's not much else on Subversive that makes any sense to me. If you want to savor the technical enhancements to N-Spock 5.0, I'll go do a little shopping."
"We have some nice things on sale," said Gwyneth.
I was actually tempted, but since the N-Spock of my day was version 2.5, I didn't think I'd understand the technical specs any better than Amanda. So we left after she bought a book on divination strategies from the I Ching that Gwyneth insisted was the only reliable way to keep track of the impending storm.
"A lot more dependable than the official weather report," she said.
We took another circuitous route back to the Swan, stopping along the way at the general store to take Burton's advice and stock up on essentials, like breakfast food, batteries, water, paper towels, ice and Absolut. There was no sign of Anderson Track, the surly gas station manager, and made it all the way back with no further incident.
In the small parking area to the right of the Swan a silver Lexus was parked next to Derrick's Town Car. It had a Massachusetts vanity plate that read SUBVERTECH.
"What is this, the company party?" said Amanda.
We walked around the hotel and out onto the docks. I unclipped Eddie and he made a dash for the boat, considered for a moment leaping up on the deck, then thought better of it. He looked back at us and barked.
"Keep your fur on."
We spent the next several hours securing the boat. I stripped off the sails and stowed anything that could blow off in the wind. Being a brand new boat, there was a minimum of gear hanging off the railings that tends to accumulate over time. Still, I went around with a screwdriver and pair of pliers and a box full of cotter pins and rings, tightening anything remotely suspect.
I used bungee cords to pull clanging halyard fittings away from the pristine white mast and cleated off the running rigging. I hoisted the dinghy's motor up and into a deep lazarette, then pulled the dinghy itself onto the dock where I deflated and folded it, then stowed it with the motor.
It took a while to retie the lines, doubling up and estimating the necessary slack. I looked with envy across the inlet at the yacht club's floating docks, which would have made so much fiddling unnecessary, inured as they were against the rise and fall of the tides.
Amanda stowed and re-secured all the provisions, put fresh batteries in the lanterns and flashlights, and filled the refrigerator with ice against the possible loss of shore power. The boat's main battery banks were topped offgood for a few days-and we could always start the engine if needed. Not being at sea, we had less concern about flying objects below, and it would be about twenty-four hours before the worst of the storm was scheduled to hit, but overpreparation was never a bad idea in my mind. The mind of an engineer. Frequently disdained and usually blamed the first time anything goes wrong.
"Now what, Cap'?" asked Amanda when I went below at the end of the afternoon.
"We eat, drink and rot in the cockpit. What else?"
It was after dark and in between uncounted rounds of cocktails and wine when a tall, broad-beamed guy with an unruly head of long curly hair and a skinny white-haired woman half his size strolled down the center dock toward our boat.
They paused to admire the Carpe Mariana, then spotted Eddie trotting down the deck, and subsequently Amanda and me in the cockpit.
"Hello," I said.
They walked down our dock, with Eddie following along on the boat.
"We didn't see you there," said the man.
"We're keeping a low profile," I said.
"Christian said he had unexpected guests in the marina."
"That's us. Sam and Amanda. And Eddie. He's the dog."
"Grace and Myron Sanderfreud," said the woman. "We're also unexpected."
Myron smiled down at her.
"Grace would rather be home winterizing her garden, but I can't do without her company. I uprooted her to come racing down here. Is this a pleasure cruise or impending voyage?"
"Delivery. Broke a steering cable. We're only here till the parts come, then we're on our way to Long Island. To winterize her."
"She has a beautiful sheer," said Myron, looking down the boat's hull. "We're on a Hinckley 59. When I can get away, which isn't often."
"Never," said Grace.
"We did when we were younger."
"And smarter."
"Care for some wine and Italian breadsticks?" asked Amanda.
Myron looked interested, but looked down at Grace for the go-ahead.
"If you want," she said. "It is a pretty boat," she added to Amanda, so we wouldn't think her reluctance was any fault of ours.
"How do you feel about dogs?" I asked.
"We love dogs," said Myron.
He stood behind his wife and grabbed her below the armpits. Her look of
alarm turned to embarrassment as he lifted her up and onto the deck, where I helped her through the gate in the lifelines and down into the cockpit. She used a hold on Eddie's scruff to balance herself. Myron followed on his own, noticeably tipping the boat with his sizeable bulk.
"This is why I married her," he said. "She came in a handy, easy-to-carry package."
"For Lord's sake," said Grace, though not without a trace of good humor.
Amanda took care of her wine and I went below to rustle up a beer for Myron. I could hear the click and scratch of Eddie's claws on the deck as he bestowed on our guests the dubious pleasure of a hearty welcome.
It was hard to stick to small talk when both Amanda and I were itching with curiosity, though the Sanderfreuds made it easier by engaging in the kind of boat-talk that can absorb sailors for endless hours. Despite Grace's initial carping, they'd racked up considerable experience cruising the Eastern coast and more exotic seas like the Greek and Polynesian archipelagos. Though not as much recently.
"Why is it the more successful you are, the harder you have to work?" asked Grace, nearly unsettling the social equability we'd just established.
Myron seemed either annoyed or defensive, or both.
"Work ebbs and flows," he said. "We're just in flow-mode at the moment."
"He's talking about how busy he is. Not how much money he's making."
Myron's good-humored composure lost its hold on his face.
"I don't think these folks are interested in that sort of talk," he said, still indulgent, but terse.
Grace looked chastened.
"I'm sorry," she said, "you're right. It's just that I worry about him."
"She thinks software is a young man's game. She's right," he added, the avuncularity back in place. "I can still work the twelve-hour days, but the stress doesn't get any easier. How about you guys. Ebbing or flowing?"
I pictured Amanda in dust-covered T-shirt and jeans, stalking around one of her work sites with a worried subcontractor in tow, pointing out shortcomings and praising achievement in equal measure. Later that day, she'd be sweeping floors, salvaging useable materials and writing instructions on the open studs and walls with a black Sharpie. With her money, none of this was strictly necessary, but she'd been a regular girl for most of her life, and only felt like herself when under life's load, however manufactured.
