WHEN MIMI RETURNED FROM Bali, Berg moved into the cubby on the lofting floor. The cubby was a triangle-shaped space that slanted downward with the slope of the barn’s roof. It was exactly wide enough to fit a queen-size bed, a small lamp, and a few books. You had to crouch down to enter the cubby but once you were inside, it was relatively comfortable. Berg’s main concern was the lack of ventilation, but there was a small, one-by-one window on the right that could be opened, and this proved sufficient. It didn’t really matter anyway because he spent all of his time working in the shop.
The Alma was basically ready to go. The rig had been finished, the seams caulked, the bottom painted, the cabin top varnished, and the zincs prepared for sacrifice. In the few weeks before the launch, they equipped the boat with a self-steering system and GPS. Alejandro also finished installing a used propeller shaft, which he’d attached with a rubber pipe, two wooden washers cut from black locust, and several tightening bands. He often improvised systems like this to avoid purchasing new products from marine-supply stores.
“It keeps the cost of everything down,” he explained.
Helping build the Alma, Berg had felt good for the first time in years. When he was working with wood he could get outside of himself, escape whatever it was that was dogging him. His mind no longer jumped from place to place, as it had when he first began sharpening chisels. It was quieter. It stayed in the room. It let him work peacefully, chisel and hammer in hand, light stealing through the tall shop windows.
“Enjoy every cut,” Alejandro would say. “Why not enjoy every cut?”
Alejandro said he liked boatbuilding because it involved the self but it was not selfish. There was room for creativity, but the realities of the physical world also had to be accounted for. And there was little ambiguity in terms of execution. The joint either fit or it did not fit. The blade cut well enough or it needed to be sharpened more. Berg learned how to do things properly and, with each success, he felt more confident, more connected to the world. Alejandro observed this one day when Berg showed him a hollowing plane he’d made on his own out of a piece of pepperwood.
“See, it’s nice to do things right,” he said. “You do this one little thing right, in this moment, you fix this one little thing, and then you think, Maybe I can fix my life.”
Alejandro had been an anthropologist before becoming a boatbuilder. He’d lived with Rebecca in Mexico and studied the matriarchal society structure of the Zapotec. He had also studied native cultures in Utah and Colorado. He never did any official anthropological work in California, but he was familiar with much of its indigenous history. He was particularly interested in the Chumash, who had built redwood canoes and sailed them to the Channel Islands. The redwood planks were sewn together and caulked with asphaltum, from the seeps in the Santa Barbara Channel.
“But the most spectacular thing,” he said, “is that the Chumash had never seen a redwood. They got it all from the sea! It was driftwood. They understood it as a gift from the sea. The ocean had given them the wood so they could travel across it. Isn’t that beautiful? I think that’s just so damn beautiful.”
Over time, Berg learned about Alejandro’s father, about his childhood growing up on Hoku Lewa. He learned about Alejandro’s first gale at sea, about hanging bags of stinking fish oil from the catheads, about the lightning and the burning, salty cold. And he learned about another gale in which Alejandro’s father stayed up for thirty-six hours straight, guiding the schooner through every swell, yelling at him to heave coils of manila over the stern to slow the boat and prevent it from broaching.
On occasion, he told stories about apprentices who had worked in his shop or people in town. This was how Berg first learned about Pat the Pilot. Alejandro referred to him as JC’s “vice president.” He said he had known Pat for years and taught him how to sail and build. Pat coordinated JC’s trimming operation, in those days, but in the offseason he’d work for Alejandro in the shop. Apparently Pat was the one who had introduced Alejandro and JC and laid the foundation for their business relationship. Over time, as JC’s operation became more nautically focused, Pat rose up in the ranks. Nowadays he handled the majority of JC’s deliveries. Most recently, he had been on a trip to and from Belize.
Berg met Pat for the first time that January, at the launch party for the Alma. He was a clean, fit man who seemed equally ready to head up an army or give a speech on the Senate floor. Uffa said that he had grown up in Albany, Texas but moved out to Talinas many years ago. Apparently, as a child, he’d flown crop dusters, which was where his nickname came from.
At the launch party there was cake and champagne and jugs of Rebecca’s house wine. Alejandro’s whole family was there, along with Uffa and Nell and, surprisingly, Garrett. Berg had told him about the event but he hadn’t expected him to come. When he arrived he slapped Berg on the back.
“Check out this boat, homes,” he said. “Hell yeah. Where’s the booze?”
The vessel sat low in the water, like most of Alejandro’s boats, with less than a foot of freeboard amidships. For its christening, Uffa smashed a watermelon over its bow. Alejandro hated the ritual of breaking a champagne bottle over the bow, so boats from their shop were always christened with watermelons. Afterwards, Uffa, Berg, and Alejandro hopped on the boat and Rebecca took a photo of them.
“Berg, smile,” she said. “C’mon, give us that thousand-watt smile.”
Once the photos had been taken, Alejandro introduced Berg and Pat. The three of them talked about the boat for a while, and then Alejandro asked Pat who was going to be the captain for the Alma’s inaugural trip to Mexico. Pat said that it would be him, and that they were leaving next week.
“Next week?” Alejandro said. “Why so soon?”
“That’s what JC wants.”
“Is it Michoacán?”
“Yes.”
“Well, make sure you check for northers near Baja. You might get hit by the jet stream coming over from Hawaii, too.”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Why is JC always in such a hurry?”
“I don’t know,” Pat said. “I just follow orders.”
“It must be a big haul,” Alejandro said. Pat didn’t say anything. Just smiled and winked.
Also at the launch party was JC’s girlfriend, Lammy. Uffa said he was surprised that she was here, that she rarely made public appearances. She had long black hair and smelled like tree oils. She spent most of the party over by the picnic table, speaking to Garrett. After she left, Garrett approached Berg and Uffa.
“What would you say if I told you I just met the woman of my dreams?” Garrett said.
“Forget about it, Garrett,” Uffa said.
“Did Shakespeare tell Romeo to forget about Juliet?”
“Forget about it.”
“But I’m in love.”
“That’s JC’s girlfriend, Garrett. Are you out of your mind?”
Garrett looked sick.
“Strike that from the record,” he said, and then he walked over to the picnic table to get a slice of cake.