CHAPTER 2

 

2a

JF, Claudette and Sharon walked up the Embarcadero toward the touristy area in San Francisco known as Fisherman’s Wharf; a sad misnomer. There were fewer and fewer fisherman making a living off these docks and piers. Now these docks trolled for tourists.

Near Pier 23, an old, but treasured, bar and restaurant, they stopped.

“The new facilities for the America’s Cup will be built right here,” JF said pointing to the long wharf that jutted into the Bay. “This pier will be rebuilt to hold new shops and venues for the visitors. Some of the race crew operations will be here as well; they want visitors to see everything that’s going on. Or at least those things we want them to see.” JF turned to the girls; his smile implied more than just happiness.

“Ah yes, secrets upon secrets,” Sharon said. “I remember that this silliness has had spies and intrigue in its past.”

“Absolutely, I remember one team, a few races back, even hired divers to secretly check the hulls of the competitors trying to find out everything they could,” JF said. “Since its start in 1851, it has been very rich men building very expensive toys to compete against other equally rich men. Sadly, during the last few years, I believe they have spent more on lawyers then they have building the boats. But this wasn’t the first time there was litigation, it’s happened often.”

“Rich men, expensive toys and lawyers, sounds like an unholy triangle to me. My guess is that the attorneys are the only ones to win or at least make a profit.”

“I think you’re right but it’s not going to change anything. They do what they will do.” JF pointed at the piers that curved north and then toward the touristy end of the Embarcadero. “Until the final docks are rebuilt along here for the competition, Larry Ellison and the Golden Gate Yacht Club, the current holders of the Cup, are using Pier 80 as the temporary location for the American’s boats. All the others have found space where they could. The Bora Bora Yacht club found a small vacant warehouse halfway between the Bay Bridge and Pier 80 and that’s where Catherine’s Cheetah is trailered. It’s lost among the numerous vacant piers and wharves that line the San Francisco waterfront south of the bridge.”

At one time, up until the end of World War II, San Francisco’s waterfront was the busiest on the West Coast. But San Francisco’s politics and egos let it all go to hell. Now, Long Beach is busier, especially with the invention of the shipping container industry; even Oakland, across the Bay, has surpassed San Francisco. The historic wharves are now repair yards and small marinas stuck in between the huge, empty buildings that extend out into the Bay. Where other West Coast cities revel in their waterfronts, cities like Vancouver and San Diego, San Francisco’s waterfront is hidden behind these ghostly structures that continually remind the City, like a nagging grandmother, of its past glory. Ellison wanted to change all that and while the politicians gave lip service to his dream, they didn’t make it easier.

As usual, committees were formed, pronouncements made, demands listed, lines were drawn in the sand, or as in this case, lines were drawn along the waterfront. The America’s Cup committee still didn’t understand that there were a lot of people that didn’t want these rich people mucking about on their waterfront. Tourists were one thing; they could be fleeced and they even enjoyed it. These guys were different; they sent out vibes that they were the fleecers, not the fleecies. The residents on hills above the waterfront, with its signature Coit Tower, were some of the most critical of change.

“The Cup is the oldest championship in sports,” JF said. “It’s this big silver trophy shaped like a silver pitcher, the damn thing can’t even hold water. The bottom has been added to hold the names of the winners. But it’s not the Cup they want; teams fight over the bragging rights. Sure there’s nationalism but not much, these guys are in it for themselves. Now there’re some women competing, tough women and Ellis Turner is one of toughest.”

“How did Catherine get hooked up with Turner?” Sharon asked.

“She was racing with a crew in Auckland,” Claudette said. “She stood out, being the only woman; her looks didn’t hurt either. With her athletic body, quick mind and sharp tongue, she and Turner quickly connected.”

“Yes, she had a sharp tongue, she didn’t suffer fools,” JF added.

“Turner asked her to join her catamaran racing crew; Turner knew this would be the boat design choice for the next Cup. It was a good guess. The giant trimarans that Ellison raced in the last series morphed into smaller catamarans. The idea emerged to have a series of races, a World Series competition of forty-five foot catamarans, all identical, all racing each other in various ports around the world.”

“Expensive, very expensive,” Sharon added. “Boys and now girls, with their toys.”

“You are always the cynic,” Claudette said.

“Who, me?”

“They have raced off the coast of England, San Diego, Naples and even Venice. The winds were different in every port,” JF continued. “That’s part of the reason for the catamarans, watching normal sail boats race in the Mediterranean, with its light winds, is like watching seaweed grow. Most fans watch the start, go to lunch, take a nap, then show up for the finish. Cats are faster and more exciting. We Europeans love speed and style, no one would show up for a race between Toyota Priuses, throw in some Porches and Ferraris, millions line the race tracks.”

“And what is your angle?” Sharon asked.

“Our angle?”

“Why were you and your sister building these boats, they aren’t competitors.”

“Simple, money and style. Both of us love speed and this boat of hers is a marvel, wait until you see it. Her variation of the trimaran set the speed record for a sailboat. A larger version has exceeded fifty knots, all pushed by the wind. They are more like airplanes than boats.”

“Fifty knots, now that’s speed! Even power boats have trouble going that fast with all the hull resistance,” Sharon added.

“We can be lighter and faster; our goal was to make the boat handle with a very small crew or even just one pilot. All the lines and the rudder are controlled with servomotors, sensors and technology, fly-by-wire, like the new jet planes. Everything is anticipated and controlled through a single joy stick.”

“Like the one used to play video games?”

“Yes, if you like. The software and hardware make the adjustments, small and large, all based on various sensors. The large single sail makes it easier; not having to run sails up and down reduces crew demands, just a jib and gennaker. Using a trimaran design allows for a more balanced stable boat, the pontoons provide the balance but in reality they are there to hold the hydrofoils.”

“Hydrofoils?”

“Yes, Sharon, our boat doesn’t really sail through the water, she flies over it.”

 

 

2b

Sharon drove her Jaguar. Claudette sadly begged off, she was going to see Alain Dumont at four then board an overnight flight back to Paris.

“Claudette says that somewhere around here you got into a gun fight with some Chinese gangs,” Jean-François said as they passed 24th Street.

“Claudette loves to tell stories. Yes, it was just over there, brings back memories I would like to forget.”

“I’m even more impressed, turn here.”

The broken asphalt and old railroad tracks led toward another empty waterfront building, it angled diagonally out over the Bay waters. Three SUVs, all shiny and dark blue, were parked in an area enclosed by an eight-foot chain link fence topped with coils of razor wire.

“Damn secure,” Sharon said.

“It came this way with the month to month lease, even the port knows we’ll be moving,” JF said. “Imposing and scary, don’t you think?”

“It’s more than that; it says something’s here. I wonder what? It might encourage trespassers.”

“Oui, there’s that too.”

She parked next to the last SUV.

They walked toward the large door cut into the shore-side wall of the building, a bull of a man stood at the entry wearing a dark blue windbreaker, a bold logo stitched on its left side.

“Mike, I want you to meet Sharon O’Mara,” JF said as they approached the man.

He extended a huge weathered hand. “Good to meet you, Ms. O’Mara, name’s Mike Stroud. JF said that you were coming.”

“A pleasure Mike, Sharon’s just fine,” she answered as she looked at JF.

“JF told me you might need to see the boat; it’s inside,” Mike said leading them into the building. “Follow me and be careful, this wreck of a building has holes everywhere, the rot’s extreme. We can’t wait to find a better home.” Sharon noticed his obvious Scottish brogue.

“Quite an international crew, JF. Mike, I assume some of the crew are from Bora Bora,” she said with a knowing grin.

“On the contrary, not one of them. We have men and women, all tough as leather,” Stroud offered. “And surprisingly most of them are from Australia, as am I. I jumped ship when I was on an old tramp steamer in Perth years ago, was tired of the cold northern oceans. She’s been my base for the last twenty years; the warm waters of the Indian Ocean suit me just fine.”

They carefully walked the length of the five hundred foot pier; Sharon saw the Bay sloshing around through some of the largest holes in the deck. A construction trailer stood to one side; new plywood decking had been laid over the old timbers providing the only safe route to the boat’s location. Dark tarps had been spread over the trimaran’s hulls, hiding the main hull and the outriggers.

“Can we pull these off?” Sharon asked.

Stroud looked at JF, the Frenchman nodded.

Five minutes later, the crisp red lines of the trimaran sparkled in the shafts of light streaming through the high broken windows.

“We dropped the single main wing, she’s over against the wall,” Stroud said pointing to the tall mast and its hard triangular sail, its top cut off at a hard angle. “She’s made of carbon fiber, Kevlar, and some other stuff. I’m a sailor, not a scientist.”

Sharon looked closely at the sail; it was a far cry from the nylon sails she was vaguely familiar with. “This isn’t your old fashion sail is it?” she asked.

“Hardly, this is a rigged sail or wing; if additional sail is needed we let out a jib or gennaker, a bit more traditional.”

After a cursory inspection, she turned to the trimaran. “Simply beautiful, hard to believe that this can do what you say it can, amazing,” she said looking at JF. “It’s like a marriage between a catamaran and a small jet plane. All the hard angles and those two blades connected to the cross bars, striking. I assume those are hydraulics for the hydrofoils?”

“Yes, they adjust the angle and depth of the hydrofoils. The damn thing can almost fly under the right hands,” Mike said. “She can do forty knots with the right wind but she will bite you in ass if you’re not careful. I don’t know how many times I’ve almost flipped her. She demands respect, if you don’t, as I said, she’ll make you pay.”

“How many times have you had her out?”

“Twelve times here in San Fran, the winds, currents and tides are tricky. We are trying to get the feel of how she performs in all kinds of conditions and weather.”

“You check her out after every sail?”

“Like a baby’s bottom. Since Catherine’s death, she’s been on this trailer. Coast Guard hasn’t officially released her to sail again; they will give the okay in a few days. She needs to be packaged up and sent back to Marseille, they tell me they are moving this model into production.” Stroud looked at Jean-François, the Frenchman nodded.

“So soon?”

“It was Catherine’s last order as we were lowering it into the Bay, ‘Time to get this back to France, I want ten out by the end of the year; we have orders for eight,’” Stroud said.

She walked slowly around the trimaran, looking at every edge and fitting. “The hole in the starboard hull, it’s not been repaired?”

“They will do it in France; the carbon fibers are tough to repair. It will be easier at the factory. We also made some modifications that they can duplicate on the new boats. It’s not the first time, she took a knock in Marseille but it was only about 100 centimeters, this one is much worse.”

Sharon ran her hand along the starboard pontoon, then along the port side. She stopped and walked back to the starboard side, then back to the port. She looked closely at the sharp edge of the port side pontoon again.

“What color is the tow launch?”

“Blue, why?”

“Did the tow launch strike this pontoon when she was towed in?”

“Don’t think so and the outboard hulls are called amas.”

“Amas, got it. There’s a crease of paint here,” she pointed at the edge. “Looks black, you sure something didn’t just touch her in the tow?”

“Positive, it would be like hitting my own child, I’m sure.” Stroud looked at the mark. “Damn, missed that. Damn sure it wasn’t there when she went out, does look black. Damn.”

“My guess is that something came alongside and just nicked her, left the paint.”

Sharon turned to JF. “Something or someone hit this boat; it wasn’t from the rocks or the launch. The Coast Guard’s boats are usually white, not black, and the Zodiacs wouldn’t leave a mark. Whoever hit her may have been the last person to see Catherine alive.”

 

 

2c

The paint posed more questions than answers. The obvious question was: How did it get there? The second, where did it come from? Sharon mulled these and other disturbing issues over in her head as she drove back across the Bay Bridge to Walnut Creek. She had dropped JF off earlier at the Taj Compton Place Hotel; he asked her if she would like a cocktail; every fiber in her body screamed yes, her head said no.

“Later then,” he said as he leaned across the stick shift and kissed her on the cheek. “I had a great time, for a first date. Dinner, tomorrow night? My treat.”

Sharon smiled and tried to mumble a no, it came out as, “Yes.”

“Are you sure, you seemed to hesitate.”

“Very sure, just trying to get my head around all of this and you’re too damned distracting. Yes, dinner tomorrow, where?”

“Here, I’ll call you.” Jean-François Voss exited and passed in front of her car. He waved as he stepped up on the curb. Two women, shopping bags hooked in their hands, stood blocking the door of the hotel; they stepped aside and let him enter in front of them. One checked him out from behind; the other turned to look at Sharon. One look was all that Sharon needed to boost her ego, the woman’s face said it all, you lucky gal!

Basil damn near jumped in her lap when she sat down in her small living room. Basil sniffed at her slacks and harrumphed; he knew she had been with another male.

“Yes boy, mama’s been out.” She scratched behind his ears; he grudgingly began to forgive her. “What the hell am I going to do? Haven’t felt this way in years, too many years.”

She poured two fingers of Lagavulin, neat, into a crystal tumbler; its peaty aroma filled her nose as she lit a cigarette. “Basil, today’s a day to celebrate, mama’s had a chance to strut and I like it. There’s something about that man that’s comforting, too comforting, he’s a goddamn Adonis, even if he’s French.”

She sipped the 16-year-old scotch, inhaled its muskiness, in her mood it was an aphrodisiac. Every nerve tingled; she stood and looked at herself in the hall mirror. She couldn’t see what was happening inside, but she felt it. Her body hummed and vibrated. It would be a long night.

She woke early, feeling better than she thought she would. Her tossing and turning made her think of the onslaught of a rough morning. But after a light breakfast of yogurt and coffee, she went to the shooting range and scored well. Then she went to the gym for a hard workout, her phone rang while she was doing push-ups.

“You aren’t doing anything special are you?” Jean-François said.

“Sweating, trying to get you out of my system, almost made it too.”

“If you’re going to sweat, at least don’t do it alone.”

“I’m not, there’s at least fifty others here sweating with me,” she said looking around the gym.

There was a pause on JF’s end. “Got it. Called to confirm dinner here at the Compton at seven. I will meet you in the bar. I have reserved my table.”

“My table? Who has their own table at a restaurant?”

JF paused for a second. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

“I guess it was, sorry. Just in a bit of a mood. Yesterday was interesting.”

“Personally, I thought it was fun and even stimulating. Thanks, after the last week I needed that.”

“So did I, it was a pleasant surprise. Tonight at seven.”

“Seven it is.”