So … now we’re here. Between the fact that he’s been gone and then he suddenly showed up when I was 12 and now this, I guess I really didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about him. Maybe that’s why I wanted to come out here … I thought it was supposed to be a chance to get to know him. Does that make sense? It’s like begging your parents for a new bike or something and then getting it and realizing you don’t really want it. You aren’t supposed to feel that way about your Dad.
I was putting the finishing touches on mopping the deck when he returned. “Nice work,” he said. He was carrying a shopping bag, folded shut, under his arm. Silently, he set it on the counter out of the way and started to inspect my cleaning job. I think he wanted to make sure I wasn’t hiding piles of laundry in closets somewhere. His inspection was a little more detailed than the one he did for the head. I guess he was pleased because all he said was: “Come with me.” He picked up that folded shopping bag again and headed outside.
Out of the Horner for the first time today, I started to relax and take in the scenery. The entire colony was up and hard at work at whatever it was they were up to. We walked along the dock with Dad introducing more people to me and giving mini-lectures about ‘how things worked’. “Each boat has its own network of nets, grows its own fish and essentially is responsible for everything in between.”
We stopped and he introduced me to the two old gay guys who lived next door to us. Their boat was named the Key West Forever – they grew calamari and tuna. The younger one was over 50 and a built like a small grizzly bear. He reminded me of that old guy in Pete’s Dragon some reason. What was his name? Mickey, Mickey something. Anyway, the other guy was tall and thin and I would later find out, did a lot of naked yoga positions on their back deck. Completely gross. It earned him his nickname: Naked Yoga Guy. NYG was into the whole neo-hippy thing … tan as an Indian with a salt-and-pepper mullet and never without the silver and turquoise pendant around his neck even if he was wearing nothing else.
Dad continued the tour around the E-Ring. It took us a half-hour to get to the other side because of the introductions and Dad pointing little things out to me.
“We’re going to continue raising tuna on the next catch cycle,” Dad said.
“What’s a catch cycle?” I asked.
“Catch cycles are the amount of time you spend raising fish that will be sold off and sent to the mainland,” he replied. “Getting the fish that you can raise isn’t that simple, though. You can’t just pour a bunch of fish eggs in the water; you actually have to get juveniles from somewhere. Some of the other boats raise fish from eggs to larvae to juvenile fish just so that other boats like the Horner can raise them in the larger, ocean-facing pens. It’s a complex little economy we have going on out here … there are a lot of ways to make and lose money.”
Dad introduced me to some fat Hawaiian guy who turned out to be a connection on juvenile tunas. They want back and forth on prices and a bunch of details that made absolutely no sense to me for another half an hour. Gradually, it became clear that they were negotiating prices for the fish. “I want 500 against 5 percent of the take,” the Hawaiian guy kept saying.
“You’ve never wanted 5 percent – last time you were at 3 percent,” Dad argued.
“What can I say, Rick? The prices have gone up.”
They went back and forth for an hour, finally agreeing on six hundred dollars or 7 percent of the take, whichever was more. By that time, I was stumbling with fatigue but Dad didn’t seem to be affected. He jabbed me in the ribs repeatedly to keep me awake. Then we continued the tour where Dad had left off. At one point, he nodded toward the Phoenix. “The company provides pretty much everything you need…at a price,” he said. “Other people have a side business, along with growing fish. Like the restaurant we ate at last night.”
“What’s your side business?” I asked.
“I don’t have one yet,” he grinned. “That’s the problem.” Dad had only been here for a couple of years and had yet to settle into one scam or another. He dabbled here or there but couldn’t make anything successful. “Straight fishing is difficult. You can eat, but you don’t eat well. I’m trying to build some contacts here and get something going.”
He turned suddenly down a very precarious-looking section of docks that separated the E and D rings. I moved to follow him but stopped when I saw what he was up to. A home-built pontoon bridge had been installed as a shortcut between the rings using only the most ‘scrap’ of scrap wood available. Sawed-off pieces of telephone pole and large logs had been randomly chained together. On top of them, sheets of plywood and particle board had been nailed or attached to give footing. No handrails, not even a rope to hold onto. It looked like the work of a drunken teenager and yet it was a major thoroughfare? The sheets of wood were splintered from months or years of foot traffic. Dad waved impatiently from the other side. “Come on!”
I knew I was going to regret this. Gingerly, I started to make my way across and almost immediately found myself stumbling. Just before I plunged in, I managed a shaky dismount back onto the deck. I don’t know how Dad managed to walk across as easily as he did, I could barely hold on.
Looking across, I could see Dad and he was laughing at me. “First time’s the worst,” he called. “Com’on over!” Gingerly, I half-crawled across the pontoons and moved from one platform to the next making about a foot every minute or so. I’m sure I looked like an idiot, inching my way across this monkey fence on my hands and knees but it was either that or swim across. I was half-way there when I heard some laughs and looked up. A crowd of people were waving and snapping pictures with their phones on a completely functional bridge that wasn’t more than 20 feet away. You couldn’t see it until you were where I was and by that time, it would take longer to go back than suck it up and finish your journey. They clapped and cheered for me when I reached the other side.
“Congratulations, you made it,” Dad said. “Doing the pontoons is part of the initiation around here. Fun, huh?”
“Cute,” I replied, trying not to snap. “Was that really necessary?”
Dad simply shrugged and continued on as if it never happened. We continued to pass boats of different sizes, shapes and conditions … Dad had a story for each of them. As we passed a rusting converted car ferry, Dad told me about the vats of fish larvae it sold and the guy who lived in the tiny wheelhouse. In the next berth was probably the nicest looking boat in the place, a fishing trawler that looked like it belonged on the cover of a fishing magazine. I paused to admire it but Dad quickly waved me along.
“You don’t wanna hang around with those guys,” he said.
“Why not?”
Dad shook his head. “Weirdos, kid.”
The cleanest boat was the weirdest? I didn’t question him. A few minutes later, Dad stopped at one particular berth and said, “Here we go…Right here.” He stepped onto the deck of an ancient-looking houseboat and led me inside.
The smell of chlorophyll and fertilizer hit me like a wall as we stepped through the door. From the outside, the boat itself looked normal but inside was a wall-to-wall hydroponic garden. Vats were stacked on top of each other to the ceiling and the floor was littered with leaves and junk. Purple lights were casting weird shadows and buzzing gently.
My vision adjusted to the dark and I could start to make out what was growing here. Vegetables … lots of them. I could pick out the carrots and radishes easily enough. Then here were potatoes, lettuce and a variety of other stuff I wouldn’t be able to identify until it was full-grown and in the Produce aisle. It smelled great in an earthy kind of way.
“Marie?” Dad called. Whomever he was calling, she was in the boat somewhere.
“Maybe she’s buried under all of this,” I offered.
“Quiet,” he ordered, shooting me a look. He tried again: “Marie!”
I was wrong, as it turned out. A female voice responded “Coming!” and presently an old woman shuffled in from the back. “Richa
rd!” she said brightly. “Is this the boy?” She was an older white lady, in her 60s or so. Graying hair had been twisted into dreads under a wine-colored hat. She wore old granny glasses complete with the chain around her neck. Her smock was stained with dirt and other stuff – I guess she was the primary person behind this operation.
“That’s him,” Dad said proudly.
“Hello,” the woman said. “I’m Marie. You must be James.”
“Jim,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “Your dad is helping me with my operation here – it’s so gratifying to have someone else on the colony with a green thumb.”
I smiled politely but was thinking: Dad? Green thumb? What did he tell her?
“I brought that pH balancer I promised you,” Dad said. “Jim here is pretty handy with plants. In fact, I’ve taught him everything I know.”
Oh God – what was he doing? Dad was getting me into something and I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do. I started to say “Are you high?” when he shot me a look. I guess whatever I wanted to say was going to have to wait.
“Oh, well that’s wonderful,” she said. “How much experience do you have with hydroponic systems, Jim?”
“Umm...well…” I floundered. I’d heard of hydroponics at some point – all my friends’ research into pot had led to intense discussions about grow houses and using hydroponics to farm the green but that didn’t mean I knew how it all worked. Growing plants in vats of water with chemicals dumped in, right? Sounded easy but I couldn’t put it together. Thinking on my feet would have simple if I wasn’t exhausted and feeling those pills kick in. I was dying here.
“He’s more experienced with conventional gardening,” Dad explained smoothly, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Jim here can weed a garden like nobody’s business.” Marie led the way giving us a tour of the plants she was growing here: fruits, herbs and vegetables. The top level of the boat was a hothouse where she kept her prize-winning roses and orchids.
“I hope that I can count on you from time to time,” Marie said as we were leaving. I turned to see her looking at me expectantly and again, I was puzzled. There was obviously more to this story than I was being told but again I had Dad there talking before any awkward questions could be asked.
“He’ll be glad to, Marie,” Dad said. With one hand firmly on my shoulder, he guided me outside and shut the door.
“What was that all about?” I asked as we left.
“What, that? That was nothing.” The conversation and the fact that I was just volunteered to help in a hippy-dippy farmers market seemed forgotten to him. Dad was purposefully walking on to another appointment. He continued to point out other neighbors and boats but made no mention of whatever it was he had going on back there. Did that just happen? Maybe I was hallucinating from exhaustion.
A jet ski blasted past us suddenly, moving recklessly fast. I realized that we were standing next to the same waterway I had traveled the day before. I caught a flash of tan or Asian legs straddling that old Sea-doo and I zeroed in on the fact that there were girls here on the Colony.
Hot girls.
My teenage male eyes locked onto that pink bikini bottom just barely visible under her ski vest. “Niicce!” I heard a voice suddenly say and then I realized in horror that it was coming from me. That’s never happened before. She obviously heard me … she was moving crazy fast but she managed to glance at me while not wiping out into someone’s boat. Compared to the dead-slow way Ignacio piloted the boat yesterday, screaming through here seemed like someone’s idea of a death wish. Still… beautiful women on jet skis …what was all this about? I looked at Dad and he shrugged.
“She’s practicing,” Dad said by way of explanation, which didn’t explain anything at all. “Life on the colony is just like life on land but with the safety tags ripped off, Jimbo.” Up ahead, I heard the sharp sounds of pistols and the *boom!* of a shotgun. Now what?
We drew closer to the source of the gunshots, a very dirty and rundown houseboat. Dad stepped confidently onto the forward deck that was touching the dock. While he knocked at the sliding glass door, the wood of the deck sagged under our feet. I could see water and daylight through some of the holes.
The door slid open and a short, squat Mexican peered out at us. “’Sup?” he inquired.
Dad pointed at me. “El burro,” he said. The Mexican grinned.
“The mule?” I asked.
“Yeah,” the Mexican replied. “I just rented you.” He grabbed me by the shirt front and pulled me inside before I could say another word.
Dad left me there and disappeared. I was ushered into the salon area of the houseboat where ranchero music and three separate soccer matches were punctuated almost constantly by gunshots. It was like being inside a bowl of Rice Krispies. I was disoriented and more than a little afraid … Dad had obviously negotiated with some friends to use me as free help. He just neglected to tell me.
This was to be my introduction to Miguel – the guy Dad would be doing a lot of business with. Miguel ran the Barco de Arma – otherwise known as The Gun Range - one of the biggest non-official recreation facilities on the Colony.
The Gun Range was Miguel’s second boat. I never saw the inside of his normal living quarters and he was usually here anyway. This was the boat that housed his family when they came in for seasonal work around harvest-time. When they weren’t there, he ran markers out 50, 100, 200, 300 and 500 yards and people went at it firing with their own hardware or with guns that he rented at a shameless markup. Tethered orange buoys ran out to a thousand yards, rusted and scarred by stray bullets. Miguel had rigged them to stay more or less in place as the colony rotated around the axis of the Phoenix. They marked out the large, pie-shaped wedge that designated where rounds would be landing in – with a reasonable degree of accuracy. Nobody was dumb enough to come anywhere near that side of the Colony … they referred to it as “The Danger Zone.”
Other than the Danger Zone, Miguel had a clay pigeon launcher that sent biodegradable orange disks out to be pulverized by eco-friendly buckshot. He set up the trap range on the upper deck and the rear deck was used as a 4-station pistol and rifle range. Of course, it was still incredibly dangerous but Miguel said, “So far, no major disasters.”
I feel so much better now.
He left the outside of the Gun Range looking sad and rundown, but inside Miguel installed a comfortable lounge area with flat-panels and sound for the customers who wanted to hang around before, after or in-between a shooting session. He played music constantly, even if it only played Tejano or Ranchero. I would be working the snack bar and gun desk, Miguel explained. My job would be to check guns in and out of the rental case, sell sodas and candy bars but otherwise stay out of everyone’s way.
The job training was extensive and he rattled off all kinds of information about guns, bullets and fire safety. I don’t think I understood half of what he was talking about. The lack of sleep was getting to me. Great, another crap job from Dad, I thought. The second in 20 minutes. Having been up since 4:30 in the morning after maybe four hours of sleep, I wasn’t in the mood to get sucked into working in a place I had never seen doing a job I didn’t know how to do. “I don’t suppose my Dad told you that I’ve never done something like this,” I said, hoping that it would stop his lecture about ballistic properties in its tracks.
“Oh?” he said, sounding surprised. “You’ve never done this before?” I nodded hopefully – maybe I could go back to the ship and head straight to bed. My heart sank when he shrugged and said “You’ll learn.”
“But-“ I started, thinking he misunderstood.
“But nothing,” he said. “Talk to your Dad. You’re on my time.” He continued the discussion, pointing out how the cooler was stocked, as if I never said anything. Miguel explained that he could always use the help and other kids drank more sodas than they sold. Somehow, I could be counted upon to keep my skim to the bare minimum. As Miguel was talking, a loud gunshot
exploded from overhead and we both jumped.
“Julian!” he yelled. He took up a broom and used it to poke the ceiling. “Quit playing army sniper and tell me before you shoot that thing!” Miguel swore something in Spanish and grumbled, “I need a new pair of chones every time he pulls that trigger!”
He shook off the interruption and continued the orientation, showing me the launchers, the extra beer fridge that you had to buy beer and ice for in advance. We talked about safety, not allowing loaded weapons inside. I still wanted to get out of this somehow and the fact that I was around all this dangerous equipment seemed unreal. Did they really expect me to handle all of this on my first day? “I dunno…” I began. “I think my Dad-“
He gave me an irritated look and shut me down. “He says you clean the head pretty good…Would you like to do mine before we move on?” Translation: shut up or it’s about to get worse. I didn’t need a mind-reader to see where this was going. I shook my head after a moment and he continued on, rattling off about the Gun Range, my job and anything else he cared to throw in. Please, God, let there not be a pop quiz on any of this.
He beckoned me outside and we climbed the almost-vertical ladder on the rear deck to the second level. “We don’t sell guns but we can rent them. Or people can shoot what they bring and that’s about it. Or they have a gun but no ammo – then I can sell it to them at a 400% markup of what it costs on land. People are so bored out here that they need something to do. Free enterprise is what it’s all about.” A tall, slim black guy was lying prone on the deck aiming a rifle at a floating target in the distance. Beside him, lying in an open gun carrier, was another rifle - largest one I’d ever seen. He didn’t seem to notice us; his concentration was total as he stared through the scope. Finally, the rifle popped – not the same sound we had just heard. He peered through a small scope on a tripod next to him.
“Hit,” he said simply.
“Yeah, hit is right,” Miguel said. “You let that thing off and I hit the roof.”
“That’s a lot of work, considering how short you are,” the black guy replied. He returned to his place, studying the target through his scope and before long the rifle popped again.
Flotilla Page 4