I was so out of it that I missed being dragged back to the Barco de Arma. I didn’t wake up when Miguel rigged my feet to the block-and-tackle that hung off the davit on his foredeck. I just knew that something was wrong when my body left the dock and I suddenly realized I was hanging upside down and five feet from the floor.
Miguel had chosen his payback well. I was a complex pendulum on a moving ship: bad combination for anyone nursing a hangover. I harrumphed a few dry heaves. My head was pounding twice as bad as it was a minute ago and my eyes felt like they had been dipped in sand. I groaned and opened my eyes. Eventually I could make out Miguel, regarding me calmly and sipping from a cup of hot coffee. I groaned again. “Let me down, man,” I pleaded.
“Are you through drinking?” Miguel asked.
“Miguel…”
“Yes or no, Little Man.” Miguel was angry. The difference between Miguel and Dad was that Dad would shout and bluster where Miguel was the cool bank-robber-type who would ask everyone to stay calm while holding a submachine gun. You didn’t want to mess with either of them but somehow … somehow Miguel seemed a little more dangerous. I managed after a second to nod weakly.
“That’s not an answer,” Miguel said. “You wanna swim back to your place? Want me to go get your Dad and let you explain it to him?” Miguel let a few moments of silence pass while I thought about that. “Right now, all I want to know is: are you through drinking?”
He stared two holes right through me. He was right; I didn’t have a good reason for going on a bender like that. I was so ashamed that I wanted to cry. Miguel was treating me like a man and making me deal with it right then and right there. He knew about my probation and the ‘no-drinking’ part of it. One word to Dad and I’d be back to the mainland to spend the rest of my summer in YA. How could I have been so stupid? This wasn’t a problem yesterday but it was today … why did I fall off of the wagon? Miguel wanted an answer and fast before he had me shipped back in handcuffs. I’d suffer through whatever this was and deal with the fuzzy questions later.
My current position and the hangover made it difficult to say but the right answer finally came out. “Yeah…I’m through.” Miguel nodded and untied the other end the rope, letting me down easily enough so that I didn’t crack my throbbing skull on the resin-slatted docks. He was rough untying my feet but before he could send me on my way he grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me close.
“Tú eres mi hijo,” he said tightly. “No sea estúpido.”
He cuffed me on the side of my head and released me. I walked barefooted back to the Horner, rubbing the spot where Miguel’s knuckles had found me. I wanted to cry but was smart enough not to do it in public. Miguel had left a mark on me that ran deeper than almost anything else had since I got here. Miguel’s words were lost on me - I don’t speak Spanish - but I kind of got the gist. There still remained the question of what Dad was going to say when Miguel told him and I shivered about it for the rest of the Big Fourth.
I stayed off the party boats for the rest of the weekend. Other folks were also tired of the non-stop partying and so a few sections became designated quiet zones. As it turned out, I spent a lot of time with the guys of The Gloucester West. They never got over me taking three tries to understand what ‘de south shoa’ or ‘wikked pissah’ meant. I took a lot of crap over it but it was a good-natured kind of thing.
The end of the Big Fourth wound down and everyone reached the natural limits of whatever they were on. You could only stay drunk so long, stay high so long or do whatever it was that you were doing before reality manifested itself. Pac Fish came swarming through the rings toward the end of the day and started busting kids for underage drinking. They took it seriously out here, they had said over and over. The punishment was heavy fines against the kid’s boat. There were angry parents everywhere, or at least they would be when they sobered up. A few sleeping drunks were rousted with batons or the toe of a boot.
Dad came home from wherever he was partying at smelling of sour beer and cigarettes. The Horner party was done after the first day and Dad was gone after that … maybe something else had taken place but I never did ask. He just appeared in the lounge on Monday morning. I was under a blanket, eating cereal and watching cartoons. He barely acknowledged me before disappearing into his stateroom and shutting the door. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.
Later that afternoon, I took a walk through the Colony, looking at the aftermath. People were cursing as they hosed down the docks with saltwater. Broken glass was simply tossed overboard – it was going to sink so who cares? Solid bottles were given a home in the garbage barge and that was good enough for everyone. I eventually found myself at the Gun Range and decided to pay Miguel a call.
I saw as soon as I walked in that someone had let a sparkler off inside the Gun Range. A large burn mark on the carpet and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Miguel was swearing as he scrubbed the burn mark; he would later cover it with a cheap rug that somebody’s grandmother purled together one evening. I think he was angrier that someone had let off a sparkler in such close proximity to the real fireworks. All around the Gun Range lounge were big signs that said NO OPEN FLAME and DANGER – EXPLOSIVES. He looked up and saw me. He kicked the burn mark with his sandal and ducked under the counter. He continued swearing in Spanish under his breath and opened a beer. “What’s up, kid?” he asked, sitting down on the rickety old barstool with a sigh.
“Just walking,” I said. “Who did that?”
“When I find out, they’ll disappear like that other guy,” Miguel said ominously.
“What other guy?”
“Nothing.” Miguel was silent, staring at the far bulkhead deep in thought. He looked over. “Want a beer?” I was startled. Was he serious? I decided that this was a test and told Miguel no. “Good man,” Miguel said, smiling slightly.
“What did my Dad say?” I blurted out. I wanted to be more subtle but the suspense was killing me.
“About what?” Miguel asked, puzzled.
“When you told him.”
“Told him about what?”
“About me…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
“What are you talking about?” Miguel demanded, sounding angry.
“About…you finding me…” I was confused. Why was Miguel making me spell everything out?
Miguel stared straight at me. “I didn’t see you this entire weekend,” he said. He continued staring a whole through me until I got the point. “I did find a drunk kid and we had a good time hanging him by his ankles, but it wasn’t you,” Miguel continued. “I have no idea where you were. You were here, staying out of trouble, right?”
At first I couldn’t believe it. Miguel was handing me a golden-plated alibi after dragging me halfway around the Colony feet-first. Why was he doing this?
“Right?” Miguel demanded when I did not reply.
“Umm…Right.” This had to be a dream … it was too good to be true. Before I could say anything else, Miguel quickly brought me back down to earth.
“Now…you didn’t see who brought the maldito sparkler into this boat, but you’re working around the clock to find out. Comprende?” That’s what I’ll tell your Dad and after you get me that, we’re cool.” He was using my bender as an opportunity to teach me a lesson and get something done – I had to admit, it was effective. Even if I thought it was unfair, I wasn’t in a position to argue.
We started with the cleanup after breakfast – leftover beef and beans were made into huevos rancheros. The Barco was looking a little worse for wear as was the rest of the Colony. When I got back to the Horner that afternoon, Dad was out looking the fish over and he announced that Pen Patrol would recommence the following morning. He asked me whether or not Miguel had found out who almost blew the Gun Range up.
The Colony slowly put itself back together over the next several days. Pac Fish had a field day with the underage kids busted for drinking and it was the subject of a couple of
Town Hall meetings later. Pac Fish stuck to their lines about ‘obeying the law’ and the boat folk hollered and crabbed about the heavy fines. The Children of the Burning Man went so far as to try and organize a benefit concert but no one else was having it. They did set up a ‘legal defense’ fund that people kicked into and it helped pay off the fines for the affected boats. The sum total of everything that had happened to the Colony, before, during and after The Big Fourth was a big, fat zero.
Except for me.
Our current position is: 34°13'53.93"N 120°21'20.67"W
Chapter Five – Steeplechase
A couple of Saturdays after the Big Fourth, I woke up to the sound of a helicopter thumping overhead. I stumbled up to the flying bridge with a cup of coffee to see what was going on. A big white thing caught my eye. Out next to the Phoenix was an old white ‘sternwheeler’ river boat. It looked brand new. Was I seeing things? I called down the hatch for Dad to come and see.
“Nope,” Dad said when he joined me a few moments later. “They bring her in to run the sports book for the Steeplechase. That's the Dixie Star.”
“You told me they bet and stuff, but you didn’t tell me about this,” I said. “This is crazy ... a whole paddlewheel boat out here on the ocean?”
“Yeah, they tow it down from up north somewhere,” Dad replied. “They keep it there rather than trying to run a full-time casino. Actually, I’m trying to talk them into keeping it here after the Steeplechase is over.”
Dad had explained the race to me before and I thought back to what explained before. “They call it the 'Steeplechase',” he had said.
“Why's that?”
“Because ‘racing Jet skis all over the colony without getting killed’ didn’t have the same ring.” Up until now, watching the girls practice in their bikinis was the high part of my week. The boat, however, was a bonus and I wanted to check it out after breakfast.
It was a nice warm day as I cruised through the rings toward the Phoenix and the riverboat. Everyone was in a party mood and Security was heightened to prevent the debauchery that went on during The Big Fourth. Some heavies had been imported from the main office of Pac Fish. Guys wearing khaki fatigues and carrying guns were patrolling the A-Ring where the Phoenix and the Dixie Star were tied up. An ID system had been set up to control access to the old river boat – teenage Colony kids were definitely not allowed. I would have to admire it from the railing of the Phoenix.
I could see people milling about on all three decks of the ship. I recognized some Colony folk but these people were working, not hanging out. Briefly, I saw Jeb Francis wearing a white coat and pushing a cart full of dishes somewhere inside. The others were unknown – mainlanders, I guess. The boat itself echoed with the noise of slot machines and I could see other games going through the windows of the first and second deck. Nice work if you can get it, I thought.
“Now you see,” Dad’s voice said right in my ear, making me jump. Maybe I was distracted by the noise and the lights but I should have heard him … he can be as quiet as a cat when he wants to. It irritated me.
He went on like he didn't notice my reaction. “This is a serious money-maker. I gotta find a way into this and then it’s you and me and no more fishing.”
“What’s wrong with fishing?” I asked.
He looked at me with something between contempt and patience and said, “You tell me.” He paused and put his hands in his pockets. “No better yet, don’t tell me,” he snapped. “Maybe you like getting up at the butt-crack of dawn and jumping into a cold ocean. I don’t but maybe that makes me stupid.”
“Gee, tell me how you really feel, Dad.” He gave me a sour look. His quick-draw temper was always hard to get used to. I didn’t say anything in response. Arguing with Dad was like running in quicksand, lots of effort and all you get is trouble up to your neck. I just didn’t realize that he hated fishing so much, that’s all I wanted to say. Whatever…I wasn’t going to let him spoil my day.
Maybe he didn't want it to be ruined either because he suddenly blinked and then continued the discussion as though our little exchange never happened. “We’re beyond the International Waters line and gambling is legal but Pac Fisheries refuses to let any casinos operate except for the Dixie Star. Every once in a while, the Security team will make a raid and then it’s either fines or fired-back-to-the-Mainland for some unlucky clown.”
I listened to Dad and Miguel discuss the Colony's flirtation with gambling over late-night beers. It had nearly killed the place: Colony D was overrun with different Mexican gangs and East Coast goombas. Finally, Pac Fish had had enough and exercised executive privilege (along with some pump-action shotguns) to remove them from the colony. Since then: no gambling.
Steeplechase was another matter and for that, they looked the other way. In the past twelve years since this Colony was commissioned, the Steeplechase has become the thing we’re known for, even more than the fish. People come out from the Mainland and other Colonies to watch, bet and visit. It’s a one-day thing and it helps generate a lot of income for individual members. Some boats make more in a day than they do in a month with Steeplechase.
“Pac Fish makes the most out of all of us,” Miguel said bitterly. This is a source of conflict for a lot of people. “We do the work, we deal with the overhead of the tourists but we don’t make that money, they do. Then they complain about ‘overhead costs’ and ‘keeping admin expenses to a minimum’. It’s very two-faced if you ask me.” But no one does: they just quietly rake some cash in and make a few jokes about corporate behind their backs. If someone wants to dump a box of cash in your lap, why stop them, everyone seems to say.
Some of the tourists left the ship and went wandering – B and C ring were set up to sell food, souvenirs and crap. I checked out their stores and it was the same kind of snow-globes and corny t-shirts you find in Hollywood or Santa Monica. Kids from the Burning Man tribe got a begging scam going but it didn’t last long. Security didn’t want anyone to think dirty-faced kids were running around homeless on the Colony and shooed them out of sight.
Out on E-Ring, you could see the ‘pit area’ constructed for the different racing teams. The largest race was Jet skis or other personal water craft, but they also had a build-your-own division. Different boats and ‘skis were already in the water and drivers were milling around getting ready. I could see the girl from my first ride out, Jessica Cho – she was already a Steeplechase legend at 17. She usually finished first or second, but I didn’t care about that. She was Asian, athletic and ran the race wearing nothing but a Speedo LZR suit … serious sex appeal.
The race discouraged souped-up engines since you needed to navigate the course… it wasn’t just a flat-out run. There were minor tweaks but the ‘racing commission’, three drunken fisherman who took the job, personally inspected every boat.
The course was marked out only a few days ahead of time so that you couldn’t practice it too much and it ran two laps around the E-Ring before entering the Maze. The Maze was the Colony itself, docks between C and E were re-configured to create a path that eventually let back out again. Boats had to be moved out of the way to make it work. To have the Racing Commission show up on your deck meant you had a headache on your hands, but it was reasonable: you could make money charging admission to watch the race.
They did have a flat-out competition: three laps around E-Ring and may the best man win. It was where they sent you if they saw you tweaked your motor too much or too often. No serious action on this race…it was more of a warm-up to the real deal. Miguel was sponsoring one of those boats and the Built by a Mexican didn’t have a prayer – but he plastered it with decals for the Barco de Arma and was hoping to win the ‘ugliest boat’ category. I found him on the Barco, hollering at someone on a phone in Spanish and writing bets down. He clicked off or hung up or whatever and grinned at me. “Welcome to Race Day,” he said happily. “We’re already up fifteen or sixteen large and the race hasn’t even started.”
> “You’re taking bets on that thing?” I said. “That’s the fugliest boat I’ve ever seen. You’re lucky it hasn’t sunk yet.”
“I’m not taking bets on that tub,” he said. “If you think I’m stupid, why don’t you just say so?”
“What are you doing then?”
“Getting some action from down south,” he replied. “The guys who used to run the Casino over here still try to keep their fingers in and I run the middle.”
“You’re taking bets for the guys…” I said, maybe too loudly because Miguel suddenly shushed me and looked out to the docks. I turned and looked – a Security guy was walking the docks and looking in to see what was going on. The noise on the boats nearby suddenly dropped to zero; I guess we weren’t the only ones who saw him.
It was weird how there were some things out here that everyone just knew, just immediately processed and responded to. Seeing a security goon out here where he shouldn’t be fell into that category. I could see who it was: a guy named Marco that worked for Pac Fish. Ordinarily, he was pretty cool but we all knew what it was: he’d bust us if he saw anything he shouldn’t. We weren’t going to give him the chance.
By now, Marco could tell that we all knew he was there. Seeing his cover was blown, he didn’t make more than a cursory check on the boats and waved to Miguel as he left. Appearances had to be maintained.
“I’m just providing a cutout for them,” he said after Marco disappeared. “I take the risk from Pac Fish and I get ten percent. Simple.” I was still pretty green but it sounded like a bad idea. Who wanted to get between a drug gang and their money? Miguel sounded crazy for taking it and I said so. He shrugged in response and changed the subject. I asked about the Built by a Mexican and he happily explained it was knocked together expressly for laughs. “Let’s face it: any attention is good attention.”
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