What had happened to real estate values in South Florida in the same time period was practically obscene, and no matter how ugly or opulent the homes he built seemed to her, there were always more nouveau riche types who could not wait to have him tear down the little fifty-year-old cottages here in Victoria Park or over in Rio Vista so he could build them another McMansion. This lot where they now lived had been unusually small, and he’d decided after the spec house had been on the market for six months that rather than take a beating on the price, they would move in and call it their home. After all, as the president and owner of a construction company in Fort Lauderdale, he deserved a classy address, a nice place to entertain clients, he’d told her.
At dinner that night, he chewed a large forkful of her chicken and rice and announced, “You’re gonna have to learn how to sail.” Little bits of rice escaped and flew out of his mouth. They landed back on his plate.
She nodded at that.
“It’ll be a tight fit,” he said, “but we’re gonna bring the boat up to the dock here at the house. She’s over at Bahia Mar right now. I told the broker I’d have her out of there by Saturday. That gives us about a month to get ready. I invited Gator and his wife to go with us to Nassau next month — when you’re off on spring break. Should be a nice way to break in the boat.”
Gator was his best friend from high school who had made a fortune in the dot-com glory days and had been smart enough to get out before the bubble burst. He’d recently married for the third time.
“What’s her name?”
“Gator’s wife?”
“No, your boat.”
“She’s called the Verity. Don’t know if I like that, especially because it’s in some foreign language, but I hear it’s bad luck to change a boat’s name.”
“Verity means truth.”
“I know that.”
Saturday morning he told her they would take her Lexus to the marina, bring the boat to the house, and then they’d go back to get her car. When they walked into the broker’s office, a thin white-haired man got up from behind his desk, buttoning his blazer and putting on his smile. “You must be the missus,” he said in a pronounced British accent. She couldn’t believe he had really called her that. “Congratulations. It’s a lovely boat.” His breath smelled of stale cigarettes.
It was quite clear her husband wanted to get rid of the broker as soon as possible. From the moment the man had suggested that they might want to hire a captain to help them motor to their dock, her husband had shut down. He wanted the broker off his boat. It didn’t happen too often anymore, but her husband could be rude when he wanted to be.
With the broker gone, he had taken her on a tour down below. She was surprised by the amount of space and all the comforts that had been squeezed into that compact environment. It reminded her of a dollhouse. He showed her the galley first with the electric stove and the top-loading refrigerator and freezer. When she lifted the lid of the freezer, the dark hole smelled musty. She would need to do lots of cleaning, she thought, and wondered when she would find the time.
The aft cabin would be theirs, he said as he opened the small round door and stepped through.
She poked her head past his shoulder and remarked that the queen-size bed nearly took up all the space in the cabin.
“It’s called a berth, honey.”
Back on deck he began to explain to her about directions on the boat, fore and aft, port and starboard. The dock they were tied to was shaped like a letter T and they were tied at the end. It looked as though it would be quite easy to motor out, she thought. Just untie the ropes and off they would go. He explained to her over and over what he would do, and what he expected her to do. He took her up onto the front of the boat and picked up a white rope with a small, knotted rope ball on the end. This rope looked newer than the others on the boat.
“This is called a heaving line,” he said. “I was surprised they didn’t have one on the boat. According to the Marlinspike Sailor, it’s a necessity. See, on this end?” He held up the knotted ball. “This is called a monkey’s fist. The weight of it makes it easier to throw the line.”
It was almost more square than round, and she liked the look of it. Decorative, that’s what she’d call it. She’d seen jewelry in that shape before, little gold versions that sold for hundreds of dollars in the shops on Las Olas.
“When we get up to the house, Gator’s gonna be there. I asked him to come over to help us dock.” He held the coiled rope in one hand and swung the loose end with the monkey’s fist. “You’re gonna take this line and when we get to within about ten feet of the dock you’re gonna throw this to Gator like this.” He tossed the monkey’s fist back at the mast and released the coils he held in his left hand. The rope arced up through the air and landed past the mast on the plastic windshield of the boat. “You’ve always got to remember to let go of the line in this hand, see,” he held up his left hand, “or the fist end isn’t gonna go but about five feet and fall in the water. Okay, you try it.”
He coiled up the line, stood behind her, and placed the coils in her left hand, the throwing end in her right. “Now swing this end back like this,” he said, and pulled her right hand back, “then swing forward and let go.”
She released the rope and the fist flew about ten feet and landed at the base of the mast. The coils dropped at her feet a second later.
“All right. That’s good enough, honey. You keep practicing.”
Gator was standing on their seawall, waving as they rounded the corner into the canal. Her husband was wearing his cell phone on his belt with a black wire that snaked up into his ear. He’d kept a running dialogue going with his friend throughout the trip from the marina.
“Okay, you ready up there, honey? Don’t throw it until I say when, okay?” He was shouting so loud, she looked around to see if any of their neighbors were outside. All the windows were closed tight to keep the cold air inside, and the only people she saw were the gardeners in front of her neighbors’ cottage.
It wasn’t difficult to see which home was theirs. It was the only two-story house built out to within what seemed like inches of the property line on either side. The home was painted gray with a silvery tin roof and an imitation widow’s walk. It would have looked more at home in New England than South Florida.
She glanced back at him standing in the cockpit. She thought the boat seemed to be going too fast. His hands gripped the massive stainless steel wheel at two o’clock and ten o’clock. His legs were braced shoulder-length apart. He was not a large man, and the size of the steering wheel made him appear even smaller. Ahead, their dock was coming up fast. She passed the monkey’s fist into the hand holding the coiled line and shaded her eyes looking back at him.
“Get ready, honey. You ready?”
She heard a change in the sound of the engine. It revved louder, and she decided he had shifted into reverse. The boat speed slowed only slightly and the back of the boat began to twist away from the dock, pointing the bow toward the seawall beyond their wood dock.
“What the hell are you doing? Throw Gator the line, goddamnit!”
She swung the fist back and threw, and the white rope flew nearly straight up, then dropped down only inches from the dock. Gator cartwheeled his arms trying to grab the line before it splashed into the water. He missed.