The Case of the Arctic Anomaly
(September-December 2012)
2-We Must Go Down to the Sea Again
For the next few days the Pines twins occupied themselves with a flight to Boston. Ford was shocked at how thorough Security was in the airport, and while they waited to board their flight, Stan explained about 9-11 and how it had changed everything.
"The World Trade Center?" Ford asked, appalled. "The loss must have been—staggering."
"It was," Stan said. He sighed. "I still can't remember so much, Ford, but that—that I can't seem to forget."
The journey was a long one, transcontinental, but for most of it Ford, in the window seat, sat in solemn silence. Next to him, Stan sat in more or less frozen terror. Airplanes and heights bothered him.
In Boston they chartered a boat and fulfilled a promise to Mabel—setting her pet lobster free. Over two days, they also visited a few cousins, awkwardly, the way people do when they haven't seen each other for thirty years. Everybody smiles at everybody else and thinks, God, they got so much older than I did.
On Friday morning they flew back to Portland—as on the way to Boston, Stan had rediscovered his old acrophobia—but he clenched his hands, closed his eyes and thought, It's a bus, it's a big bus, it's only a bus at 35,000 feet above the road, I'm gonna throw up. However, he did not vomit and yet survived. In Portland they picked up the car in the airport lot but did not head east to the Falls. Instead, Ford had mapped a route due north, into Washington State.
Although Stanford had recently bought a low-mileage used Lincoln from Gleeful Motors, Stan insisted on driving them to Bellingham. "You still ain't got your motor skills back," he explained.
"You still don't have your full memory back!" Ford responded rather testily. "Just because I had a minor road accident—"
"Three," Stan corrected. "You busted a rear tire cuttin' the corner too tight near the History Museum. Then you broke off the passenger-side wing mirror, sideswiping a cop car—"
"It was only Deputy Durland," Ford griped. "And he admitted he was at fault."
"And three," Stan finished, "in the Shack parking lot you stepped on the gas 'stead of the brake and knocked the totem pole out of plumb."
Ford stared grumpily out at the passing scenery. "I never liked that thing anyway."
"Yeah, but it's got sentimental value 'cause I charge tourists to be photographed in front of it, and what's more, it cost five hundred bucks to have it re-straightened."
"Yes, but I paid for it!"
It was about a four-hour drive to their destination, on the waterfront, and when they weren't bickering, they were reminiscing. Or at least Ford was. The more he talked about what he knew of Stanley's life, the more memory Stan recovered. From the fog that the memory-eraser gun had conjured up in Stan's mind, figures had been emerging—Cousin Vinnie, now retired as a successful owner of six jewelry stores and as a discriminating fence and one of Stan's closest old friends. Vinnie had been both shocked and delighted to learn that Stan had not, after all, perished in a tragic accident. Vinnie had reminded Stan of "Pinky," an older guy whose dad had been a crime lord but who in his later years had become very nearly legitimate and who was still kicking around Philly. Now as they drove north, Stan suddenly remembered the touchy subject of Ford's senior science-fair project and what had happened when someone was horsing around and broke it.
Ford, of course, had a few comments about that, though his own memories had become gentler with the passing of time, not to mention of their parents and so many of their friends. He started to speak of them in a monologue.
Stan listened patiently and now and then said "Uh-huh" as the memories came into focus. Every one was a link in the chain of his life. True, there were still broken lengths, but now he knew they could be mended.
Even as they drove down Roeder Avenue in Bellingham itself, Ford droned on: ". . . and then Shermy's son Alexander was born, and when he was about two, Shermy had a chance to join his old Army buddy Lewis as a partner in an electronics store in Oakland, California—"
Stan cut him off: "Clam up, Poindexter. Is that where we're supposed to be? Sign up ahead on the left says Squalyalup Marine."
"That's it," Ford said as Stan slowed, stopped for a couple of oncoming cars, and turned into a big, cracked asphalt parking lot. "Looks like that's the office off to the right. And I see the masts of boats ahead, must be the adjoining marina. Don't park here, the sign says 'Owners Only.' I think there are Squalyalup customer slots near the office building there. Yes, I see some."
"It ain't like they'd give me a ticket," Stan said. But he parked where Ford was pointing and they got out. The weather was mild, just scattered clouds with a tang of saltwater in the air. Squalyalup Marine's headquarters was a prefab aluminum building, one story, with the exterior painted to look like weathered gray wood, the walls decorated with coils of rope, anchors, and lanterns, all faded and probably made of resin. Rows of nautical flags hung under the eaves.
The door opened into a fluorescent-bright reception area where a middle-aged, red-haired receptionist greeted them and said, "Pines, right? Mr. Merirsovo's expecting you. I'll call him." After a moment on the phone, she added, "He's on the way."
And as she said it, a short, medium-stocky guy with light brown hair sprinkled with gray, high ruddy cheekbones, and squinty blue eyes came in and shook hands with them. "Dr. Stanford Pines, Mr. Stanley Pines. You can call me Buck. So you guys are twins," he said. "I can tell. Give me a minute to put on my boat clothes and I'll show you what we got."
They waited another five minutes until Merirsovo, who had been wearing a gray suit and red tie, re-emerged all covered in stained dark-blue canvas coveralls. "Not that I do much of the building work these days," he said as if they'd asked. "But, you know, climbin' around on boats, you get oil and schmutz on you. Come through this way. It's a short walk to the drydocks. Nice day, ain't it?"
To Ford's evident disappointment, the boat he had first seen online, a thirty-three foot sloop, was no longer available. "Sold it to a sailing school out of San Diego," he said. "Last week. But I got this one, same lines, a little bit longer stem to stern, about 35 feet. Broader beam, too, and she rides steady. Got a 450 horsepower diesel in her that we overhauled last May, three-year warranty on that, parts and labor. Got the hull inspection papers and all. It's a little older than the one you asked about, built right here in the yard fifteen years back. Worked on it myself with my dad and brothers. Take a look around."
"All right to go aboard?" Ford asked.
"Sure, go right ahead. Drydock's stable. You fellows take the tour. I'll run and get the certificates and papers and bring them out here if you're interested."
"We're interested," Stan said.
Ten minutes later, Ford said "What do you think?"
"Eh, what do I know from boats?" Stan asked. "Looks OK to me. Not as cramped as the Stan O' War. I mean our sloop from when we were kids, not my motorboat."
"We could stock the larder for perhaps a month's run," Ford said. "Fuel—well, we'll have to be conservative. From the look of the power mill, I estimate we'd have a range of about two hundred nautical miles on engine power alone. Fortunately, I'm certified to operate a sailing vessel, and the masts have power assists for raising and lowering sail."
"I can probably steer," Stan said. "Long as there ain't any rocks around."
"Let's go walk around the hull and do a visual inspection."
While they were doing that, Merirsovo returned with a manila envelope stuffed with certificates attesting to the seaworthiness of the Matildy. While Ford went through them, meticulously, Stan asked Merirsovo, "What are you askin' for this tub?"
"It's pre-owned," Merirsovo began.
"Used," Stan said.
"Well, yes, used. But only one owner, the late Hughes Caporal of Seattle. He named it for his wife, and she, frankly, hates sailing, so since she's inherited it, she wants to sell it. I think a price of $110,000 is fair."
"Uh-huh," Stan said. "And what's your commission on that?"
"We overhauled the Matildy when Mrs. Caporal asked us to put it on the market, and of course the renovations figure into the total price. Over and above that, the yard gets a fifteen per cent commission on sales."
"How much did it cost new when Caporal bought it?" Stan asked.
"Fifty thousand five hundred," the boatbuilder said. "But that was fifteen years ago. A hundred and ten thousand is a good price in today's market."
"Everything seems in order," Ford said. "Stanley, I like this vessel. I think it would serve us well."
"I think we oughta be able to take it for a test cruise before we decide anything," Stan countered. "When could we do that?"
"Give us the rest of today to attend to inspections and any last-minute work," Merirsovo said. "If you come back Monday morning, we'll have her in the last dock in the marina there. Slip F-18. Is that satisfactory?"
"Eminently," Ford said.
They checked into the Admiral's Arms, not quite a motel, not quite a bed-and-breakfast, but somewhere in between. Once they'd moved their bags in, the twins went for a tour of two other boatyards. By five that afternoon, they agreed that the Matildy seemed to be their best bet here. Everything else available was too big and fancy—they didn't want to have to hire a crew—or too small for their needs.
They found a seafood restaurant and sat down to dinner. "If this fershlugginer ship sails OK—"
Ford stopped him. "Sloop, Stanley. It isn't a ship and it isn't a boat."
"Whatever. What I'm getting at is, they're asking a hundred and ten grand for the thing. We got that much cash?"
"By that you mean do I have it," Ford said. "Actually, yes, I do. My investments have been quietly earning interest over the years, and the government owed me back payments on a few things I did for them as a post-graduate. It will reduce my savings by half, but I could swing it."
"Yeah, well I could throw about twenty thou in. It would be more but that damn Portal cost like an arm and a leg to fix."
"Then let me front the bill," Ford said. "If you want to invest as we get started, we'll have a contract made out to that effect."
"I'll do it on one condition," Stan said. "We gotta re-christen it. Not the frickin' Matildy. The Stan O' War II, OK?"
"That," said Ford, "is the best idea of the day."
They left it there, turned in early and the next morning after breakfast they consulted a few advisors—people in the boat business. For the most part, they got good recommendations for the Matildy. The guys who didn't recommend it didn't know it, and nobody knocked the sloop's reputation.
On Monday morning they met with Merirsovo, and he introduced them to a grizzled old guy named Sandy who would take them out for a short try-out cruise. He reminded Stan of Popeye, except he probably was a little more irascible and spoke somewhat less accented English. He took the wheel while Stan cast off the lines, then started the engine and backed out of the slip. "Where you guys wanna go?" he asked.
"Give us a couple of hours," Ford said. "Once we're underway, I want to take the wheel."
"Couple hours," Sandy said, squinting his left eye and looking more than ever as if he wanted a can of spinach. "I'll head for Waldron Island. Open 'er up a little when we're away from traffic. This wind, we can hoist the mains'l and jib and you can see how she handles under sail on the way back."
The course lay nearly due west. Before long, the port lay in the distance, the snowy peak of Mount Baker beyond it. Ford took the wheel while Sandy stood next to him, muttering directions. "Turn 'er two degrees to port. Good, good. There's th' channel buoys, trim the course—you done this before, I can tell. All right, steady now. Let's try a turn to starboard. There, just like that. What do you think?"
"She handles well," Ford said.
"She'll ride out a gale like a destroyer," Sandy said. "Good, steady craft. All right, back to our course now . . .."
A little more than two hours later, they docked and Ford passed Sandy a generous tip. In the office, they met with Mr. Merirsovo and Stan took over, haggling with him. "We think the askin' price is on the high side," he said. "The boat's fifteen years old."
"But with a reconditioned power plant."
"Yeah, but we looked into how much that costs. Ford and me are willing to offer you a hundred thousand, cash on the barrelhead."
Merirsovo smiled sadly. "We couldn't take an offer that low."
"Then counter it." Stan was grinning.
Ford just sat back and felt a growing respect for Stan's skills. He might not be a sailor, not yet, but he could navigate the shoals and reefs of finances. After nearly an hour, the two sides were on converging courses—Stan had just offered a hundred and six thousand, Merirsovo had come down to a hundred and eight.
"Dang, we're so close," Stan said. "Tell you what, Buck. Get a pack of cards and we'll cut for it. You get the high card, we'll pay the hundred-eight. I get it, we'll pay the hundred-six. If we tie, we split it right down the middle at a hundred-seven."
"That's a chancy way of doing business," Mr. Merirsovo said, but he was smiling. "Dr. Pines, what do you say?"
Ford lifted his hands, spreading his twelve fingers. "I'm letting my brother deal with this one," he said.
"OK, let's do it." He picked up the phone and pressed a button. "Marina. Can you go over to the outfitter's shop down the pier and pick up a deck of playing cards? That's OK, roll the phone over to me and I'll field calls until you get back. Thanks, darling."
While they waited, Merirsovo asked how they'd liked the spin around the Sound. "It was fine," Stan said. "My brother's got quite a touch with the wheel, an' he'll teach me."
"Navy man, Stanford?" asked Merirsovo.
"Not exactly," Ford said. "I did spend some time aboard a sailing vessel, though, and I learned a great deal about navigation and general handling." He did not add that the vessel was not of this Earth, but from a different dimension, or that the sea was nearly crimson, or that his shipmates stood four feet tall and resembled hopless, bow-legged kangaroos. Still, a sea was a sea, wind was wind, and he and the Kharfs had taken on and defeated a much large pirate ship manned by ten-legged (or eight if you didn't count the arms) crocodilian Muggsers.
Marina, the red-headed receptionist, returned and handed Merirsovo a wrapped deck of Bicycle cards. "You owe me five dollars," she said.
He handed her a twenty. "Thanks, darling."
After unwrapping the cards and discarding the two jokers and two advertising cards, Merirsovo shuffled the deck. "You want to shuffle, too?" he asked, offering the deck to Stan.
Stan took it and expertly shuffled and re-shuffled, cutting and stacking twice. "Oughta be a nice mix," he said. "Ready?"
"Ready," Merirsovo said.
"Want to go first?"
"You first."
Stan cut the cards, took the bottom one, and put it face-down on the desk. "Reshuffle and cut."
Merirsovo did. He showed his card. "Jack of Hearts," he said. "So-so. How about you?"
Stan flipped his card. It was the Jack of Diamonds. "Guess we split the difference," he said. "Or best two out of three?"
Merirsovo laughed. "I get the feeling I might have to give you the sloop for nothing if we did! All right, $107,000 it is. Now, I've got the sloop's papers ready for you. By the way, the original owner registered her in Vancouver, and you might want to consider keeping that as is. Cheaper, and not very far away. Let me amend the contract to the new selling price, and if you can return on Friday, the Matildy will be yours, Dr. Pines."
"There's a branch of my bank in town," Stanford said. "We'll go straight there and arrange for a certified check. By the way, please show that Stanley and I have joint ownership. We'll let you copy our passports. We'll return to Oregon, but we'll plan to drive back and return here Friday afternoon, say one o'clock. Is that acceptable?"
"Fine," he said. "Stanford, Stanley, pleasure to meet you."
"Great doin' business with you, Buck," Stan said.
In the car as they started the long drive back to Gravity Falls, Ford said, "I have to ask. Did you plan the card thing to be a draw?"
"Ford, it's always better to make a mark feel like he didn't flat-out lose. With a draw, he won a little and I won a little."
"You didn't cheat?" Ford asked.
Nonchalantly, Stan said, "I'll never tell."
To be continued