“So tell the lady.” Zia scratched his back on the barn’s corner post. “Anything to keep me away from that smell.”
“Another time.” Noah began gathering up their trash. “I want to get this done while I’m surrounded by free help.”
“Thank you for the lunch,” Amos said.
As the four rose and started down the porch steps, Noah asked the boatyard guy if he was certain the engines could be repaired.
“Oh, absolutely. No question.”
“We’re standing fifty feet from the boat,” Amos said. “You haven’t even been down to inspect the motors.”
“I checked them out back at the police yard,” Wallace said. “They’re first rate.”
“For a boat that wound up sitting on the sea bottom in Shell Beach,” Zia pointed out. “Last I checked, motors and water don’t mix.”
“Boats do sink,” Wallace told him. “Even boats as big as this one.”
Jenna hovered in the background as Wallace Myers described what was required. The salvager was friendly enough, a stubby man in his early fifties with hands permanently stained by grease and hard work. But something about him rubbed Jenna the wrong way. She kept one of the men between her and Wallace and listened as he explained how large craft usually sank from being poorly maintained, especially when kept in cold water. Brass fittings below the waterline were most often the culprit, getting corroded and then cracking with a hard freeze.
Noah asked, “So you’re certain the motors can be restored to full health?”
“Oh, absolutely. These babies are barely broken in. I’ll need to strip them down to the individual cylinder heads. Clean it all out. Check the wiring. But yeah, when I’m done this lady will sing.”
“How long will it take?”
“Assuming there’s no problem, the engines should be back in working order, say, two weeks tops.” He jerked his stubbled chin at the craft. “Something else you might have missed. The size of those fuel tanks means this craft was fitted out for global range. Very rare.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Most boats this size, they’ll carry two, two and a half thousand gallons of fuel. Somewhere around a thousand miles cruising range.” He started clambering back into his rubber gear. “This baby has eight tanks. They run along the base of the hull, form part of the ship’s ballast. I’m guessing she holds four and a half, maybe five thousand gallons.”
When Wallace and his assistant started prepping the jet wash, Jenna told Noah, “I want to help.”
Zia pretended at shock and horror. “You best get out while you still can.”
“Don’t listen to Zia,” Amos said. “Nothing makes that man happier than a reason to complain.”
“My aching everything.” Zia pulled on the rubber waders. “I’m thinking the owner of this here boat owes me a cruise to Hawaii. Assuming he can ever get it to float again.”
“I’m happy to take you halfway,” Noah replied, starting toward the barn. “And that boat is going to float just fine.”
“Amos, tell the lady she’s in for a hot and stinky and wet and horrible afternoon.”
“Not me.” Amos followed Noah across the dusty yard. “Like my wife says, I’m not hard of hearing. But I can be hard of listening.”
Noah slowed so Jenna could catch up. “Amos didn’t bring boots your size.”
She lifted one sneaker. “These are my get-dirty-and-sweaty shoes.”
“A lady after my own heart. You want to scrape or scrub?”
“I’m happy to do whatever. . . .”
That was as far as she got.
While they had been eating, the sun’s position had shifted. Daylight now angled beneath the high roof and shone directly on the recently cleaned hull.
Seeing the damage so clearly was like a punch to her soul.
