I wake up this morning feeling pretty good. I’m alive still. I’m not gonna get down on my knees and give thanks to my creator for keeping me alive through the night like some people do. Yet I’m feeling pretty good. My usual disturbing dreams came and went. I don’t remember them. That’s good.

I’m hearing a low moan out over the water. It’s not a call to Muslim prayers. It’s not a warning call of a imminent nuclear attack. There’ll be no warning. It’s not a Sax player blasting his low notes. It’s a calming noise. It gives me a sense of peace. Unlike every other noise I’ll be hearing all day long…

Fog Horns.

Once I’m up I take this picture.

Fog blankets the San Francisco skyline while that old horn moans.

I’m taking this picture from the foredeck of the Henrietta.

Hollywood screenwriter owns her. Claims the boat rescued G.I.s off the Dunkirk Beaches. Probably so. He was living on her when I moved onto the dock. Then he moved back East. He showed up briefly a couple years ago. Before that, not for another two, three years.

Back when he lived on her the interior was tricked out like a movie star’s pad. Like a photo shoot for Architectural Digest. He would take his fancy friends on Champaign tours of the bay. I was never invited. Although I’ll admit he was always friendly when he passed me on the dock.

The Henrietta is a ghost boat now.

Arthur the deranged alcoholic anchor out was squatting on her and left the sink tap running. A few days went by and she was sitting real low in the water. Kayaker noticed and called Rick the Harbormaster. Saved her just as she’s getting ready to sink. That would’ve been a sight.

Rescue crew pumped her out.

This happened last winter in a lull between storms.

Flooding below decks does major damage

Especially your vanity boats like the Henrietta.

Arthur did a couple hundred grand in damage.

Then he simply rowed his piece of shit dingy back to his piece of shit anchor out boat.

He figured what he did was not his fault.

Now she sits. Gulls perch on her. None of the Quality People come to see her. She appears to be abandoned.

Fine by me. I like her sitting like a foreclosure.

Less traffic on my dock.

I like it quiet down here. Just me and the old lady across the dock.

And the Seagulls.

The old lady. I believe she’s still under that blue tarp. I think she is. Her mean ass daughter showed up the other night. Long enough to peek inside. Make sure her Mom’s still breathing. Just a quick look see and she’s gone like a bullet. Fine by me. The less I see of the daughter the better. The old lady though. I like her. I’d befriend her if she’d let me. She’s not one for conversation. Big smile and that’s it. Like she’s saying, “How you doing? Now piss off.” I like that. The less you say to your neighbors the better.

Do I really believe what I just said?

I’m having one of those days.

Arthur used to live on my dock

Arthur’s boat when it was in good shape

The screenwriter hired Arthur to look after the Henrietta.

He put up Arthur’s anchor out boat in a slip right here at my dock. Paid the slip fee as part of Arthur’s employment. Arthur was working at the local hardware store at the time…so maybe that’s how he got the caretaker job. Otherwise why would the screenwriter hire a bum?

Author had been an anchor out for thirty years.

Suddenly he’d gained a degree of respectability.

I got to know him a little. Used to run into him on the dock.

Arthur dressed like a cowboy

Cowboy hat. Duster. Boots. An ornate shawl over his shoulders.

He’d get dressed up in his cowboy gear and parade up and down the dock. Dressed like that at work, too. I’m thinking, he’s a boat bum. Yet he dresses like a cowboy. A pretend cowboy. I can’t figure it.

The other thing he did was drink.

He’d be drunk off his ass every night. Lit up like a fire truck.

He’d howl insults at the sailing school students.

Boater’s complained.

Finally Rick evicted him. Rick, who never evicts anybody. I guess Arthur jabbed Rick in the chest. And that was going one too far…

Arthur went back to being a Anchor Out.

The Screen writer had his fill too. Told Arthur his services were no longer required.

Arthur goes off on me

We were always friendly. I mean, I kind of liked him.

He’d always say, “How you doing Partner!”

Acted like we were good friends. I never hung out with him but we were neighbors.

Then he get’s evicted and I don’t see him for a long time.

Months.

One day I drive onto the parking lot and there he is, dressed like a cowboy, talking with Manuel, the dock worker. Laughing his cowboy laugh.

I pull up, roll down the window and shout to him.

“Hey, Arthur. How you doing!”

His joy vanishes. He screams,

“You son of a bitch. Where’s my money.”

“What?”

“You owe me three hundred bucks!”

“What?”

“Don’t what me you piece of shit. Where’s my money!”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Okay, asshole,” he says, nodding his head ominously. “You go an play that game. I’m gonna get you!”

I’d heard he was going a little crazy lately. Alcoholic poisoning. This was no joke.

“Hey Arthur. You got me mixed up with some body else. I don’t owe you a dime.”

“Fine. You play your game. I’ll be biding my time.”

Now I have an enemy

Arthur’s about the size of a rail thin scare crow. His legs are bad. His lungs are shot from chain smoking. He’s over sixty. I’m not worrying he’ll kick my ass.

I could knock him out between push ups.

But you don’t need enemies. Especially when you live on a boat.

Boats sink when you’re not around.

The fucker’s sneaky.

Once in a while I’d see him. Rowing by in his dingy. He’d row in here and tie off his boat. Use my dock as his own personal landing platform. Rick warned him to stay away. But Rick is often away himself.

So Arthur would come and go. Sneak his dingy in here and stumble off to one of the local bars.

Once I caught him tapping into the electrical outlet beside the Henrietta.

Mostly I tried to ignore him.

He figures he’s got it made. Tying off here when it’s become harder and harder these days for Anchor Outs to get by with fewer marina’s allowing free tie offs.

In fact, the last place I know of is the Public Launch Ramp, downtown.

Anyway, it’s been months since the near sinking of the Henrietta.

No trace of Arthur.

Funny how two hundred grand in damages will keep you away…

Turk clues me

The last I heard of him is from this guy I know at my gym. Turk, he calls himself. Another Anchor Out but respectable. I’m in the shower after a work out and he’s in there, cleaning up. We’re talking boats. Out of the blue I ask him does he know an Anchor Out dresses like a cowboy.

“Oh, Christ. That guy. I stay away from him.”

“Yeah?”

“Anyway, he’s on his last legs. He’s so sick he can’t even row out to his boat anymore. He’s sleeping in his dingy right there at the Public Launch Ramp.”

“No shit.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s got cancer. He’ll be dead soon.”

“Too bad.”

“The sooner the better you ask me.”

I’m thinking the same thing. But then a few days later I run into Captain Jim the lawyer.

“Hey Gloomy! Guess what? I ran into your pal Arthur last night.”

“Yeah?”

“At the NO NAME BAR. Knocking back whiskeys.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I guess you can’t keep a good man down!”

Well, I don’t wish death on him. I do but I don’t. I guess I kind of do…

I’m confident that 2 hundred grand bill will keep him away.

I like my dock quiet.

No Arthur drama.

The Henrietta is locked up tight.