Batwing, Book 1

Guy Bergmann let his 3-year old stretch-cab pickup roll to a gentle stop in the waiting lane at the Homestead Bayfront Marine Park; he got out, stretched and retrieved his coffee cup from the cup-holder on the dash.  He pulled shirt-pocket binoculars from the camera/daypack as he slung it over his shoulder.  He took a sip, enjoying the bite of hot, strong black coffee from the stainless vacuum-insulated cup.

A young family was just beginning the launching of their outboard-powered open runabout.  He'd timed it pretty well, there was only the one trailered boat on the ramp ahead of him and several long parking slots still left in the nearest parking area, even though it was a Saturday morning.  Most parked trailer-rigs were fishermen, out earlier than he was or even out all night.  Of course, that was the whole idea about getting to the ramp before 7 AM!

The sun would break above the horizon-cloaking cloudbank over Biscayne Bay in a minute or two.  There was plenty of light to see by, but the breeze was still just a zephyr.  With luck, he could paddle out and sail back, his usual routine.  There were few mosquitoes in early March; but he got out some DEET and applied it to his neck, forearms and around the top of his socks; his light brown t-shirt and khaki pants didn't attract many mosquitoes anyway.

He watched the mid-twenties young woman trying to contain a boy of about 3 years with one hand and hold her small baby with the other, while her husband loaded their boat with the usual cooler, fishing gear, parkas, paper bags and PFDs.  Their gray 4-door sedan was old enough to be rusty in places; the finish had gone flat some time ago.  The car was worn enough to suggest maybe they'd eat whatever they could catch out on Biscayne Bay today. 

They'd chosen to do their loading high on the ramp rather than on the flat; he didn't like to do anything but launch on the actual ramp, it saved time to launch, tie-up at the dock and load there.  Maybe that approach was a little risky with a 3-year old.  The sedan was down on the rear axle a little.  The young man was about the same age as the woman but had developed a potbelly that the t-shirt and shorts did nothing to hide.  He hoped the guy knew enough about trailers and launching to not break down on the ramp and block it completely.

He remembered how tough it had been to hold on to his boy Greg at that same age maybe 7 years ago when he'd been deeply involved in sailing a 26' MORC keelboat out of Ft. Lauderdale.  Thoughts about those years were still painful since the divorce. 

So, here he was, single again: it was getting better, but he'd only been able to enjoy the solitude and self-satisfaction of doing what he wanted to, for about the last 6 months.  It was still foremost in his mind that this was "lonely", not deliberate "solitude".  He wanted to be able to talk to someone, at least on weekends!  Work was still OK; he had plenty of people to talk to during the day and occasionally meaningful work to do during the week.  Nights were tough and weekends were worse.

He checked the trees for hawks using his Leica binocs while he waited.  There was a Red-Shouldered Hawk that was tame enough to take food almost from your feet if there weren't too many people around.  He wasn't in sight at the moment.  An Osprey worked the shallows off to the right along the outermost line of mangroves; the Osprey was one of a pair that nested in a platform mounted on a telephone pole south of the launch-ramp parking lot.  He didn't see either fish-hawk at the moment.

He began his ritual of checking the big cedar-strip baidarka before launching.  He verified the PFD, bailer, 2 paddles and cooler were in their places, readily accessible from the central hole/seat.  He verified the stainless steel rudder attachment hardware and .060" diameter stainless steel cables to the foot-pedals operated smoothly.  As he crossed behind the canoe on it's narrow trailer, a park-ranger pulled up behind him in one of the ugly-green SUVs with the red/blue emergency lightbar on top.

"Good morning"! the smooth-faced young ranger said, smiling, as he walked forward from his vehicle.  "I'm Jim Scott.  They shook hands and Guy introduced himself.  It was always good to have someone admire something he'd built.

"Mind if I look over your boat?  I've seen you here before, but I've never gotten a good look at it.  What is it?" the ranger asked running his hands over what looked like varnished wood of the hull.

Guy grinned: "actually it's a baidarka.  That's an Aleut Indian word for canoe; the Russians popularized the word when they were running the sealing in the Priblofs before we bought Alaska.  It's basically just a large decked canoe.  The Aleuts made the frame of bone and wood and then stretched sealskins over the frame."