Mid-day on the designated Saturday, unannounced, T.T. sailed gracefully into the bay in his cherished Tiffany. He was well known around the boatyard. In most respects T.T. was considered a non-resident, regular by virtue of his years of visits, nautical demeanor, happy eyes, and love of wooden boats. T.T. was short for Typhoon Tycoon, a label he had picked up in connection with his real estate dealings down the hill. A metropolitan newspaper columnist once dubbed him Typhoon Tycoon in connection with a quick, apartments-to-condos conversion program that made front-page headlines for several days.

He wasn't ruffled easily, however, and he took the title in stride. Most people around the boatyard didn't even know his real name. He was either T.T. or Typhoon to them.

T.T. was always invited to parties if he was around as he was actually something of a one-man entertainment committee. On one occasion, a beach picnic for all at Sugar Pine Point, Tiffany had dragged her anchor when an east wind arose. The scramble to get out to, and board, the boat as she gurgled along heading for some nearby rocks on the shoreline was now part of the T.T. folklore.

Another time, under power, T.T. backed his pride and joy over the towing line connecting Gem, his skiff, to Tiffany. This inadvertent maneuver in front of the whole gang assembled on the outer, marina dock for an Easter brunch brought T.T. notoriety over several square miles. Gem's bow was pulled under Tiffany as the towline wound onto the prop--a sight to see!

T.T. could dish it out, too. Last summer, following the County Fair in Auburn, a live, adult ewe with gorgeous black wool was delivered to the boatyard, freight prepaid. It was a big surprise for the boatyard gang. An anonymous buyer had made the sheep's shipping arrangements after buying the ewe in the 4-H auction. Typhoon was the prime suspect, but he never confessed.

Tiffany was T.T.'s most engaging asset. Visually she was the essence of a classic, wooden sailboat. Technically she was a gaff-rigged, double-ended, stay-sail sloop with a full keel, outboard rudder, trunk cabin, and carvel planked hull. Tiffany had a graceful sheer, pin rail at the mast with real belaying pins, wood cheek blocks, a stove complete with a Charlie Noble, and chalk-white, three-strand nylon dock lines that always looked like they just came from the store. In all, she was 26 feet of love including all the bright work--bow sprit to stern post. Typhoon could afford to hire the varnish pros.

Soon after he had laid Tiffany gently alongside the outer dock that autumn Saturday, T.T. was invited to the evening barbecue. Around six he sauntered up the main dock and across the yard to Mudge's dirty truck. It had a couple of lawn chairs and three bags of partially melted ice in the back. T.T. gave the door a tug and clambered aboard. A few minutes later Mudge trudged out of the machine shop, beer in hand. He joined T.T. in the cab, nudged the diesel to life, and dropped the Ford 250 into low. It was about a three-minute climb through the pines and firs to the small, grassy plateau overlooking the marina. The pair savored the short, bumpy journey in silence.

Mudge parked beside an assortment of jeeps, trucks, and junkers, and the two men mingled among the party goers trading banter as they went. T.T., beer in hand, gradually worked his way over to the edge so he could gaze down over the marina and at Tiffany. It always thrilled him to see her resting at anchor or snuggled against a dock.

He looked; he looked again, squinting. Tiffany wasn't there! There was nothing alongside the outer dock. Typhoon whirled; no one was watching him. Everyone seemed engaged. Mudge wasn't visible. T.T. crossed to the road in quick time and headed down on foot. Something had happened to Tiffany.

Within minutes he was huffing across the yard and onto the main dock. The place seemed deserted. Tiffany's mast was not showing where it should have been. T.T.'s heart was in his throat as he closed on the outer dock. There was emptiness where he had left her. He froze at the edge, eyes fastened on first one, and then the other cleat that had held Tiffany fast. From each cleat there was a chalk-white, three-strand nylon dock line running tautly down into the still water. Time stopped for Typhoon.

The sound of oars slapping the water crept into his consciousness. He focused his eyes and began a purposeful scan of the lake. As his eyes came around to the marina, he perceived a slice of motion amidst the background of boats. First he saw Yan's broad back; then the oars; then the yard's rowboat coming squarely at him. Suddenly, amidst the jumble of masts and docks, Tiffany emerged, in tow, behind the rowboat.

"Tiffany!" he roared...followed quickly by, "Yan, you sunnofa*#^h!!" T.T.'s declaration was answered by a gentle but discernable, "Baaaa, baaaa."

The rowboat was closer now. Typhoon didn't believe the message from his eyes. There, standing squarely on the teak fore deck of his beloved Tiffany, with ropes leading from its neck to lifelines on each side, was a black lamb.
"Baaaa, baaaa."

A grinning audience watched the drama unfold from the rim of the plateau above.

The party lasted a long time that night.


Copyright (c) 2009 Steven C. Brandt