Finding Sausalito Part One: Bon Voyage

By Scott Lumry

Craig "Kaz" Kazynski purchases the yacht of his dreams, then cons his six close friends in helping him sail it from Annapolis, Maryland back to Sausalito, California. A seemingly fun vacation the six men soon realize they may have bit off more than they can chew in dealing with thieves, drug dealers, kooks and each other just trying to get the big boat from one side of the United States to the other. Unknown to them all, the boat is cursed and will now plague its new owner. Will they make it back to Sausalito?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387814299

Book preview

Finding Sausalito

Part One: Bon Voyage

by

Scott Lumry

© 2007 Scott Lumry. All rights reserved.

Scott Lumry has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. Furthermore, any image shown or depicted herein is for informational purposes only and is no way intended to reflect or represent an actual location or event.

ISBN 978-1-387-81429-9



    To learn more about the adventures of Craig Kaz Kazynski and his crew visit: www.scottlumry.com.

Other E Books to come in the series:

Finding Sausalito Part II

Finding Sausalito Part III

Boatel

Daddy-O

Friendship

Till Depth Do Us Part

The Corner of Fifth and Bay

The Tao of Kaz

For Debbie, the best Erene, a guy could ever ask for .

Meet The Crew

Before we set sail here, I thought I should introduce my crew and I. Not seasoned sailors by any means, just five ordinary guys. We’re not up on the proper sailing jargon, but we do know left from right, front from back and how to keep an engine running. I’m happy because the guys are looking forward to re-kindling our friendships and taking a break from their everyday lives. A break that might become permanent...

Craig Kazynski. That’s me, Captain of the Morgan Le Fay and owner of the vessel. Everybody calls me Kaz. Recently widowed after twenty five years of a pretty good marriage, I’ve found the single life not quite what I remembered it to be. I’m lonely - too lonely and I’m finding it hard to keep myself occupied all the time. Unbeknownst to me, my dear wife, god rest her soul, had hidden away a couple of surprises for me. A pretty good sized life insurance policy and a fair chunk of change resting in a private bank account from an inheritance she was keeping for our retirement. I won’t say just how much, but it was enough to keep me in the lap of luxury for two lifetimes... if I lived that long.

This last week on my fifty second birthday I decided to re-unite my closest friends for a month long adventure bringing a yacht home to Sausalito, California from Maryland I’m going to purchase. I’d been wanting a bigger boat for some time now and when I saw that Burger for sale on line, well, little did I know what it would take to get that tub home to my berth at Pelican Harbor in Sausalito or how it would change each of our lives.

Phil Milner. Co-Captain of the Morgan LeFay and seasoned yachtsman. Phil’s been married for thirty five years now. He and his lovely wife Glenda,  mastered the art of genetic reproduction and have six excellent examples of their work walking this earth. Having a large family does have its drawbacks though and because he’s hardly every home anymore, when she does see him lately, she keeps calling him Bill. Phil’s too busy to get into why the name change but figures she must be calling him one of the kids names, half of which he can’t remember. He supports his family with the profits from his three very successful auto restoration shops in the Seattle metro area and when he’s not overseeing those, you’ll find him tutoring the electric guitar to a handful of rock and roll wannabes. He used to spend all his free time on his fully restored sixty-two foot long 1964 Chris Craft Roamer until it met its untimely demise in a huge fire at the marina where it had been berthed. His eyes still moisten when he talks about it. After several hour long distance phone conversations, he finally decided to chuck it all for a month and help me bring my dream yacht back to Sausalito, much to his families astonishment.

Jeff Barnett. Our mechanic. Jeff has spent his entire adult life dedicated to the restoration and preservation of rare antique automobiles. He travels the country throughout the year giving lectures and performing highly delicate restorations of parts that can no longer be found. Jeff remains distantly married to Ramona, his wife of for twenty four years now, and he’s extremely proud of his protégé twenty six year old son. At age fifty four, Jeff finds himself, as he puts it, a stranger in his own life these days. Says he’s looking for something but not quite sure what. Known by us as Grumpy, Jeff remains loyal to us all, yet rarely showing any emotion, other than his usual grouchy demeanor. Jeff needs a break from work and heartily accepted my invite for the trip. 

Dan the man O'Malley. A happy go lucky full blooded Irishman, also called Little Arnold for his strong resemblance to the former governor of California. Six foot six inches tall, two hundred and sixty five pounds, twenty five of which has parlayed itself into an auspicious muffin top, short brown hair and laughing brown eyes. Dan has remained single all these years, dedicating his life to being a top notch high school phys-ed coach for the last twenty five years, having led his JV football team to several bay area victory's in 1998, 1999 and 2000. His favorite pastime for the last ten of those years has been fishing. If he’s not at school, most likely he is over at the coast casting his line out off the cliffs. 

Phillip Vincent Bensour. A world class famous chef in the San Francisco Bay area. Phil owns three restaurants in San Francisco and has plans to come out with his own line of frozen entrees, some time next year. He accepted my offer as chef for the trip, giving him a chance to look for new foods of the carribbean and South American flair and try them out on a captive crew. His management team for the restaurants aren’t fond of him being gone so long but are trying hard to be supportive.

Art Alvin.  Long blond hair worn in dreadlocks and a zz top type beard. A burned out artist, Art has spent thirty of his fifty six years welding sculptures that have been placed in more cities of the United States than anyone else. Recently separated from his wife of twenty five of those years, Art has taken to welding larger than life size sea creatures, with no real idea of what the hell to do with them. Since leaving his wife he has been living with me on my current yacht berthed in Sausalito, a fifty foot long Stephens flush deck motor yacht bearing the name "Gimme Shelter" and welding at a marine repair yard two blocks away. Art likes to toke on his spliff’s just a little too much and is rapidly returning me to the beer drinking, pot head I was back in my twenties. This has to stop. Maybe the long excursion will turn things around. We’ll see...

        One

Thirty seven thousand, nine hundred fifty-five pounds of wood, iron, steel, wire, plastic, canvas and glass if properly assembled will float un-aided in a body of water only seven feet deep. Anything less than that and you’ve got big problems. Especially when you’re pushing that large mass through the northernmost end of San Francisco bay at twelve knots and you happen to be as high as a kite, passed out on the foredeck of it...

I awoke just in time to realize we had drifted too far up Richardson Bay and were now in serious danger. My beloved fifty foot 1963 Stephens flush deck motor yacht required a five foot draft to stay afloat and even in current my state of incoherence I knew we were running out of bay quickly. I could see the bottom off to our port side and knew we were up the real shit creek this time. I yelled for Art, got no reply, stood quickly and began to wobble my way toward the helm. I had taken about three steps when a loud scraping sound came from below me and my boat lurched to a stop, throwing me off balance, landing me on my side on the deck. Quickly pulling myself back up to a standing position I shouted again for Art. I managed to make it back to the helm and throw the transmission in reverse, pulled the throttle levers up and waited as the boat protested in releasing itself from its spot in the sticky gravely mud. More fingernails on blackboard scraping filled the air, as one of the engines began to rev harder, then a loud sharp bang, as the prop bent in the mud and the shaft snapped. The port engine over revved and I quickly shut down both throttles. The boat was now taking on water as well, but I didn’t know that yet.

Art suddenly came up from the salon, a glazed look upon his face.

What the hell happened? he asked.

We ran aground and I think the prop shaft just snapped. I guess I passed out up here. I thought you were gonna drive? Why weren’t you at the wheel?

I went in to grab a beer, sat down on the couch to tie my shoe... that’s... that’s the last thing I remember. Shit, sorry man.

We’re screwed now. Tide’ll be out in awhile, I guess I better get on the radio and get some help. Get down in the head and grab the bottle of Jet Start, and make some coffee quick. Coast Guard sees us this screwed up and we’ll be off to jail. Even then I don’t know how I’m gonna explain this.

Maybe we’d better drop the dingy and just get the hell out of here for awhile. If we’ve bottomed it won’t sink. We can drop anchor so it won’t drift back out, then we can get it towed in later.

Good idea, I don’t know what else to do right now. That’s the last time I’m getting high out on the water, I said through my fogged in brain.

Yeah, right, said Art, as he turned slowly and headed to the stern to lower the dinghy into the water.

We managed to get the dingy afloat and climbed aboard, leaving my home, my precious refuge from the world, alone and forlorn, stuck in the mud at the north end of Richardson bay. Art yanked on the starter cord of the outboard motor, it fired up on the second pull and we slowly headed back toward Pelican Harbor. As we motored along I downed a Jet Start caffeine tablet and a can of Energy-Max hoping by the time we got back, the fog in my head would have lifted and I could appear coherent once I got to the Coast Guard office.

Some thirty five minutes later we tied up at my berth at Pelican Harbor and climbed out onto the dock. My neighbor, Tony Myrnas who lives on his sixty foot long 1957 Chris Craft Constellation in the next berth had seen us coming in and came running over to us.

You guys okay? he asked. What happened?

Tony had shared many a joint with Art and I so there was no need to cover my tracks with him.

Well, we got pretty loaded and both of us passed out. Next thing I knew we ran aground on the north end of Richardson and probably snapped a shaft in the process of trying to back off. Rather than call for help we decided to come back and sober up so we don’t get busted. I answered.

Yeah, probably a wise decision. Let’s head back out there on mine, maybe I can tow you off. he said.

Sounds good to me. I hated leavin’ her out there like that. I replied.

Tie the dinghy up next to my berth and let’s get out there. Tide will be gone in an hour! he exclaimed.

We didn’t argue. Art took the rope and walked the dinghy around the docks to the starboard side of Tony’s boat, lashed it to his dock then joined us aboard the Brittany II, named after his youngest daughter. Tony wasted no time and expertly guided the large craft out of the harbor into the bay and pointed us North, back up to the scene of our crime.

As we neared my boat the sharp angle of her list meant she was either completely resting on the bottom now or taking on water.

As my luck would have, it was both. Johny carefully watched his depth finder and stopped about ten yards back from mine.

That’s as far as I can go without making things worse. Lower my dinghy and run the rope over to it, tie it off as best you can and we’ll and hope for the best. I think the transom will hold it, he said cautiously.

I don’t think we have a choice, I replied.

Tony turned his boat so that the sterns faced each other. Art ran the mini lift , positioning the dinghy out over the stern and lowered it into the water. We climbed in with a length of rope and an extra anchor Tony carried aboard his boat.

We elected to row the few yards over to my boat, I had no intention of damaging another prop today. We tied up to her stern and Art climbed aboard. He quickly ran the rope through all the rear cleats then set the anchor in the middle on the floor at the rear transom. We rowed back and tied off to Tony’s Chris Craft. Tony slowly engaged the throttles on his boat and we watched as the slack went out of the tow rope and the tension began. Tony kept increasing the throttles until the stern of the Brittany II was now lowering into the water. The ‘Gimmie Shelter’ rocked a little to port, then starboard, then port again and finally began to move backward toward us. Tony kept inching up the throttle until my boat was free, then continued for another few yards so we could back along side her. Her list was still obvious and as I stepped aboard the bilge alarms sounded. I reset them, and started the engines. The port engine over revved right off, so I shut it down again and left the starboard engine at idle. Then I stepped down into the galley, popped open the engine room hatch and climbed down inside. Much to my horror the aft end of the engine compartment had about three inches of water inside and I could see bubbles coming up from underneath the engines. I quickly made my way back topside and yelled over to Tony.

She’s taking on water! Art, tie the rope to the bow, then get down below and get the emergency pump going, quick!

Art complied, the adrenaline flowing in our veins now quickly erased any effects the cannabis previously had had on us. Tony throttled forward and began pulling us back to port as quickly as possible.

Art had the emergency pump running in record time and I watched as the water began pumping out of the hose he’d run topside back into the bay. As Tony towed and I followed, Art ran around below bagging up our clothes and packed my laptops and other valuables into the two waterproof Igloo ice chests I kept in the forward crew quarters for an emergency as this. He set everything near the door of the salon where it joined the helm then joined me at the wheel. The ride back to Pelican seemed to take forever, but finally came in sight and we both breathed a sigh of relief. Tony expertly lined us up at our respective berths, then parked his . Art jumped out onto the dock to help tie the Brittany II down, then the two of them began to work with me in helping me berth my baby using rope and muscle to line her up. Once secured to the dock, Tony brought over an extra pump and it looked as though things might be okay.

I called Smythe’s Marine repair over next to the Maritime museum on Front Street on their twenty four hour emergency line and made arrangements to have the Stephens hauled out and repaired. Even though it was Saturday evening, they made an exception and agreed to take her in provided we’d have her over there at nine tomorrow morning.

Tony insisted we stay aboard the Brittany II for the night and I didn’t argue. We moved our packed belongings over, then went to work to prevent my boat from becoming a total loss. An hour later, with the bilge pumps running, and two extra pumps, I wasn’t worried we could keep her afloat until we could get her over to the repair yard. The three of us agreed to take shifts through the night, just in case. To show my appreciation to Tony I had three Porterhouse steaks with roasted garlic potatoes and a pot of steamed clams brought over from the Cat ‘n Fiddle Restaurant, our local hangout at the entrance to our marina. We had dinner out on the deck, washing our meal down with a six pack of the El Presidente beer I had snuck back from the Dominican Republic last Christmas. By nine p.m. Tony had gone off to bed, Art was sawing logs on the couch in the salon and I sat out on the aft deck enjoying the evening sights and sounds of the tourists wandering around downtown Sausalito. Normally on Saturday nights I played the piano in the bar at the Cat and Fiddle for a few hours. Another quick phone call and a close friend Arnie, who had also sold me my boat, agreed to take my place on the keys. As the food coma set in, accentuated by the toxic effects of the three El Presidente’s I had downed, without even realizing it... I too drifted off into a sound sleep.

I awoke suddenly with a jerk, just as the sun was beginning to break on the horizon across the bay. There in front of me, outlined in the fading darkness, now some six feet lower in the water lay my boat, the ‘Gimme Shelter’, foundered at berth.

SHHHHIITTTT !!! I shouted at the top of my lungs, furious at myself for falling asleep on the job. Furious at Art for the same and silently blaming Tony as well, but the fault lay with one person and one person alone.

Me .

Tony had heard me shout and came stumbling up on deck.

"Oh, that’s why there’s no power, he said. Thought you were gonna watch it?"

I did... for awhile... until I fell asleep. What happened to you guys?

Yeah, well, uh, same excuse I guess, answered Tony sheepishly.

I turned and stepped passed my friend heading into the salon. I passed Art still sawing logs on the couch, continued into the galley, took a large beer mug out of the cabinet and filled it with water. I took the mug, walked back over to Art and dumped it onto his face.

He sat up sharply, swearing and glaring at me.

What the hell did you do that for? he shouted.

Look out the window asshole, I said, imitating Jack Nicholson.

Art’s expression changed, he knew before he looked, but he slowly pulled himself up on the couch, turned and looked out the window anyway.

Aw shit. Oh man!

Aw shit, oh man is right. So much for my boat. I guess it’s just as much my fault, I replied.

So now what? he said through wide open mouthed yawn, stretching his arms.

Well, maybe it’s time to go look at that Burger I was checking out on line last week. I was thinking maybe I could make a trip back there to look at it, and if it’s worth buying, maybe its time to get the guys together and have a reunion of sorts and all of us bring it back to San Francisco together.

That thing won’t fit on a truck, it’s huge!

No, dumb ass. Sail it back here. East coast to the West coast.

Yeah, right , okay, You have no real experience other than tooling around the bay here, and me, well...

I’ll call Phil up in Washington. He’s had yacht’s for years, motored all over the place . Maybe I can talk him into it. Then get Jeff, Dan and Vince, maybe my stepson and grandson to crew it too. Who knows, maybe we can bring her back here and have a great boat to live on. And the trip here would be a great chance to get everyone back together again, just like in the old days.

I can’t argue, that would be fun. What do we do about this? he said nodding in the direction of my boat.

I guess I better get the electrical cords unplugged and head up to the main box on shore and get the power going again. I hope I haven’t screwed anything else up on the other boats around here, I said.

I walked over to the port side of my berth, verified the breaker was in the off position on the breaker box and unplugged the two heavy gauge, yellow extension cords that had been powering the emergency pumps now totally submerged in the Stephens’ engine room. While I had been doing that Art had walked up to the shore box with Tony and upon my signal threw the main switch on the power supply back into the on position. Tony’s stereo kicked on and Jimmy Buffet singing "A Pirate Looks At Forty" drifted through the morning air. The three of us met back on the starboard side of my berth, next to the Brittany II. We stood staring at my sunken boat in silence until Jimmy finished his song. Tony then brought out three beers and we began the long day of getting The ‘Gimmie Shelter’ back afloat and over to the repair yard.

By noon on Monday, with my bank account two thousand dollars lighter, my boat sat on blocks in the dry dock over at Smythe’s Marine repair yard, six blocks away. I had to pay time and a half to get the divers out on a weekend and bring the portable crane over. They worked diligently and carefully to prevent the ribs in the framework from cracking from the pressure.

The lifting had taken most all of Sunday, due to the constrained open area around the boat, but by the time the moon began to rise over Sausalito bay, the ‘Gimmie Shelter’ was barely resting in the water, pumped dry and being supported on three portable floats, cabled together against the hull and lashed to the docks.

Tony was one who enjoyed his space and decided it was getting a tad bit crowded with the three of us on board so he decided to hop a plane back to the Dominican for a few weeks. With the boat no longer a worry I ran Tony to SFO airport, then returned to the Brittany II and made several phone calls to my friends. I arranged for us to meet at our old hangout, Pete‘s Harbor in Redwood City for lunch the following Saturday. We met at 11:30, the same time we’d always had years before, on the upper deck, at the same round table near the edge overlooking the boats resting in their berths. The grandeur of the clear morning skies, cries of the sea gulls overhead and smell of the salt air, mixed with garlic and grilling seafood filtering up from the kitchen from below was only surpassed by the happiness of my four friends and I having lunch together for the first time in over twenty years. The waitress brought our first of many pitchers of beer, took the orders for five Pete’s Burgers with cheese and fries and two pots of steamed clams then disappeared below.

Raising our glasses Dan toasted us to old times to which I added To the good times to come!

What good times to come? said Jeff. All I do is work anymore!

No Shit, added Vince, downing his first glass quickly and pouring another. Between the creating new menus and trying to keep my restaurants staffed, I’m on the go twenty four hours a day it seems like."

See? I told you dad! snickered Art.

Told him what? asked Dan, setting his beer down on the table.

Go on, smiled Art, as he emptied his glass.

Everyone’s attention focused on me.

Last Saturday we had a little event at the harbor. I won’t go into details, but we ended up sinking my boat at the dock. It’s in dry dock now being repaired, but it got me to thinking about another boat I’ve been wanting for some time now. I’m going to fly back to Maryland next week and look at it . And, if it’s worth buying, I thought it would be great for the six of us to fly back there and sail it back to California.

The other’s sat quietly for a moment, staring at me.

How long would that take? asked Dan.

Most likely a month, maybe a little more, I answered.

You know Kaz, it’s great you’ve got at this free time on your hands now that your money worries are over, but the rest of us still have bills to pay, mouths to feed and all that bullshit, complained Jeff.

Yeah, I just can’t up and leave the restaurants, added Vince.

I suppose I could take a leave of absence, began Dan, looking out across the harbor. Whose the sixth person?

That’s the attitude! I exclaimed. Phil Milner. He’s up in Washington now. He’s been motoring yachts all over the Pacific Northwest for years. Without him, I wouldn’t even attempt this.

And if he says no? asked Jeff, raising his eyebrows at me.

I already talked to him, I replied. He’s all for it.

Actually the phone call had been more like this:

Phil, buddy, how are you?

Wow, long time no talk. I’m good man, what’s up?

Need you to go look at a boat with me next week.

Oh yeah? Where at?

Maryland.

Right, I’m just supposed to drop everything and fly three thousand miles to look at a boat with you.

Yup.

Nope.

C’mon man, It’s important!

I’m sure it is, the answer’s still no.

I also need you to help me sail it back here.

Your hearing bad? I said no.

C’mon, it’ll be the trip of a lifetime. I’ll pick up the tab for the whole trip. Air fair and all.

Hmmm... nope.

I’ll throw in two thousand dollars for Glenda.

She won’t go.

Not for her to go. For her to let you go.

I doubt she’d notice I’m gone, but I can’t just shut everything down for a month, anyway. Anybody else going?

Yeah the whole gang. Jeff, Art, Dan, Vince, you and me.

Fine, you guys have a good time. What kind of boat is it?

A 1958 sixty-five foot Burger cockpit motor yacht.

The one on Yachtworld?

You saw it?

Yeah, wow, (silence) incredible boat. There can’t be that many of those left around anymore.

Two, registered anyway.

more silence...

You still there ?

I suppose the shops would survive and heck, I’m not hardly around home anymore anyway. Spend more time teaching young Santana wanna be’s the guitar.

So you’ll go ?

Lemme think about it. I’ll call you back tonight.

Think hard.

Okay, will do.

Look you guys, I said quietly. I’m not stupid. I know you’ve each got your own responsibilities to deal with. I’m prepared to pay each of you a full months salary of whatever you’re making now, and of course I’ll take care of all the expenses for the trip as well.

Ramona won’t go for it, I can just hear her now, said Jeff quietly.

Neither will my managers, added Vince.

I realize that too guys, I said. "When you talk to your wife tonight Jeff, tell her I’ll throw in two thousand dollars to do whatever she wants with. Heck, all of you bring your sons along and well make it a father and son thing.

Jeff belched, then smiled. I guess all she can say is no.

Well, do you wanna go or not? said Art to the others.

Well, yeah, of course, said Vince. Probably never get to do something like this again.

Oh shit, yeah, laughed Jeff. We’d have a blast!

So how do we get it from there to here? asked Dan.

Motor down the Atlantic seaboard to the Okeechobee waterway in Florida, cut through there to the Gulf of Mexico, skid across the gulf to the Panama canal, then scoot back up the Pacific to Sausalito. I answered.

Our food arrived and everyone fell silent as we ate. Two more pitchers went from full to empty in a short time, some small talk ensued about families, business and world events, and we soon parted ways once again.

Late that evening, Art and Jeff were telling their wives, while Vince had as meeting with his managers about the impending adventure. Jeff was met with the expected resistance until it was learned that I had agreed to pay each of them a months wages, before taxes and cover all the costs of the trip. As an added bonus I promised an extra two thousand to each of their better half’s, even Vince’s top managers. I hoped the promise of cash money would stifle their objections.

Art was staying with me on my boat in Sausalito now and told his soon to be ex over the phone, taking the better part of an hour in which for the most part, she could be heard screaming her head off two berths away, bonus or not. 

Me, I was plain excited. If the boat checked out, this was shaping up to be the trip of a lifetime.

Two

Two weeks later, I stepped off the United Boeing 757 at BWI airport in Baltimore, Maryland. I walked up the ramp slowly, towing my duffle bag behind me as I entered a waiting area packed full of families and friends of friends. It was as if each passenger were on display modeling something unknown, but only to those who were waiting for someone.

As for me, I scanned each face hoping to see Phil in the crowd, but failed. I continued my way into the lounge, pushing slowly through the throngs milling around. The noise was irritating, a mixture of passenger announcements over the PA system, the crying of children and shouts of glee of others. I stopped again near the newsstand, scanning the area looking for my friend.  

Kaz! came a voice over my my shoulder.

I spun around and there stood my old comrade.  A little older, a little wiser, but instantly recognizable. He dropped his bag and I hugged my friend.

 Almost thought you changed your mind, I said.

What and miss this? No flippin’ way. I may have bitched about it, but the truth is how often do I get to get away from the whole family and the damn business besides? My plane got in early, so I’ve been checking the place out. Not too impressed to be honest.

No, not around here. Annapolis is better, I got a pretty good tour when I moved my cousins friend back here some years ago. The place is stocked full of history, apparently the Declaration of Independence was signed not too far from the harbor. I saw the tavern once, maybe we can find it again.

That'd be good. You got your bag already?

Yeah, let's get the rental and get the hell out of here. I can't wait to see the boat. The guy assured me over and over it's as good as in the pics, and sent some on line that were dated last week so I believed him. I even went as far as having one of my cousin’s friend that lives near here come take a look too. Everybody says the same thing: A real beauty!