Previously, in Cycling Through a Storm One: Cycling Through a Storm Two: A House, a Boy, a Girl, a Car, a Dock, a Boat, a Hug Three: Starting Sequence Four: Yacht Race Five: Save the Hat! Six: Squid's Bar Seven: Sailors and Fishermen Eight: Maxhole Nine: Schwinn Continental Ten: Psycle Snobs Café Eleven: The Sultan of Strings Twelve: Fetching
“I like this little shed because it’s bigger on the inside,” Lloyd said as he unlocked the double wooden door. He explained that it had been a root cellar, mostly burrowed into the earth. The earthen roof had been dug and hauled away, the side walls extended above grade, and a pitched roof added. The resulting structure looked to Vic like a small walk-out basement with no upper level. Lloyd swung the door open and took a big flashlight from a shelf. He fiddled with the flashlight’s switch, whacked it on the door frame, pressed the switch again, then nodded and stepped into the shed.
“I’m out,” Bindi squawked. She jumped from Vic’s shoulder to the lawn, hopped away toward the patio.
Inside the shed, Vic’s eyes followed the beam from Lloyd’s flashlight. The floor was dirt beneath canvas tarps. The wooden walls on one side strained inward, yielding slowly against the crush of earth. Vic saw no back wall. The cellar probed into the hill, beyond the shed’s above-grade structure, beneath the chicken coop behind it.
Much was crammed inside the shed. Near the front was mostly lawn and garden equipment: reel-type grass cutter, a small gas-powered tiller, an assortment of rakes and shovels and hoes and tree saws stacked and leaning against the walls. There were buckets of chicken feed and cages and lights that Vic guessed were for incubating chicks. Then there were things on top of canvases that had been stretched out in multiple layers on the floor that appeared to be in longer-term or seasonal storage: a big snowblower, an old manual potting wheel, ladders, painting equipment. A lumpy expanse of canvas-covered stuff extended into the darker depths of the shed.
Lloyd swung the flashlight beam to the front of the shed again. “Nice Bike!”
Bob’s demo bike was leaning against the wall beside the shed door. “Yeah, it is.” Vic lifted the bike, pushed one pedal forward to briefly spin the rear wheel. “I don’t see any boats in here.”
“Oh, it’s back here.” Lloyd moved to the back of the roofed portion of the shed, maneuvering sideways between the potting wheel and a work bench.
Vic followed. They stopped at the rear shed wall where the pitched roof ended—the spot that appeared from outside to be the back of the shed. Underground, the foot of that wall was braced five feet or so above the floor with a wooden truss, and the cellar continued into darkness.
“There she is,” Lloyd said.
Maybe six feet beyond the shed’s rear wall, rising up from stacks of boxes and canvas-covered whatnots, Vic made out the narrow shape of a decent-sized dinghy’s canvas-covered bow. More boxes and some canvas sail bags were stacked on top.
“How long is it?” Vic asked.
“Nineteen feet.”
“Not the mast—the boat.”
“Nineteen. The mast’s taller.” He swung the beam at the base of the wall to illuminate what looked like a long bubble-wrapped pole.
“Holy—”
Lloyd scrambled forward, shoving aside boxes and buckets to make a path as he crabbed along. At the bow he lifted the canvas enough to reveal the tip of the boat’s wooden bow. It was dusty and the finish was faded and chipped, but there was no denying Lloyd had squirreled a nineteen-foot wooden dinghy away in his backyard beneath Sequoia’s chicken coop. “Jigs,” Lloyd murmured, resting his palm on the boat’s hull.
“It looks like it could be a pretty nice boat!”
“She was. I put a lot of work into her, a long time ago. She needs cleaning up, but I expect she’ll still float.”
Vic nodded.
“Would you be interested in helping me get her out on the river?”
Vic scanned the sloping span of dirt and canvas and floorboards from dinghy bow to shed door. “How?”
“There’s a trailer.” Lloyd tugged the canvas up and shined the flashlight under the boat to show that Jigs was resting on a white, powder-coated trailer. “We’ll just have to move this stuff out of the way, pump the tires up some, and wheel her out.”
“Will Sequoia be happy to see it come out of the shed?”
Lloyd, still crouching, looked over his shoulder at Vic, blinding him with the flashlight. “Sorry.” He pointed the light at the roof. “She’ll be the real challenge.”
“Gotta win her over?”
“Best to do it when she’s not looking.” Lloyd leaned the flashlight against the wall, then pulled a cardboard box off Jigs’s bow. He steadied himself, then turned and handed the box to Vic.
“Books?”
“Could be.” He pulled another box off the bow.
“Where should I put the first one?”
Lloyd froze in place, looked out toward the rectangle of daylight at the shed’s door, then returned the box he was holding to the bow. “Set it there.” Vic put the book box on the ground and Lloyd sat down on it. “We may need to clear a better spot for some of these things.”
“Were you planning to get it out of here today?”
“I don’t think so. I just figured it would be fun to get the tarps off her for a closer look, check whether mice have gotten inside before we get too far ahead of ourselves.”
Vic pulled his phone from his pocket. No service. No surprise, since connectivity was sometimes spotty in that part of the river valley, and now they were spelunking in a secret cave hidden under a chicken coop. How long before anyone found them if there was a cave-in, he wondered.
Lloyd saw Vic checking his phone. “I’m sorry—you must have other things you need to be doing today.” He crouched up again from the box.
“No, it’s okay. I just need to get that bike returned to the shop, but I’d like to see the boat first. Where did you used to sail her?”
“Lake Calhoun, mainly. I know—it’s Bde Maka Ska now, but was still called Calhoun back then, so when I’m talking about then, it’s Calhoun.”
“No worries.”
“If you’ve a date at Calhoun Beach?” Lloyd asked, looking at Vic.
“She’ll be waiting at Bde Maka Ska,” Vic responded.
“That’s right!” Lloyd laughed.
“Did you sail with the club there?”
Lloyd nodded. “Raced a little, but that was more my brother’s thing. I mostly crewed, did what he told me.”
“It was your brother’s boat?”
“We got it together, but he was the skipper. He had it in a slip with the big club on Lake Minnetonka for a few years before he died.”
“I’m sorry,” Vic said.
Lloyd nodded.
“Have you sailed it since he died?”
Lloyd shook his head.
“How long has it been?”
“Nearly thirty years.” Lloyd sat again on the book box.
“Do you have headlamps?” Vic asked. “If we organize some of this stuff a little better, maybe we can clear an escape path.”
“No headlamps, but there are extension cords and some work lights.”
While Lloyd worked on daisy-chaining extension cords together from the house to the shed, Vic wheeled the demo bike around to his van. While he was lifting the van’s hatch, his watch vibrated. He rolled the bike inside the van, then sat on the bumper to check messages. One text, one voice mail.
The text message was from Stewie: Still looking for a fourth to crew tonight. LMK if you know someone.
The voice mail was from Bob. Vic paced around on the driveway and then the street in front of the house until he found a spot where his phone showed two bars for a moment, then held the phone to his ear.
Hey Vic, It’s Bob—you know that. Bob laughed, moving his phone a little away from his mouth while he did, Vic could tell.
Say, a couple of things. First, I’m sorry I got kinda crabby with you last night about the demo bike. I didn’t know when I was talking to you—and being kind of an ass, I’m afraid—that you’d just found out about your cancer screening. Rachel told me after she got home. That’s the second thing, I guess. I’m really sorry, buddy. I should have been saying I’m here for you if you want to just talk and need someone to listen while you work through this and try to figure this shit out, but instead I was in dickhead boss mode, and I’m really sorry about that. But now get the fuckin’ demo back for me, will ya? More laughter, this time without moving the handset away.
Seriously, how ‘bout we get out on a ride today or tonight? Whenever you like. I can close the shop or just ask Rachel to mind the store while we go. I’ll ride the demo and you can ride your bike or one that’s in the shop or whatever you like. We can trade off if you want to ride the demo some more. It’s been a while since we just rode together for the hell of it, buddy, and I’ve missed that. Love ya, bro. Call me back.
Vic didn’t delete the message. He paced again while staring at his phone, looking for a spot with even just one solid cellular service bar so that he could try calling Bob back again. He found a spot at the front of his van. Leaning against van’s hood, he dialed. It went to voicemail without ringing and then the call failed before he could leave a message.
Back at the shed, Lloyd was wrestling a 60-gallon plastic drum out of the shed. He had pulled all the lawn and garden equipment onto the grass already. A cord ran into the shed and Vic could see that it was now brightly lit.
“Lloyd, do you have plans tonight?”
“Nothing particular—I figured I’d just keep working on this.” Lloyd indicated the shed. “Now that I’ve seen Jigs again, I’m eager to see whether she can still sail.”
“How about we see whether you can still sail? We’re short one crew for tonight’s race, and it’s supposed to be windy. Stewie—my skipper—asked me to find someone.”
“It’s a race?”
Vic nodded.
“I don’t think you want me doing anything important, if it’s a race.”
“Ever heard of rail meat?”
“Just sit on the boat’s high side?”
“You might have to pull a line or two, but mostly we just need another body to keep the boat from heeling over too much.”
“I can manage that, I suppose.”
“All right—I’m going to let Stewie know, and run the bike back to the shop quick, and then I’ll come back to help excavate Jigs.
Vic leaned against the front of the van and sent a text to Stewie. His watch vibrated as he was getting into the van: Message failed to send. He clicked Retry, then turned the ignition key. Click. He did the things people do when this happens. He turned the key again. He pulled the key from the ignition, pushed it in again, firmly, tried again. Click. He pulled the key out again, wiggled the steering wheel firmly left and right, then tried again. He smacked the steering column with the butt of his hand. Click.
He returned to the shed. “Lloyd, I’m sorry, but my van won’t start, and if I’m going to get the bike back to the shop before going on to the marina, I’ll need to get moving.”
“Oh! Do you need a ride? I can run you down to the marina in my pickup if you want.”
“No, you’ve got your hands full here and I can ride the bicycle—it’s not far to Psycle Snobs. I’ll change clothes there and ride my own bike on to the marina.”
Lloyd wiped his jeans with sweaty palms as he listened.
“Okay if I leave my van where it is on your driveway?”
“It doesn’t sound like you have any choice, but don’t worry about that. I might even be able to take a look at it for you. Might be something simple enough.”
“Great, if you’ve got time!”
Lloyd nodded.
“Thanks! Also, I couldn’t reach Stewie yet about crewing, but just plan on coming tonight. There will be room.”
Lloyd grinned. “Just leave your car key on the front steps.”
I loved this chapter. I can’t wait to find out the condition of Lloyd’s old boat. Also curious to see how sailing goes with Lloyd. Keep writing!
Great read and wonderful story line