offered. For Lex, she explained, “That’s a baboon. From North Africa.”
“And a breeding pair of golden eagles,” said Manny Salinas, who up until now had sat quietly. “Those’ll be fun. They’re going into the area where the Watusi cattle used to be before we built their larger enclosure.”
“Don’t forget the new snow leopard,” Robin said, happy to turn the attention to her beloved big cats. “I’ve seen pictures, and he’s a beauty.”
I wanted to ask again about that other blog Kate reputedly wrote, but by then, the others had resumed their chatter, so I filed the question away for later.
The rest of the day proved uneventful. Lucy and Baby Boy Anteater were dozing when I dropped by to replenish their termite supply, and the squirrel monkeys were calmer than usual. Between tasks, I thought about Kate. Dying alone at night, in a place where she hadn’t had time enough to make true friends. That was the problem with a mobile society. When you disappeared, hardly anyone noticed. I would have spent more time getting to know Kate, but we had worked competing schedules. Still, I wondered who her people were and sympathized for the pain they must have felt when receiving the news about her death.
I decided to ask Zorah about Kate’s family when clocking out for the day. Although we’d been only nodding acquaintances, I wanted to send them a condolence card and flowers. White roses, for a woman who had died too young. But at six o’clock, when I returned to the Administration Building to clock out, Zorah was holed up in a meeting with the Monterey Bay Women’s Beneficent Society. I left for home, intending to speak to her the next day.
***
As harbors go, Gunn Landing’s is considered small, but it’s actually the largest commercial fishing harbor in the Monterey Bay area. A natural three-quarter moon shape, the harbor is sheltered at the flat end by a mile-long sandbar where seabirds flourish and harbor seals doze. Liveaboarders like myself make up about one-fifth of the harbor population. Most of us live here not only because we love seaside living, but also because even if we wanted to live inland, we couldn’t afford the rent. Other than the refurbished garbage scows and sailboats that made up the liveaboard fleet, most of the other boats were commercial trawlers and pleasure craft, the sole exception being the large research vessel that belonged to the Gunn Landing Marine Institute.
I love the social mix that harbor life offers. Marine biologists, fishermen, whale watch skippers, Sunday sailors, bikers-turned-seadogs, scrimping liveaboarders, and a few folks like me—refugees from well meaning but manipulative mothers. Notwithstanding our varied population, life at the harbor tends to be peaceful. However, we aren’t without the standard problems that plague the rest of the human race.
Once at the Merilee , I fed Bonz and Miss Priss and refreshed the kitty litter. When Bonz finished eating, I grabbed his leash.
“Ready for walkies?”
Yes, yes ! he yipped.
As we strolled down the dock toward Gunn Park, I heard Linda Cushing, owner of the Tea 4 Two , arguing with Hector “Heck” Liddell, owner of the ill-named My Fancy , the rusty trawler he’d turned into an ill-kept houseboat. Curses flew fast and furious, most of them coming from Linda. In only three years at the harbor, Heck had managed to rile just about everyone, but the animosity between the two was particularly intense. This time, Heck claimed that Linda’s dog, Hans, had peed against My Fancy ’s stern. Linda counter-claimed that the other night, Heck himself had done the same thing to Tea 4 Two .
“That garbage scow of yours ain’t worth pissin’ on!” Heck snapped.
“Don’t insult my boat, you old fart, or I’ll…”
I closed my ears to the rest and concentrated on getting Bonz to the park before he added more urine to the argument. Fortunately, we made it. As Bonz happily relieved himself against a trash can,
“And a breeding pair of golden eagles,” said Manny Salinas, who up until now had sat quietly. “Those’ll be fun. They’re going into the area where the Watusi cattle used to be before we built their larger enclosure.”
“Don’t forget the new snow leopard,” Robin said, happy to turn the attention to her beloved big cats. “I’ve seen pictures, and he’s a beauty.”
I wanted to ask again about that other blog Kate reputedly wrote, but by then, the others had resumed their chatter, so I filed the question away for later.
The rest of the day proved uneventful. Lucy and Baby Boy Anteater were dozing when I dropped by to replenish their termite supply, and the squirrel monkeys were calmer than usual. Between tasks, I thought about Kate. Dying alone at night, in a place where she hadn’t had time enough to make true friends. That was the problem with a mobile society. When you disappeared, hardly anyone noticed. I would have spent more time getting to know Kate, but we had worked competing schedules. Still, I wondered who her people were and sympathized for the pain they must have felt when receiving the news about her death.
I decided to ask Zorah about Kate’s family when clocking out for the day. Although we’d been only nodding acquaintances, I wanted to send them a condolence card and flowers. White roses, for a woman who had died too young. But at six o’clock, when I returned to the Administration Building to clock out, Zorah was holed up in a meeting with the Monterey Bay Women’s Beneficent Society. I left for home, intending to speak to her the next day.
***
As harbors go, Gunn Landing’s is considered small, but it’s actually the largest commercial fishing harbor in the Monterey Bay area. A natural three-quarter moon shape, the harbor is sheltered at the flat end by a mile-long sandbar where seabirds flourish and harbor seals doze. Liveaboarders like myself make up about one-fifth of the harbor population. Most of us live here not only because we love seaside living, but also because even if we wanted to live inland, we couldn’t afford the rent. Other than the refurbished garbage scows and sailboats that made up the liveaboard fleet, most of the other boats were commercial trawlers and pleasure craft, the sole exception being the large research vessel that belonged to the Gunn Landing Marine Institute.
I love the social mix that harbor life offers. Marine biologists, fishermen, whale watch skippers, Sunday sailors, bikers-turned-seadogs, scrimping liveaboarders, and a few folks like me—refugees from well meaning but manipulative mothers. Notwithstanding our varied population, life at the harbor tends to be peaceful. However, we aren’t without the standard problems that plague the rest of the human race.
Once at the Merilee , I fed Bonz and Miss Priss and refreshed the kitty litter. When Bonz finished eating, I grabbed his leash.
“Ready for walkies?”
Yes, yes ! he yipped.
As we strolled down the dock toward Gunn Park, I heard Linda Cushing, owner of the Tea 4 Two , arguing with Hector “Heck” Liddell, owner of the ill-named My Fancy , the rusty trawler he’d turned into an ill-kept houseboat. Curses flew fast and furious, most of them coming from Linda. In only three years at the harbor, Heck had managed to rile just about everyone, but the animosity between the two was particularly intense. This time, Heck claimed that Linda’s dog, Hans, had peed against My Fancy ’s stern. Linda counter-claimed that the other night, Heck himself had done the same thing to Tea 4 Two .
“That garbage scow of yours ain’t worth pissin’ on!” Heck snapped.
“Don’t insult my boat, you old fart, or I’ll…”
I closed my ears to the rest and concentrated on getting Bonz to the park before he added more urine to the argument. Fortunately, we made it. As Bonz happily relieved himself against a trash can,
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