Brick’s garage, and a day with no water

Nick’s card said Saturday. The calendar said the eighth. The eighth was Sunday. We came Sunday. Nobody made a speech about it. The hulls were already in the driveway when I got there, which means I was not early. Brick was. He usually is, when the work is in his garage and the pot is his.

No water. I am writing that down so the month stays accurate. The vests hung on the peg by the side door. Pete looked at them, looked at the dry concrete, and left them there. He said the rule is for the lake. He said it once. He had the kit on the bench anyway, because a workbench is still a place a man can bleed. Correct. We did not need it.

The boats

Seven hulls, two sawhorses that mattered, and the rest of the garage doing what a garage does. Crates of old prints under a tarp. The extra Dutch oven on a shelf, already down, because Brick does not trust a plan that waits until people are hungry. The stove in the corner was on. The door was up a foot. November came in along the floor and died before it reached the pot.

The Discovery needed skid plates. Nick had said so at Ravenshore, looking at the bow as if the gravel had sent him a letter. The old plates were thin at the stem and cracked at one screw. We took them off. I set the new ones where the old holes already were. New holes are how a boat learns to leak in a driveway. Nick held the bow. His hands were cold from the morning and then they were not. When the plate sat proud on the port side we took it off and did it again. The second one sat flush. He ran a thumb along the edge and nodded. That was the job. I did not decorate it.

The Wenonah had one loose gunwale bolt, aft, starboard. I had brought the bolt. Brick had the driver. Four minutes. The Minnesota II is Kevlar and does not enjoy being improvised on. I did not improvise. Tom watched and did not offer the Penobscot’s scrape, which is still unfilled, on purpose, since 2011. He said a clean hull is a hull that stayed home. I said his hull had not stayed home. He looked pleased and changed the subject to chili.

Jules ran a rag over the Magic until the rag gave up. Sam lined paddles on the bench: his Grey Owl, Brick’s ottertail, the Zaveral I use when there is water. He started a comparison. I let him have one minute. Then I handed him a screwdriver and the comparison became a man being useful. He is good at both. He knows it.

Pete kept the grinder unplugged until someone actually needed it. Someone did. A gunwale screw on the Tripper had rounded off. He cut it, carefully, with the glasses on his face and a second pair held out until Jules put them on. Jules looked like a man borrowing a face. The screw came out. The new one went in. Pete nodded the way he nods when a vest buckle clicks. Same pleasure. Smaller stakes. He is allowed.

The chili

Brick had started it at noon, which is why the garage smelled like a decision when we arrived.

Two pounds of chuck, browned in the Dutch oven, not gray. One large onion, small dice. Four cloves of garlic. He says four is the minimum and I believe him, because I counted the skins on the cutting board. Cumin, chili powder, oregano. Salt once then, salt again at the end. A bottle of beer in the pot. The rest of the six-pack on the bench, where it could be reached without crossing the work. Beans in late, so they stayed beans. He did not scorch it. I watched the bottom when he stirred. Clean.

We ate at five, standing, then sitting, because the good stools are two and there are seven of us. I got a stool. Brick got the other, which was fair, and then he didn’t use it. He ate with his hip against the bench and his bowl in one hand. Tom took the stool Brick had left. Nick sat on the Discovery’s yoke, which he had just screwed a plate under, as if he wanted to stay near the repair. Sam and Jules shared the tailgate. Pete ended up on an overturned crate with his knee against my thigh, because the crate was the last flat thing and I was already on the stool. I did not move the knee off. The chili was hot. The garage was warmer than the day. That was enough reason to sit close, and I am not writing a second reason.

Shirts had come off while the stove and the work did their job. Brick’s was off first. He runs hot, and a garage with a Dutch oven does not argue with him. The rest of us followed once the bow of the Discovery stopped being a cold piece of plastic. Shoulders, arms, the ordinary fact of a shop with the door only a foot up. No one performed it. Tom passed me the hot sauce without looking, his wrist against my wrist for the length of the handoff. I took it. I used less than he would have. He noticed and did not comment, which I respect.

The chili was right. Thick. The beef still had a bite. The garlic had gone sweet instead of sharp. I told Brick that. He said “good” and served himself seconds, which is Brick accepting a compliment without having to wear it. I had seconds too. I do not always. The pot earned it.

After the pot

We put the tools back where Brick can find them, which is a higher standard than where we can find them. Hulls on the racks or back on the cars. The Discovery’s new plates looked like a boat that intends to meet gravel again. The Wenonah’s bolt was tight. I checked it once more because that is cheaper than checking it on a lake. Nick wrote December on the card while his hands were still orange from the chili. Solstice supper. The twelfth. A room if he finds one. Brick’s table if he does not. Brick, washing the Dutch oven, said the table had not failed yet. I believe the table.

Pete hung the safety glasses next to the vests. He looked at both and seemed satisfied that each thing was in the correct month. Jules asked if we were done. We were. Sam got half a sentence out about bent shafts and then saw my face and put the Grey Owl in its bag. Tom clapped my shoulder on the way to the Penobscot. His hand stayed a second longer than a clap. The scrape on his bow went home unfilled. That is his business.

I drove back with the Wenonah humming on the racks and the taste of cumin still in my mouth. No water. That was the assignment, and we kept it. The boats are more honest than they were in the morning. So are we, when the work is small and the food is accurate and nobody has to be watched. December is Nick’s problem. March, if the lake is open, is mine. I will go look. I will not invent a paddle if the ice is still there.