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realized that the time since my last haulback would work to my advantage, as I was certainly out of practice hauling from the right side. The next thing I noticed was that the Seahawk was much smaller than I had remembered her being and that the work deck was cluttered with stuff that could only be described as junk.
    â€œWhat’s all this . . . shit?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s stuff we took out of the forepeak when we cleaned. There wasn’t any more room in the dumpster,” Arch said, pointing to the steel garbage receptacle on the dock that was overflowing and surrounded by boxes and plastic buckets also stuffed with unrecognizable refuse that I assumed had all originated from the bowels of my new craft. “Those are the tools that I found worth trying to salvage,” he said as he nodded in the direction of a large table made of a sheet of plywood and two sawhorses. The table was covered with a variety of rusted tools, including an assortment of adjustable wrenches that really belonged in the dumpster. “That’s the best of it.” I couldn’t imagine what had filled the dumpster if these tools looked better in comparison.
    Not far from the dumpster stood one dozen of the crummiestlooking beeper buoys I had ever seen. These electronic buoys are imperative to successful fishing. You attach them to the line as it is set into the water, and they assist in locating the gear once it is cut free from the boat and allowed to drift with the current. Steel canisters house batteries and electronic boards that act as sending units of specific frequencies received by the boat’s radio direction finder. Each canister is ringed with flotation and topped with a two-piece, ten-foot antenna. Or at least that was how I remembered them. But not these. This dilapidated bunch of crap couldn’t possibly belong aboard my boat, I hoped. Archie must have read my thoughts. “The electronics guy is coming in the morning to fix the beepers. None of them work.”
    And so it went for the entire eye-opening tour. Every compartment of the boat displayed signs of neglect. There seemed to be a total absence of anything decent to work with. All of the equipment, gear, and systems necessary for fishing far from shore for long periods of time were sorely lacking. There was a fresh coat of paint in the engine room and a rumor that the main engine had just been rebuilt. But other than that, things were shaky. There were three antique computers in the wheelhouse, but my tour guide confirmed optimistically that some local computer genius would perform miracles before we sailed.
    The fo’c’sle (forecastle, or area beneath the forward part of the deck) was okay, except for the head, which sported a leaky plastic toilet that could have been ripped out of a decrepit camper, and the galley, which had been totally scavenged of utensils needed for eating or cooking. The bunks were adequate, except in number. One of us would have to sleep at the galley table. The bench seat on the starboard side had been extended, making it clear which side of the table was meant to be someone’s bedroom. The extension had been covered with a cushiony pad. Nice touch, I thought as I sat and held my head in my hands. The first of the usual series of second thoughts crept in. “Wait till you see the lazarette. It’s a nightmare,” Tim said in reference to the aftermost below-deck compartment that housed the steering gear and rudder shaft.
    â€œNot tonight, man. I’ve seen enough. Let’s get some rest and start fresh tomorrow,” I said. There was nothing the men could show me that would persuade a change of heart in me, I tried to convince myself. The boat was rough. I had fished worse. I liked challenge, didn’t I?
    â€œHow about checking out the Eagle Eye II, ” suggested Hiltzie. “She’s beautiful! I sure wish we were going fishing with that boat. Wanna see? She’ll make you