A steel schooner in the desert near Yuma. Sitting there while the cactus grows up slowly around it—sitting there for years now. We saw a video showing the man when he was still alive. He was pointing out where everything was going to go. The bulkheads, the galley, the booth, where you’d sit and have your breakfast. Pointing everything out fast, antic.
And there was the picture of his wife and two daughters—one sticking her tongue out at the other. One of them had what the yacht broker called “special needs.” I wondered if she’d gotten brain damage later, falling from something. Maybe the half-built deck, onto the hard earth down there. On the jackstands the deck must have been 20 feet off the ground.
For sale, this ship of the desert. A half-built, clean-lined piece of metal. Empty tunnel.
I wonder if they’ll ever sell it. This is the kind of project that could take years, thousands of dollars. We could truck it down to Mexico and put a team of guys on it and it still wouldn’t be worth much in the end.
It’s just somebody’s dream, lost out in all that sunlight—not even rusted yet.