How I became Billy (circa 1978)

I used to be Willy. Especially when I was in trouble.

“Willy, stop stomping around out there.” My Dad yells.

I’m eight or nine years old and I have learned exactly how to irritate my Dad now. I’m good at it.

We are aboard the Alleluia, family boat, in its slip in Fleitz Brothers Marina, San Pedro. Exactly like we are every weekend. We come here every weekend.

What a flea bitten dump of a marina. You have to cross an active railroad spur just to get to the place, which after crossing, it is advised that you then cross your fingers that no train comes. There is a dusty, dirty bulk ore loading facility just past the marina. If a train comes you could be stuck at the marina for hours while the train loads it’s cars.

All days at Fleitz Brothers Marina are the same. The sky is mucoid grey overcast which has the effect of making the water a sort of murky silver mirror. The floating docks are decked in dingy splintered lumber, probably dating back to the original installation sometime in the 1950s. They look as if they could inflict a life threatening sliver from 100 yards away. The marina never bothered to replace the decking that failed or broke, instead they nailed a thin piece of sheet metal to span the gaps, secured it with roofing nails…. Both of which may have been galvanized at some point, but have since promptly rusted into a tetanus rich Petri dish

Make no mistake, this is not the erudite Connecticut yacht club rich Kennedy establishment most would connote with the word “marina”. Exactly the opposite. This is the wrong-side-of-the-tracks, thug version. The average boat at Fleitz Brothers was a horribly neglected once “pleasure” craft, but now, if not sunken or partially so, certainly sad, pathetic, derelict and ignored. Try to imagine “boat junkyard”

Here, on this weaponized surface of sun bleached brittle decking and rusted out steel patches with protruding rusty nails is where Mindy and I would run around barefoot all weekend. Whee!

We spend every weekend at the boat.

Every. Single. Weekend.

Our job is to run on the docks and irritate the grownups. We are good at it.

The boat next door to ours is an Islander 32, a well maintained sloop named Domino. It belongs to the Dostals, Willie and Lynda and their son Ricky, lifelong friends.

Willie Dostal is perhaps the coolest, calmest most collected man on the planet. He’s my Dad’s best friend. Willie taught me how to fish. Lynda, his wife is the best…. She taught me how to surf on the tiny 12” high waves in Avalon harbor and she wields something called a “coke leffel”. All my life, I don’t know what it is, but it sounds terrifying. Ricky is our younger buddy, pretty soon we will show him how to run on the docks and irritate the grownups.

Dostals are here some weekends. Mindy and I love it when they are here. Not sure if Dostals are here today.

Anyways…

Stomp-stomp-stomp

All you have to do is walk on your heels a little to elicit the response

“Dammit, Willy… knock that off…!”

Thisss fun! Watch this…

Stomp-stomp-stomp

“Willy, what did I tell you… if you do that again i’m going to…”

Stomp-stomp-stomp

“WILLY, DAMMIT….”

Willie Dostal, evidently present this weekend, pops his head above deck and coolly says… “yes…? Everything ok Bill?”

Oops. This isn’t going to work, my Dad realizes…, My name, henceforth, Billy.