Jackaroo was a sailboat. She was sleek and sporty and, by rumor, had been around the world twice. We bought her and moved in. We polished all the teak and scrubbed the white leather, and recovered the stateroom bed in silver and hung slate curtains and threw bright green pillows and rugs everywhere.
She was a gem.
We bought her for a song. They said she would never run again. But, we discovered the brutality of a prospective buyer whose offer was denied because of its offensive low-balling. He pulled the panel off the back of the dash and pulled out all of the wires. No wonder she wouldn't start! There was no problem with the engine. She purred like a kitten. Our risk paid off and our new home on the water was ready to set sail again.
But it didn’t last.
In a few short months, we were snared by the lure of another beauty. A 60 foot, one of a kind William Garden design. She was opulent and alluring. Hand-hewn teak adorned her every inch. Pillars guarded her galley. Wide stairs complete with a landing promoted her entry. Gentle, floral carvings surrounded the beveled mirror in her lovers’ nest. Brass clocks and windows spoke of rings on her fingers. Her wide decks beckoned sunbathers.
We fell in love.
And so we threw Jackaroo aside.
And she wasn't happy.
We had lavished so much attention on her, including taking her out of the water and spending countless hours painting her hull and repairing all the ravages of time. We oiled the teak on her rear deck and bleached the shining white non-skid surface of her bow. We took down her sails and carefully washed them and inspected them for signs of wear. We oiled her hardworking engine and replaced worn seals. But we decided we would not be the ones to reap the benefits of all that attention and we put her up for sale.
We advertised. We sent out word around the world that Jackaroo was for sale. Calls came in from Australia and Costa Rica and South Africa and Canada and the USA. People bought plane tickets and flew to our tiny island in the Caribbean.
But most of them never arrived.
An eco-farmer from Costa Rica lost acres of his four-hundred acre farm to a forest fire. A widow from Canada broke her foot and was left stranded in her travels. A carny from Australia discovered his son was kidnapped. A retired businessman from California fell ill and was hospitalized.
And then the break-ins began.
The first time, they drilled a pin hole in the lock, took off the door, ravaged the cabin as though they were looking for something, and then carefully replaced the door and the lock. We could not find a thing missing. The second time, they took the silver blanket and two hats. Again, they carefully replaced the door as if no one had been there. Then a prospective buyer, an intrepid traveler who finally made his way past whatever hound guarded the gate to our island, arrived. He was scheduled to see Jackaroo at ten o'clock. We were excited because he was excited. We were exhausted from the strangeness and anxious to hand her over to a new owner.
But they came again. Whoever was breaking in and not taking anything took both batteries, sliced the jib line and spray painted the freshly painted hull with figure eights in black.
I was afraid.
The potential buyer was none the wiser. He still came to see come see our sleek and beautiful boat. We had quickly scrounged up another battery, scrubbed the black paint off the side, and cited the weather as a reason not to take her out to sail so we would not have to address the fact that the jib could not be unfurled. The man said he loved the boat. We took him out for lunch and talked about life in the islands. The man drank our beer and laughed and waved some money around.
And then he disappeared.
My daughter is a speaker to the earth and a healer of energy. She lit a candle and wrote JACKAROO on a slip of paper and said a few positive words encouraging release and the manifestation of some cash in our pockets and the signing of transfer of title slips and she burned the paper.
It immediately turned into a black mass and burned for thirteen hours (interesting number, isn’t it?). And when it finally went out, the glass holding the candle burst.
We believed the curse was broken.
And as of this writing, a young film-maker and his family are trying to get the cash together to offer our lovely mobile house on the water a new owner. Will the sale go through? Has Jackaroo's jilted heart mended?
We shall see.
PS,
The young film-maker bought the ship. He and his family moved into a little apartment in town and he got right to work scrubbing and painting and making Jackaroo his own.
Then one night, shortly after the purchase was completed, a storm swept through the region. Jackaroo’s anchor dragged and she drifted helplessly across the bay.
Our young hero was beside himself and, lacking a dingy, plunged into the water and swam to Jackaroo side to save her. Of course, after boarding her, he realized he was powerless to remedy the situation. He was in need of another boat to pull her to safety. So he dove back into the black water and, in a panic, swam back to shore where he rounded up a Panamanian policeman. He frantically explained the situation and the policeman threw him in the back of the squad car, drove him to the center of town, and promptly dumped him out on a street corner and into the arms of a prostitute.
Hmmm, I think something was lost in translation.
To make a long story short, the young film-maker/new-boat-owner was able to snag a local fisherman complete with a fishing boat and the two of them rescued the drifting Jackaroo.
I am guessing that, given the profession of Jackaroo’s new owner, there may one day be a box office hit titled something like, Jackaroo and the Bocas Triangle, or The Black Night of Jackaroo, or maybe How to Go Crazy on a Ship.
Either, I will pay extra for front row seats, or I will stay as far away from the movie theater as I can.