We found them floating in a live-bait tank, deep in the cabin of La Calavera, a swamped Largo schooner. We mostly find stuff with no resale value: soggy flares and UHF radios, a one-eyed cat yowling on a dinghy. Then we creep down to the ladder, jump onto the nearest boat, and loot. We ride our bikes along the rock wall, coasting quietly past Gannon’s tin shack, and hop off at the derelict pier. The marina is an open, easy grave to rob. They sink beneath the water in slow increments, covered with rot and barnacles. Battered sailboats and listing skiffs, yachts with stupid names-Knot at Work and Sail-la-Vie-the paint peeling from their puns. Gannon, the grizzled, tattooed undertaker, tows wrecked ships into his marina. It’s a watery junk yard, a place where people pay to abandon their old boats. My brother and I have been making midnight scavenging trips to Gannon’s all summer. Wallow says that we are going to use them to find our dead sister, Olivia. They have scratchproof lenses and an adjustable band. They are pink, with a floral snorkel attached to the side. The diabolical goggles were designed for little girls. He keeps pausing to readjust the diabolical goggles. Curse words come piping out of his snorkel. Instead, he slaps at the ocean with jilted fury. My brother Wallow has been kicking around Gannon’s Boat Graveyard for more than an hour, too embarrassed to admit that he doesn’t see any ghosts.
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