I tucked the brochure in my jacket. “This all sounds right up their alley. Thanks again. Any way I could take a quick peek at those end berths?”
Blinding smile. “It would be my pleasure.”
She didn’t bring me straight outside. Elyse Todd knew how to build suspense, and she knew what she was really selling — not water access but social access.
The clubhouse spa smelled of yuzu and cedar.
The bar served the perfect Manhattan.
Chef Gil’s menu changed daily, with an emphasis on farm-fresh, locally sourced ingredients. Tuesday and Friday were Jazz Nights. Thanksgiving and Christmas were not to be missed.
“We think of ourselves as a family,” she said.
I had no trouble picturing Shelby Fuller IV as part of that family. Lolling in an armchair, enjoying his customary iced tea or indulging in the perfect Manhattan. Haven Harbor was a salt-crusted remix of Rancho El Bosque, marina replacing fairway.
For those experiencing withdrawal, the back patio featured a putting green.
“After you,” she said, holding the door.
A separate, more modest structure housed the crew lounge and locker rooms.
Finally we came to the dock entrance, disguised as an olive-green trellis. Bougainvillea and wisteria brushed the ground. Elyse touched her key fob to the sensor and we descended the gangway.
Boats.
Really big boats. Slotted into correspondingly supersized slips.
Dock One lay at the marina’s far eastern side. Along the way, Elyse pointed out some nifty features. The fuel station was a salvaged Esso gravity pump from the 1950s. LED footlights provided nighttime visibility and safety — and they could be color-customized to set a mood. Luxury was in the details. The decking itself was a work of art, wide-plank ipe wood from Brazil.
“Termite-resistant,” she said.
Try as one might, some details couldn’t be manicured.
Oil glistened on the water; iodine wafted up.
In addition to the CCTV poles stationed by every dock, many yachts had their own cameras mounted above the hatch or on deck. I soaked in the grandeur, scanned hull numbers, scanned names. Occupational puns figured heavily.
Reel Estate. Boatox. Liquidity Event.
For the legal set: Seas and Desist and Knot Guilty.
Neither of them Fuller’s.
“Here we are,” Elyse said.
The yacht whose owner might not renew was Conference Room Sea. Its end berth gave a panoramic harbor view. Under strong late afternoon sun, I could see to the mainland — cars whizzing along 580, the Emeryville Hilton where some poor clerk had listened to Regina’s tale of woe.
Five hundred yards to the west, vessels entered and exited the harbor through a gap in the breakwater. The breakwater, in turn, connected to the peninsula via a raised fishing pier, atop which stood a few human shapes.
I nodded. “They’ll like this.”
“No promises.”
“I’m starting to think you might mean it.”
Elyse laughed. “Next.”
By Dock Six, a second gangway led to the employee lot and service gate. A dedicated service slip, she explained, smoothed the process of lading supplies and making minor repairs.
What I saw was an ingress that avoided the clubhouse.
Perfect for keeping secrets.
An older Hispanic woman in an olive-green uniform was coming toward us, pushing a room service cart. She averted her eyes and stood aside to let us pass.
“Hello, Irma,” Elyse said.
The woman smiled but didn’t look up.
“How busy does it get?” I asked.
“This is about it for the middle of the day,” Elyse said. “Nights and weekends are livelier.”
“Guest passes? How’s that work?”
“Through the app. The member sends a QR code to present at the front.”
“And staff?”
No need to be vulgar. She knew what I meant.
“Every Haven Harbor employee undergoes a thorough background check.”
“Say they wanted to use their own people,” I said. “Housekeeper, private chef.”
“We can issue a fob for the service entrance at no charge.”
“Has there ever been a security incident?”
“Never.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask. They’re sticklers for that.”
“Of course. This way, please.”
We turned down Dock Nine and walked to the end berth.
Shark Tank, a 60-footer, was taking up 110 feet.
“Somebody’s overcompensating,” I said.
She smiled and zipped her lips.
In case I was testing her.
Two docks over rose a tall, sleek, blazingly white yacht. Bold letters across the stern read Motion Sickness. Another lawyer boat.
I pointed. “What about that berth there? They like being as close to the ocean as possible.”
“Not available, unfortunately. The member’s long-term and quite content.”
“Shame.”
“My apologies.”
“No, no, I get it,” I said. “Would it be okay if I took a look anyway? That way I can tell them I tried my best.”
Elyse Todd didn’t bat an eye. “Of course.”
Dock Eleven, the westernmost, ran parallel to the raised fishing pier, separated by twenty vertical feet and thirty yards of water. As we approached the end berth, I heard laughter and looked up to see four men strung along the far railing. They faced the Bay, backs to me, oblivious to my presence below. Fishing rods flicked, antenna-like.
“Sounds like a party,” I said.
For the first time, Elyse looked ruffled, regarding the men with chagrin.
But just for a moment.
“They’re very respectful. We’ve never had an issue. All righty, here we are.”
Motion Sickness was a three-tiered Benetti.
Hot tub on the main aft deck.
Camera over the hatch.
Fuller’s hull number.
The fishing pier wasn’t the only thing close by. The breakwater entrance was a hundred feet away. At 4:05, the tide was falling, wavelets radiating out through the gap, images racing through my mind.
Nighttime.
Quiet harbor.
Deserted dock.
A body, sucked into the current, swept along, bobbing, vanishing and resurfacing a little farther out, a little smaller, a little harder to see, almost lost in the dark of a four a.m. ebb tide.
Alone, adrift, clearing the gap, reaching open water, bound for points unknown.
Oakland Harbor. San Mateo. India Basin. Coyote Hills.
“Doesn’t get much closer to the ocean than this,” I said.
“Mm, that’s true.”
“No chance the owner’s flexible, huh.”
“None, I’m afraid.”
“Well. I tried.”
Her smile was starting to strain. “How else can I help?”
“Reciprocity with other clubs,” I said. “Are any of those local?”
“Marin and Redwood YC.”
“Marin I’m familiar with,” I said. “Where’s Redwood?”
“South Bay. Bair Island.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I said, “I think I’ve heard of it.”
“Full disclosure: It’s not the greatest marina in the world. But it can be useful if you need to get to San Francisco or Palo Alto,” she said. “We also have Santa Cruz YC, which is lovely. And there’s Laguna, La Jolla... So many wonderful options if you’re in the mood to venture farther afield.”
“Excellent. Thank you very much, Elyse.”
“You are very welcome.” She gave me her card. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Chapter 29
I relinquished my parking hanger and turned onto Powell Street, headed toward the peninsular tip. Along the way I passed the Haven Harbor employee lot entrance. No signage, no status symbols, no guard, just a sensor arm and CCTV camera. Why bother, to protect Camrys and Civics? Fewer golden-epaulet shirts to dry-clean and starch.