Dogfight by Michael Knight

with a sleek stern and muscular bow, like a tapered waist and broad chest. It was polished incandescent white with a swimming pool at the rear, a helicopter pad on the topmost deck, and four Boston Whalers to serve as landing craft strapped to the foredeck and covered with purple tarp. Workmen on overtime scurried in its shadow, double-checking. My dance partner was tiny beneath its bulk.
    Ships are launched sideways, set on giant rollers and drawn down the tracks with heavy cable. When that one hit the water and careened to starboard, sending up a tidal wave of spray, I thought she would go under, that she would keep rolling, slip beneath the slow, brown water and go bubbling to the bottom. I screamed in panic and shut my eyes. My mother pulled me against her leg and said, “It’s all right, Ford, honey. Look, it won’t sink. See, it’s fine.” The
Marie Paul
found her balance, came swaying upright, thick waves rushing away from her on both sides, as if drawn ashore by our cheering. Tugboats motored in, like royal attendants, to push her out to deeper water.
    I met my uncle on my way back from the supply wagon. He was giving three Japanese men a tour of the yard, all of them in businesssuits and yellow hard hats. When he spotted me, he yelled my name and waved me over. I stashed Wishbone’s cigarettes in my pocket.
    â€œI’d like you gentlemen to meet my nephew,” my uncle said, slapping my shoulder. “He’s learning the business from the ground up.”
    I wiped my palms on my coveralls and shook the hands that were offered. Each of the men gave me a crisp bow. They wore black leather shoes, recently filmed over with dust. Since last summer, I had grown three inches. I had my uncle’s size, now, and both of us towered over them.
    â€œHard work,” the oldest man said. He made his voice stern and gravelly, as if to imply that physical labor was good for you.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou better believe it,” my uncle said. “No cakewalk for this boy.”
    My uncle was grooming me. He had no children of his own. Money-wise, my old man did all right as well, exploring the wonders of gynecology, but as I had thus far displayed a distinct lack of biological acumen in school, my parents viewed the shipyard as the best course for my future. My father’s routine sounded considerably more pleasant, but I didn’t argue.
    â€œFord, these gentlemen own the
Kaga.
” My uncle put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “They’re thinking about letting us build them another one. Wanted to see a work in progress.”
    â€œShe’s a fine boat,” I said and they bowed again.
    â€œArigato.”
    Normally, there was a cluster of men dawdling at the supply wagon but there were no customers now. No one wanted to be caught loafing. All around us, men were busy at their jobs—swarming on deck, unloading a hauling truck over by the warehouse—like a movie version of a bustling shipyard. The air had a faint tar smell and was full of wild echoes, the resolute clamor of progress, the necessary bang of making something from nothing. If you stepped back from it a second, weren’t sweating in the guts of the thing, it was sort of heartening. You could almost see giant ships growing up out of the ground.
    â€œWell,” my uncle said. “Back to the grind, boy.”
    When I returned to the
Kaga
with Wishbone’s cigarettes, I heard voices drifting up from the hold, and I knew that he and Gerald hadn’t yet gone back to work. There was an unspoken understanding among the men, a costly one if my uncle got wind of it. The longer a ship stayed in dry dock, the longer you had a job. My first summer at the yard, I was an industrious dervish, anxious to learn, eager to make a good impression. It wasn’t long before I figured out why no one wanted me on their crew. If I worked too hard, they kept up, afraid that I