MAX EBB I
t had been a very late night at the office for my entire work group, finishing a major proposal just barely ahead of a tight deadline. And this was followed by an early morning because it had fallen on me to personally drive the package to the client's office in Marin. I got it there on time, but as I was about to pull onto the freeway to drive home for some badly needed sleep, I remembered that I had one more errand in this neck of the woods: A friend was putting his boat up for sale, and I'd volunteered to drop off the Classy Classified ad copy, with photo, at the Latitude 38 office. The deadline for classified ads was the day before, but I hoped that if I caught them early in the day — and begged and pleaded — I could get the ad in under the wire for next month's issue. I groped for one of the copies that usually clutter up my back seat, found the address, keyed it into my car's GPS, and a few minutes later I was on a quiet street just off Mill Valley's main drag, in front of an old frame house. This didn't seem right — I expected the Latitude 38 editorial office to be a large modern building in the business district with contemporary corporate styling. I double checked the address and looked again at my GPS. This had to be it. No one answered the doorbell and there was no response to my knocks. The door was open, so I let myself in. This was the Latitude 38 World Headquarters, all right. Posters of past covers lined the walls, files and folders covered the desks, computer monitors displayed page layouts and ad copy. File cabinets and shelves filled up every available bit of space, and every horizontal surface was three-deep in papers, folders, magazines and random sailing artifacts.
This didn't seem right — I expected it to be a large modern building in the business district. "They all must be out to lunch," I concluded, noting that it was already a few minutes past noon. So I found the one unobstructed chair in the office and sat down to wait for the staff to return.
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couple of minutes later I became aware of a very faint sound that seemed to be coming from the middle of the building, around a corner just out of Page 108 •
Latitude 38
• February, 2012
prised that he knew my name since I sight. It was a rapid clicking sound, like couldn't recall ever meeting him. Sensing the sound made by those old IBM PC my confusion, he rattled off the name keyboards. Maybe someone was in the and class of my boat, and how I'd done office after all. in the last couple of regattas. I followed the sound to a door and I handed over the folder. “Here’s the pulled it open. Luckily I didn't just barrel copy and photo, and the check,” I said through as I was greeted by a gaping hole. hopefully. There was a ladder down to the base “Deadline was yesterday, you know. ment level of the house, but it was way And we are very very strict about the too steep to be up to code as a stairway classified deadline. — it was more like But for you, Max, the companionway we can slip it in. of a large sailboat. Heck, we probably I tur ned around won't start laying and climbed down, it out till next week facing the stairs anyway, so if you in good nautical promise not to tell form. anyone I'll sneak it The sound beinto the middle of came louder, and I followed it past another set of desks, these even more cluttered than the ones upstairs, and then around the last corner to the left. There was one last desk, and one person hard at work at his terminal, typing at high speed. He looked exactly the way I always imagined a sailing journalist should Believe it or not, this modest little house is where look: Kind of big the 'Latitude 38' magic happens. and athletic but not at all slender, with reddish hair and a bushy mustache, and a slightly weathered face. He wore shorts and flip-flops, even though it was a cold day in the middle of winter, and a shirt from a Big Boat Series held 10 years ago. The desk was piled high with sailing magazines from all over the world. There were stacks of race results, photos of topend race boats, and a large three-speed winch. There was a large broken rudder blade leaning against the opposite wall, and sailbags on the floor. "Ahoy!" I hailed to get his attention. The writer glanced over in my direction. "Cone of silence, please," he whispered with a finger in front of his lips. He turned back to his keyboard to finish a paragraph, then swiveled around in his chair to face me. "Hi, Max," he said. "What brings you down to the dungeon?" "I just came by to drop off a Classy Classified for a friend," I said, a bit sur-