But then, a glimmer of hope. It was clear right away that this place was far more than just a boatyard. Built by Abel Ramirez, a fisherman who needed a place to haul his workboat years ago, and operated by him and his son Abel Jr., it was also the family compound. As such it was an ever-changing study in the juxtapositions of traditional and contemporary Guatemalan life as well as work and pleasure. A small, wood-frame house with an outdoor, wood-fired cookstove was the center of the hillside property, while attached to it was a more modern home, brightly painted and immaculately kept. Nearby stood an enormous work shed, an engine and machine shop, and a two-story building that housed the laundry, showers, parts department, and office. It wasn’t unusual to see Alejandra, the matriarch, folding clothes or playing with a grandchild, while 10 feet away, four or five grease-stained men labored over a huge Detroit Diesel undergoing a rebuild. While the Travelift—75 tons of gleaming, brand-new hoisting chutzpah—lumbered around the lower yard, kids bathed the family dogs at the water spigot. Every afternoon, the kids played a rousing game of fútbol, which seemed to have very few rules, no real boundaries, and only one goal net.