CHAPTER 5
Two years following the trial I still reflected on what had happened, and believed if luck and value in personal life was measured on a one to ten scale, I would check in at 11.5. My two sisters and I were blessed with parents who loved us equally. At a time when divorce rates were climbing, and mom’s left home for careers, our parents had been role models. I was always encouraged to do the best I was capable of—to explore everything of interest. At the University of Denver I relished fraternity life and ROTC with equal enthusiasm. Following a combat free tour in the United States Marine Corps, I took a sales position with 3M Company in their business products division. With my folks encouragement, Marine Corp’s discipline, and hard work, I won the salesman of the year award my second season with 3M.
But I wanted more. Southern California life style had a lock on me. Cars, boats and a waterfront home became my focus. I was so motivated I pasted pictures of Jaguars and sailboats around my bathroom mirror. While washing I would aggressively say to my mirror image, “Skip, someone’s going to sell something in your territory today—it had better be you.”
I knew yachts and Jaguars weren’t obtainable in the corporate structure, so I resigned to form my own manufacturers representative company, where I would be the sales rep for multiple non-competing companies, working strictly on commission. It was a bold move because my only product was a line of flimsy fake flowers, with a limited retail audience. Facing a buyer as a former Marine, holding a bouquet of artificial flowers took courage.
Luck tapped my shoulder again. Chip Carter, a sales rep I seriously admired was relocating from San Francisco to southern California. He represented Lee Nails, a line of fake fingernails. We teamed up, purchased another folding chair for my tiny one room, one phone, windowless office in a law library, and we went to work.
Several months, and several loans later, we were offered exclusive representation of Krazy Glue, a product in demand. “Money,” we were told, “will change us.”
We were ready. Our business, staff, office space and bank account grew. Chip and I became incredibly close friends, had fun and worked hard. We were determined to be 100% ethical in a business that sometimes attracted fringe players. From the day we met Chip and I never had a signed agreement, and for seven years we worked side by side with never a disagreement. I had met my soul mate in a business suit, a relationship that will continue for our lifetimes.
Chip always knew of my dream to someday drift and blend. It wasn’t an easy conversation, but we developed a plan for Chip and an associate to purchase my half of our business. Things were falling into place.
I had also learned the value of proper insurance—if you have it. I did Travellers paid without question.
In 1985 I commissioned Henri Wauquiez, a quality French yacht builder to build Endymion, as a slightly smaller, more sophisticated, version of Love Story. The Wauquiez factory, in the small French village of Mauvaux was an ordinary looking, family owned old building that, at one time had been a shoe factory. The building was badly damaged and occupied by the Nazi’s during World War Two. Bullet holes and twisted remnants of once deadly killing artillery remained, scattered around the property.
The disaster at Chernobyl, several hundred miles north by crow, occurred only a few weeks before Endymion was scheduled for shipment from the French factory.
As freighter deck cargo, 43 foot Endymion arrived in Los Angeles tightly shrink wrapped, an unusual sight, even to seasoned longshoremen who watched with curiosity and caution as the bubble wrapped yacht was set from freighter to dock with a huge crane. Before we could board, or remove the wrapping, US authorities had to carefully Geiger counter every inch as a precaution against the same Chernobyl contamination that had frightened Europe.
The name Endymion, meaning ‘beauty is forever’ came from the English poet John Keats. My grandfather had raced his 130-foot schooner Endymion from Sandy Hook, New Jersey to Germany in 1905 hoping to claim a cup from the Kaiser of Germany. Atlantic, another famous yacht won the race in a record time, and Grandpa placed fourth. He didn’t win a cup, but passed to me a vintage watch fob with granddad’s name inscribed below crossed burgess, one his personal flag and the other, the New York Yacht Club.
With my Endymion under construction, I listed my house for sale. Even doubtful friends were becoming reluctant believers in my dream. Soon Endymion was fully outfitted, I had no car, no mortgage, no bills and could have packed my remaining possessions in a shoebox. No keys and no fixed address sounded good.
Original Endymion off Long Island, NY–circa 1903
Pleasant sleep came easily in these days. Dreams were frequent, often including flying over treetops or gliding high above the earth, sometimes swooping from mountain tops, maneuvering among trees and buildings, never hitting anything or touching overhead wires. It was effortless, soundless, and joyful dreaming, related I am confident to the freedom approaching. It was time to get outta here.
Endymion’s owner’s quarters, where I spun this yarn, were more a stateroom than a cabin. A sturdy but comfortable teak desk was to starboard entering the cabin. A long settee gracefully curved from the end of the desk, around to the centerline of the transom. Well-proportioned bookshelves were above it, and two generous port lights in the transom provided an incredible view aft. A queen size extra comfortable berth, with Tempurpedic mattress, was fitted to the starboard side of centerline. Ample reading lights, stereo speakers and a polished teak table that pulled out from under the berth provided a romantic touch when the sea was calm.
Opposite the desk was a head (toilet) with shower, and two portholes opened to the cockpit enabling me to always be aware of instrument readings. They also made voice communication with the helmsman a cinch. Had these been pirate days the ports would have made a keen listening post to overhear plots against the skipper.
Below deck every inch wood was quality teak, air-dried for seven years before being carefully fitted to the yacht. The grains matched throughout, so a piece with a drawer in the center, for example, carried the same grain features across the drawer facing, as would be found in cabinetry on either side of the drawer. Every wood piece had been meticulously varnished and was covered by an astonishing thirteen coats of beeswax from a French monastery. (Talk about having nothing to do!) Two extra gallons of wax were aboard had we chosen to “wax on – wax off” during lazy hours.
I wrote much of this book in this aft cabin I so loved.
Endymion was fitted with the best of equipment-Brooks & Gatehouse instruments, Furuno radar, three anchors, Robertson autopilot, Hood boom furling system, Avon inflatable, Givens survival raft, and Sony sound system, to name a few.
I was particularly proud of the sound system. Music had always been important to me. Custom deck speakers, easily removed in inclement weather, were housed in handsome teak boxes and would fill the cockpit with surround sound from 300 cassette tapes, stored in a drawer below deck.
I loved this boat. And if it’s possible she loved me back.
Endymion was my fourteenth boat, including an Islander 36, Cal 40, Columbia 52 and of course, Love Story.
Luck and fate had one more present for me, a gift that would never have occurred, had the Love Story tragedy not delayed my voyage. I met my opposite sex soul mate. Denise was the nurse supervisor, and right arm, for my good friend and neighbor, Dr. Joe Noble. Being Joe’s patient, I knew Dense casually, and had seen her at social gatherings. Always attracted to tall blondes, I hadn’t paid proper attention to this beautiful young lady with long, thick auburn hair, deep soulful eyes, bright smile and body that committed men to sins in their minds. This was not ‘Nurse Sluggo.’
One day while siphoning blood from my arm, Denise said, “Nice tan Skip. Been on vacation?”
“Sort of,” I said offhandedly. “I sold my business and bought a boat to sail around the world.”
“Really!—Sounds interesting,” replied Denise just as casually, “I’m wrapping up a divorce myself, and plan to buy a live aboard at Marina Del Rey.”
The flirt was on! She had my attention. This beauty would not get away. The cobra coiled. “Well, if you’d like to see my yacht’s plans, you may get some suggestions for living aboard.”
Denise shortly after our first date.
“Sure! Sounds good to me.”
Two dates later Denise and I were committed and I never (seriously) looked at another blonde. We went to France together to visit Endymion under construction, attended the Los Angeles Olympics and soon became life partners, nearly causing me to lose my doctor friend for swiping his prized nurse.
Denise had her own ideas about what should be aboard Endymion. She won on two specific items. We built in a washer-dryer; much against my argument for tradition, claiming a good sea bucket with a little soap and two able feet pounding the contents had worked for centuries—why not now? Denise would have none of it. She wanted convenience.
The survival raft, a compulsory item for going off shore was Denise’s second target. These highly technical rafts, capable of self righting themselves in breaking seas, contain carefully measured medical supplies, food, desalination equipment, repair kits, fishing gear and more. Speaking light heartedly and seriously in the same breath (because she could) Denise rationalized a rescue at sea would involve another vessel coming to our aid. She wanted a few extra items custom packed, to give the false impression when rescued, that life aboard the raft was routine. They included make up, deck of cards, score pad, visor and champagne. The raft manufacturer thought the idea novel enough he acquiesced, even producing an official inventory document including those items that we later presented to skeptical customs officials.
With the outfitting of Endymion and relationship solidly in high gear we set our departure date for early January, 1987 and sent abundant invitations to our combination christening and bon voyage party. The world was smiling that Christmas season.
Then fate intervened.
Early evening, the fifth day of Christmas, a fist pounding on the hull brought bad news: “Denise had fallen on the gangway. 911 responders were en-route.”
Denise had slipped on the steep low tide gangway and tumbled ten feet to the dock below, seriously fracturing her tibia and fibula, bones that support our weight and are important to knee and ankle joints—a skier’s fracture with no snow. In agony, she was taken to Hoag Memorial Hospital in Newport Beach where Denise was fitted for an ankle to hip cast. Her leg would have to be re-broken twice to heal correctly. She would not sail with us.
Denise put up a brave front hearing the news, but was broken hearted. Me too. She could go only on the short first leg to San Diego, then return to her parents home to further mend, and hopefully join us in Tahiti. It all seemed so distant.