CHAPTER 16
Las Hadas was a phenomenal place of extraordinary architecture, and it was all built by hand. Sprawled in the cockpit, rum and coke in hand, Tony and I drank it all in, savoring our destiny, certainly our luck anyway in finding such a place.
By mid-morning we met our first resort official. Señorita Melinda, the dock master, was no type A muscular gorilla man, slinging lines and barking orders. Melinda was the first lady dock master we had met. She checked in at six feet and was stunning with perfectly etched cheekbones highlighting enormous smoldering black eyes hidden behind Ray-Ban pilot sunglasses. Her coal black hair hung thick below her shoulders and sparkled in the sunlight whenever she walked the docks.
“Surprised?” She asked, turning provocatively to catch my wide-eyed amazement at our introduction. I sensed late payments for dock space were rare.
Ninety yachts were housed in the marina when it was at capacity. We’d been assigned a choice position in front of a colorful cantina with a scant twenty feet separating its dockside tables and our stern. Our neighbor to port was a Cal 47, a comfortable though sluggish sailing yacht belonging to an arms dealer from Mexico City. Comforting information.
“Whoa . . . this is a bit dicey!” was Tony’s contribution.
To starboard our neighbor alongside was a fifty-foot sloop from Los Angeles with three men aboard whom, taking Tony under their wing, helped to polish his already well-defined skills for living life in the moment.
Tony thrived with the young people in a similar age group. Most crewed on mega yachts with owners who were captains of industry and flew their personal jets in for the weekend. The crew, who likely had been playing volleyball or sleeping, got busy polishing silver or scrubbing decks. A few days later, when the jets lifted off with the crew being handsomely tipped, they would go back to sleep—or volleyball. Other young people were stretching low budget holidays, a few worked in the resort, and most all shared a common goal of a good time. It didn’t take long before Tony had flawlessly inserted himself into the good time beach volleyball crowd.
“It’s an all-day, everyday activity, Pops. You know I gotta keep in shape, right?” Tony said, tossing aside his work schedule to devote his energy into creating his own volleyball squad, the ‘Tony’s Late Night Bar and Grill’ team.
His team came complete with attractive young Mexican ladies as groupies. The girls, Tony explained, were models for the various dress shops scattered around the resort. One in particular had caught Tony’s attention.
“It just happened, Dad—she was on me like a duck on a June bug!” Indeed, it appeared that way. She was a lovely young lady whose angelic smile topped a dynamite body. I was happy for Tony. Work could wait. He had earned a pleasure break, but any potential relationship was doomed anyway because he would be sailing away. Stuck in Pasadena, Denise listened by phone as Tony and I raved about Las Hadas, the food and the fun. Sadly, she reported she would not be sufficiently healed in time to cross the Pacific with us. As courageous and stalwart as Denise was, I sensed her tears. While I couldn’t see them with my eyes, they rained down in the uncertain, hesitating delivery of her near term fate.
“Skip,” she had said, “my leg isn’t healing properly. I desperately want to be with you—but I’m really scared of what is happening here.”
“I understand,” I had replied, attempting to sound encouraging. “It’s a long voyage and a big world. This is only a glitch.”
“I could end up with one leg shorter than the other,” Denise had openly sobbed. “I might limp the rest of my life. I can’t do that.” She had paused to catch a breath, and continued, “Like, Skip, like . . . can you picture me walking around mountains in the same direction forever so it looks like I’m level?”
She laughed, and I laughed with her at her sense of humor, probably inherited from her show business dad. (Senior audio engineer on the Ed Sullivan show and later the Academy Awards) Denise went on, “Twice, I asked my doctor to reposition my break. It hurts like hell Skip, but I’ll get a perfect healing and won’t limp—at least I don’t think I will.” Her spirit lifted as she added, “The doctors agree, too. Spiral fractures are tough. I want it right!”
We talked it over. The disappointment was painful for each of us; mine easier because I had a full agenda while Denise had only a TV to occupy the numbing days ahead. I pledged to stay at Las Hadas long enough for Denise to fly down for a high quality, spirit-lifting, fun-filled visit. This would put our departure on the edge of the safe weather window for avoiding Pacific storms, so I cancelled sailing to Acapulco as originally planned, choosing instead to head outbound from Las Hadas. It’s called flexibility—an advantage of drifting and blending.
With her plans made Denise called me back. She had heard from Kim, who complained she hadn’t heard from Tony. Kim invited herself to join Denise for the trip. Denise felt badly but had no control over Kim’s apparent jealousy. Tony wasn’t happy with the news. He’d been thriving with his new adventures and had no desire or intention to share them with Kim. In Tony’s mind, his earlier questions about the depth of their relationship had been finalized before she had left the boat several weeks earlier.
Me? I just waited for the explosion.
Most of my relaxation time and all of Tony’s was spent under the blistering sun around the resort’s largest swimming pool. A bridge, separating two sections of pool touched down to a small tropical island in the middle. The forty-foot-wide island housed two nasty-looking iguanas that stared sinisterly at startled tourists swimming by. Although harmless, we gave them space.
Each night a live group at the cantina next to our berth played happy Mexican tunes with serenading and storytelling. One night an accomplished wood f lute artist played the most enchanting, haunting music I had ever heard. It came from a newly released movie The Mission. I lay in the cockpit, or Endymion’s hammock, closed my eyes and listened—perhaps even dreamed—as the wood flute’s mystical sound transported my mind to the dense jungles from which I imagined it originated.
Back in my real world we were seriously preparing for our crossing. We tuned rigging, greased winches, created a ‘flight plan,’ worked our radios, and carefully inspected safety and survival gear—all page one of many on my checklist.
I hoped for a smooth crossing but was mindful of my navigation mentor, Captain Swede. On a calm uneventful night far at sea, he had lost a leg because a fatigued bolt snapped suddenly, causing a massive spool of towing wire to tumble free, crushing his leg. Three hours of my prudent preparation now could prevent a disastrous, life-changing, split-second situation somewhere in our future. I was determined to be prepared.
I set early April for departure. Leaving from Manzanillo would give us a more favorable angle through the doldrums approaching the Equator, and Manzanillo put us 200 miles closer to the northeasterly trades, while also distancing us from the ‘normal’ tropical depression path. I liked this plan, which had us looking for landfall at Hiva Oa in the Marquesas Island group, around the first of May, which was also when our French visas would become effective. Perfect—and I was content to provision at Las Hadas. It was hot, however, so the tedious work was done in a constant sweat, ever searching for the next cold drink.
In the quieter evening hours, usually at the hinged cocktail table forward of the wheel, I had also written a set of “sailing rules” for my crew, when finally assembled. When gathered, we would again go over the boat with a fine-tooth comb looking for potential problems. I planned to actually practice “man overboard” drills, practice ‘heaving to’ and have Tony make an inspection of the masthead via the bosun’s chair, usually Denise’s job, as she was the lightest.
Blessed with the tranquility of a noiseless night, I sat alone contemplating my life. Tony had crashed below deck, the musicians had packed up their instruments, and the bar staff had gone elsewhere. We were past the two-month cruising mark. I was firmly convinced that, while it might not work for others, selling my business and my lovely home, which I said I would never leave, and walking away from my possessions was the toughest but smartest decision I had ever made. Magazines and pundits say travel is a great educator, but for me it was more—it was the people we met who influenced and built our character. Most we met didn’t have the comforts or toys available in America—and they didn’t need them. Well, maybe they just didn’t know they didn’t need them. An uncluttered, relaxed, simple lifestyle, I’d discovered, equates to abundant happiness. It was easy to like the local Mexicans with their close-knit families.
Delivering a message about family values, lovely Señorita Melinda strongly criticized me. “Skip, how much did you pay that boy?”
She was referring to a youngster who had helped me pack supplies from town while Tony had suffered through a big league resort volleyball tournament.
“Six dollars,” I said. “I gave him six Yankee dollars.”
“Please, Captain Skip, you are so stupid. You mess up the economy and destroy family values doing this.”
“How so?” I asked, hairs rising in spite of her glamor. “Alejandro makes a quick six American dollars from you in fifteen minutes, and his father works a full day, maybe two full days, for the same amount—at hard labor! Then his son flashes this easy money and the father is shamed!”
I said I understood. I did. She made sense. I agreed to be more conservative.
One of Tony’s new volleyball friends, Kyle, struck me as extra value. I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. I liked that he was courteous and well spoken, and was impressed that he appeared, anyway, to refrain from the heavier drinking applauded by a hefty number of peers, and of which Tony was occasionally guilty. Kyle had no fixed plans or pressing agenda, so joining our crew was soon a done deal.
Tony and Kyle, now good buddies, would make a good watch team under sail. Kyle, by the way, said Tony’s new nickname was TR. Maybe I could substitute TR when I would otherwise call him dickhead.
Tony called Kim, requesting she please not come with Denise. Though I wasn’t privy to the conversation, I believe he broke the relationship as cleanly as he could. Tony was normally a gentle, sensitive person. I imagined he felt appreciable guilt, and I had no doubt Kim felt blindsided. There obviously had been difficulties. Best, I felt, not to interfere.
Having morning coffee along the quay, I was approached by a man in a suit jacket, sans tie, who appeared nervous and extraordinarily out of place, being so well dressed. Moving tentatively, he requested to join me by asking if I worked on Endymion, the yacht he had been looking at.
“It’s a fair assumption,” I replied, hardly looking up from the coffee I was pouring. “I own her.”
“Ahhh—good,” he said, already pulling a chair from the table. “I represent a professional photo crew from New York, here to shoot a bathing suit catalog for a major retailer. May I sit?”
“Sure . . . may I offer a coffee?”
“Thanks, I’d like that—no cream, no sugar,” he continued in an accent as out of place as his suede shoes. “My name is Joe. I’m a New Yorker.”
“No shit, Joe? I would a never guessed! Call me Skip.”
Turning his head to the harbor, Joe said, “I’ve been looking at all these boats. Where do the people get the money?”
“Half of ‘em probably come from the Big Apple,” I said sarcastically.
“Anyway, I saw yours . . . that’s it, isn’t it?” He pointed over my shoulder to Endymion.
“Yup . . . she’s mine.”
“Your wide decks and big cockpit—that’s whatcha call it, isn’t it—cockpit?”
I confirmed his amazing accuracy.
“Good then. I have a proposition for you. Would you be interested in renting Endymion for a two-day photo shoot?”
My response was slow, intended to sound tough. “Not sure,” I replied. “What’s the pay, and more important, how badly will you screw up my boat?”
“The pay is $500 a day. That’s the whole prop budget. We shouldn’t make a mess, though the models will need to change below, but we have clean up people.” Then he added the clincher: “And you or one of your crew must be available if we need to move anything or need answers to nautical questions.”
“What are they modeling?”
“Oh, sorry—I shoulda told you. Bathing suits.”
I was chomping at the bit. A grand in cash—Endymion in magazine pictures. I was stoked. “You talkin’ Yankee dollars there, Joe?” I asked.
The city man mopped morning sweat from his brow and nodded affirmatively, so I pushed on. “And, when you’re finished, some of equipment stays as insurance until I inspect for damages?”
He paused, and looked vacantly across the harbor, as if searching for alternatives.
“Sure—it’s agreed then?” he asked. “We need to start right away.
The girls arrive in an hour. This is a dazzling day.”
“It’s a done deal, Joe from New York,” I offered. “And I’ll take the money up front, thank you.”
Joe got the last word. “We’ll pay you half in advance, right now if you like, and half when finished.”
“You’re on,” I said. “I’ll round up my crew and we’ll get the yacht photo ready for you. By the way, what catalog’s this for?”
“JC Penney swimsuit edition.”
We shook hands. I went to tell Tony and Kyle, who were already knee deep in Mexican models. I caught up with them preparing to go water-skiing.
“You’re shittin’ me, Pops,” said Tony with Kyle silent but smiling on. “Why now? Kyle, Greg, and me are goin’ water skiing with the crew from Butterfly (a large motor yacht). Besides, Dad—I got all the senoritas I can handle.”
“Your call, Tony. I’m surprised you’d choose water skiing to a professional shoot, never mind models—but it’s up to you.” To my surprise, Tony opted for water skiing, leaving me to chaperone the models.
I quite enjoyed it, as I did the attention I drew from other yachts, and a small group of the ever curious who gathered to watch. Several times I was asked to provide binoculars, a yachting cap, or some line (rope) as props. I moved freely amongst the models, some half my age, who referred to me as “Capt.” They were respectful of both my property and me. As the man from New York had affirmed, they were seasoned professionals.
That night I was eating alone in a small waterfront cafe, keeping an ear cocked for wood f lutes and thinking about Tony. As a photographer, I felt he’d been a fool because he could have absorbed buckets of knowledge about his trade at this shoot, yet he chose to water ski. What a dope.
“Hi Capt. Skip, remember me?” A striking young model from the bathing suit shoot stood beside my table showering me with her effervescent smile. “I’m Lisa. I was on your lovely boat today.”
Her voice, her presence was electrifying. I was instantly aware I had known this person before, but how—where?
“Sure, Lisa. Didn’t I fetch you a ball cap from the America’s Cup races? Care to sit?” I asked, admiring her bubbly personality and lithesome body and was still puzzled by the magnetism.
“Yes, the cap was great,” she said, sliding into the chair across from me. “I have a question for you, Skip. I’m auditioning for a commercial for a new beer in the northeast called Schooner. Casting is next week. Do you know about schooners, anything you could tell me to make me sound knowledgeable for my interview? With so many girls modeling these days, I need whatever competitive edge I can get.”
We spoke briefly about different yacht rigs. She wasn’t getting it, so I suggested, if she felt comfortable, we should return to Endymion where I could show her pictures of schooners from books I had aboard. Walking the short distance to the boat, Lisa lightly took my hand. I was surprised. What’s this? It felt natural and comfortable. OK, be honest, self—it’s electric. I hadn’t been touched by anyone since parting with Denise what seemed ages ago, and I was experiencing a mysterious, emotional feeling drawing me to this young lady in a powerful slow surge. I wanted it, but I feared it. There was a hauntingly familiar sense to every move she made. I was positively certain I knew her and I imagined—could it have been from another time, or another place—another life? Powerful thoughts. I had always believed in such things.
Aboard Endymion we sat across from each other at the salon table and discussed pictures from books. Lisa showed keen interest. I took in her sculptured facial features, the blonde streaks in her stylishly short hair, the casual motion of her arms as she made a point, and listened to her voice, which was mysteriously sensual. I’d never been attracted to women with short hair, so what was happening? Was I impressed, maybe, because she was sitting with me, someone twenty years her senior, when there was a marina full of handsome men who would find her fetching? Nothing seemed special—but everything was special. I wondered, What’s happening here?” I was on a high I couldn’t understand and loved every moment.
About when the conversation should have ended, Gary, from a neighboring boat, stuck his head through he companionway. “Skip, you coming, buddy? It’s getting late. Time to get a move on or we’ll miss the good parts!”
“Good parts of what?” Lisa wanted in.
“A crew member on another yacht is leaving,” I explained. “He’s a musician, plays horn and banjo, and the club at the next resort down the beach is hosting a party for him. Gary and I are going to check it out because music played by musicians for musicians is the best!”
“I’m coming, too. OK Skip?” she asked, pulling a brush and lip gloss from her clutch bag.
“Yeah, of course,” said Gary. “Matter settled then,” I added.
We walked to the neighboring resort along the beach, on what turned out to be a night of moon and stars lighting our way through this tranquil setting so distant from home, yet filled with music, good company, and the intoxicating scent of flowers everywhere. I had a love partner in California, yet I felt untroubled.
The party was all we expected, and we left riding high on the infectious spontaneity of the moment. Lisa returned to Endymion with me, where we lay side by side in the huge hammock until sunrise, speaking freely as one might to their barber or bartender, about our loves, fears, and dreams. Lisa whispered her concerns at never pleasing a man, not being able to trust, while I shared the joy Denise has delivered to my life. Eventually, we drifted into a light sleep . . . knowing not how this moment had come to be, but that it was comfortable, and somehow uniquely special.
But, like Tony and Kim, a future with Lisa was unlikely. I loved Denise deeply. I was about to sail across an ocean. There was that substantial age difference, and Lisa was nearing the peak of a promising career, in distant, noisy New York. We both knew this was only for the moment—to live fully and to cherish.
The next day’s shoot wrapped at noon. The crew would depart the following morning. Watching the photo session, I asked myself if there was something wrong with me because I reveled in last night’s good time and didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t plan to tell Denise, at least not right away, because it would genuinely hurt her. It hadn’t at all minimized my love for Denise. This was one of those occasions novels describe, where if you’re honest with yourself, you turn the pages, read more, and wish it were happening in your life.
Lisa and I spent the afternoon at the beach, in the water, and sailboarding. We made love that night.
Tony about fell over, meeting my new friend the next morning. She cooked a pan melt breakfast for us. Tony and Lisa exchanged awkward banter, as people do when meeting for the first time under unusual circumstances. Tony handled it well. I didn’t. I was already feeling terrible for having betrayed Denise’s trust.
Lisa made a surprise announcement: “This is where I belong. I know it! I’m calling my agency, canceling everything, and I’ll stay with you. Maybe forever.”
That made my heart pound. “Lisa, it sounds wonderful but be practical. You know I have a girlfriend who will be here in three days, and you have a career, and . . .” I was losing it, and sensed the edge on my voice.
Tony interrupted, “Hey guys—you just met. Be calm—OK?” “OK! OK! I get it. I understand rejection.” She was angry, her voice wavered as she slammed a pan on the galley stove.
Best I see this side now, I thought.
“All my life people have loved me for my looks, but not for who I am! Not for me.” Lisa held back a sob but mist clouded her eyes.
I felt inadequate. My constitution was reminding me of failing Denise, while my heart unequivocally wanted to comfort Lisa—but I couldn’t find the right words.
Tony stepped in to save the moment. “Lisa, something righteously cool happened between you and my dad. I know it was unexpected or spontaneous because I know him. I know he’ll never want to lose this memory, or the magic you obviously have charmed him with, but he is serious about Denise. They have a good thing—really! You seem super, like really nice, Lisa, but you guys travel truly different roads.”
“I’m staying until SHE comes,” Lisa said, almost defiantly.
Though wracked with guilt, if ever I was to be positive or encouraging, it was now.
“Lisa, you are a warm, wonderful soul,” I said, taking her into my arms and gently wiping her tears. “You have, in the most positive sense of possession possible, taken this man’s life, enriched it, and given me joy. You’re incredible.” And I meant it.
She sobbed. “Thanks, and I love you.”
“I love you too, Lisa, but I’m not IN love with you, nor, I suspect, are you with me. Think about it, Lisa; love means the full unification of our spirits, our personalities, and souls. Whether it was God or fate that brought us together, it’s been the best, the very best, and I love you for it.”
“I didn’t trust men much when we met, Skip. And I didn’t like you a few minutes ago, either.” Lisa, still in my arms looked up, squeezed my hand lightly, and added, “But I feel your kindness, and I admit when I came to you with the dopey schooner beer story, I felt something special.”
“Kinda strange, isn’t it?”
“Yep, and I have a plane to catch if I’m going to be the Schooner beer spokes lady.”
Powerful feelings had been woven under Mexican skies, but sanity won. Whatever euphoria had pulled us together for a few moments, it was not the substance of sustaining love. I put Lisa aboard her flight at the hidden airport the day before Denise arrived. Amidst promises to write, no tears were shed, but a connection had been made between two people who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or was it the destiny of our souls?
As this superb young lady stepped onto the boarding ladder, she stepped out of my life. I never heard from her again, nor did I ever see her picture in any print ad. I did, however, write one letter.
And I wish I had not.