CHAPTER 17
Returning to Endymion from the airport, my mind shifted back to reality. I needed to complete arrangements for Denise #2 and her mate Jim, if they were to crew on the crossing. First I had to find them. When last we spoke they were making a yacht delivery and retrieving passports that, somehow, they had left in Acapulco. This wasn’t comforting, but I let it pass.
Much-needed parts for our Robertson autopilot, affectionately called ‘Harvey,’ after a friend who could never find his way, needed to be forwarded from Newport Beach, but to where? Figuring a destination address in Mexico, where the package wouldn’t be stolen, was challenging. Denise would be arriving tomorrow. That was exciting, except that my emotions and normally strong sense of loyalty had been hammered by my behavior. I needed Denise’s easy way and boundless love to comfort me—but I didn’t deserve it. My family came from blue-blooded New England stock where loyalty was expected and honesty was a way of life. I had violated both covenants, and didn’t like myself very much.
So, with all this self-deprecation to redirect me, what did I do? I went back to my cabin and wrote a romantic letter to Lisa. Stupid idea. Tony flatly refused to come to the plane for Denise’s arrival because he didn’t want to see Kim. Kim felt otherwise and was on the tarmac in spite of a boatload of encouragement for her to stay home. This could get ugly.
Stepping from the plane, Denise looked elegant. She wore a red sundress I had gifted her from Nordstrom once when we stopped for a quick ‘shopping fix’ that took several hours. I’d been told women liked to shop, and Denise earned a black belt that day. She embarked the plane practically glowing with a deep tan. A live flower in her hair and a hint of jasmine fragrance added to the brightness that matched her smile. I could tell that her cast, still present from toes to above her knee, was causing discomfort, though she moved with grace, seeming not to notice the evident pain. I felt warm all over. Denise always had that effect on me. Kim, finding no Tony to greet her, went into a ‘snit,’ refusing to come to the boat. She found no argument from me, so we dropped her at a motel. Kim stayed in her cramped motel room for days expecting Tony would come to her. When that bore no fruit she would saunter up to the boat, flaunt her bitterness and linger below decks waiting for Tony. Her timing was bad; Tony was never there and she left eventually, never spending a night aboard.
Denise and I got along famously. She had checked out potential crew Jim and Denise #2 as best she could. What few references they had were acceptable, though I’d always been skeptical of references because you never carry them from people who disapprove. With Denise present, we went into party mode, casting responsibilities aside as we wandered among the many yachts sharing stories and cocktails. In Denise’s handbag, there was, however, a problem.
Denise carried a letter from my former business partner Chip Carter, advising me a financial problem needed my attention, even after selling my share of the company. I needed to fly immediately to Los Angeles, leaving Denise, in crutches, on Endymion with Tony.
Denise had an urge for lobster but couldn’t get off the boat in her cast without hauling the stern closer to the quay and then jumping the remaining distance to the pier. To her surprise, a sharply dressed waiter appeared beside Endymion delivering a festive lobster dinner, white linen service and all, compliments of Tony, demonstrating some class. While Tony and Denise bonded, the common enemies remained Kim, for arriving, and me, for leaving.
I was back in two days. Denise had two stories to relate. The first demonstrated her sense of humor. A tourist walking the quay, gazing at the assorted yachts, spotted Denise alone in the cockpit with her crutches and cast. He looked at the boat, paused, walked away, and returned for a closer inspection. The hailing port on the transom of Newport Beach, California, got his attention and he gathered his courage to inquire, “Pretty lady . . . Did you actually bring this boat all the way from California?”
“No,” said Denise. “It’s a kit.”
I thought this incident funny and demonstrated her quick wit. Her next story, however, stung.
“While you were gone, Skip—I found this!” Her eyes were flat, her voice somber as she held aloft the letter I had written to Lisa and carelessly left on the pad on which it was penned. I could not do or say anything. Hurt flooded Denise’s eyes and the quiver in her voice stabbed like a driven nail. Although we were not engaged or married, I had broken an unspoken trust with the one person on earth who meant the most to me, and I was both ashamed and disgusted with myself.
“I’m sorry, Denise, I don’t know what else to say. You should never have seen that, and I should never have let it happen. I am so sorry.” Tears were in my eyes. “Hurting you is something I would never knowingly do. I can only ask your forgiveness and understanding.”
Denise, being the bigger person, said, “Let’s go to the pool and have some fun. You’ve made me cautious about our future, but it won’t ruin the good time I came for.”
We went to the pool, where a fashion show was in progress, including Tony’s current flame, modeling clothing and swim suits from resort stores. I filmed it. We sat with friends from other yachts. It was almost like nothing had ever gone amiss. We got a little ‘popped up’ and I accidentally spilled rum and coke down Denise’s cast, rendering it sticky and more uncomfortable inside the plaster. Thankfully, being diet coke, she had only to cope with the army of ants attracted to rum. Somehow, Kim got wind of the video, which also contained footage of other portions of our trip. Denise was to carry it home for friends and family to view—but it came up missing. Enraged, I suspected Bonehead Kim had stolen the tape, first because of her burning desire to see it, and second—she had been alone below decks. I asked politely if she had seen the misplaced tape.
“Go to damn hell, Skip,” she defiantly shouted. “I didn’t take your tape, and I don’t give a damn where it is either! Tony and me are finished and I’m leaving.”
“OK!”
“And you can tell that bastard son of yours, and his Maria—or whatever the skinny bitch’s name is,” Kim stopped there, her eyes like fire, and stormed off the boat.
We searched every inch of Endymion, never finding the tape—but several months later, Kim delivered it to Tony’s house in California, hurling a few parting shots as she threw it on the lawn. Finally, closure. Jim and Denise #2 appeared one day, ready to work, and there was plenty to do. Denise #2 was a big woman, over six feet, lithe, with a practiced tan, strawberry shoulder-length hair and no fat. But she carried a hefty attitude—the “I’m superior” type. She would tote luggage like I might lift a six-pack. Jim was a hand’s length shorter, rather skinny, and spoke through a tangled jungle of jet-black mustache and beard, though he was generally on the quiet side. I’ll stop short of branding him meek, though I thought so. I started calling Denise #2 ‘The Amazon,’ adding the noun ‘lady’ if addressing her, directly. She considered this a compliment.
My Denise convinced me the Amazon’s trained classic chef background would likely prove useless for our provisioning. We hadn’t considered ‘classic food essentials.’ My Denise pointed out items on the Amazon’s preferred list: pâté, frozen lobster (which would never keep), Peruvian mushrooms, capers and more, causing my Denise to quietly comment, “Crapola, Skip; you can’t afford such luxury—and you’ll get fat!”
Denise went to town with the Amazon. The budget withstood the shock. When finished, we had piles of sensible provisions awaiting assigned storage. Each crewmember was allowed one bottle of liquor.
We were otherwise a dry ship, except for a limited stock of the king of beers, Budweiser (light style) to accompany our traditional Sunday church services with Reverend Chuck.
We had also put ourselves against a scheduling wall. While the purpose of this new life was drifting and blending without pressure, the world’s weather patterns wait for no one. Every April day we delayed sailing west increased stormy weather potential one or two percent.
Laying in supplies for Pacific crossing
Denise had already delayed her return to Los Angeles, but an important appointment with her surgeon was looming. It was time to go.
Tears were in all eyes as Denise boarded her flight. We would meet again in Papeete, and we would stay in touch during the crossing by ham or high seas Single-Sideband (SSB) radio.
I deeply missed Denise, her smile, her laugh, and her love from the moment she disappeared in the airport’s passenger lounge. But with time short and to insure safe passage, we needed to get underway. Storms could already be building along the Equator. We don’t want to meet them. My nerves were showing.
Crossing the Pacific would be my life’s biggest undertaking. I had many offshore miles under my keel, but this voyage could take 30 days before landfall. Our intended track would take us to the Marquesas Islands of Hiva Oa, Fatu Hiva, and Reynolds Bay. From there, we would cautiously traverse the low elevation, reef-fringed Tuamotu Islands, sailing eventually to Tahiti in the Society Islands. Denise would join us in Tahiti for Bastille Day July 14th.
At least that was the plan.