The Ancient Mariner is crowded, as it should be on a Friday night. I look out of place. Dressed in paint-stained work shorts and a faded yacht club T-shirt, I take a seat at the slick mahogany bar to watch the action.
Beyond massive windows facing the harbor are the restaurant’s private docks, where my new forty-three foot ketch Endymion is being fitted to fulfill my dream of drifting and blending in destinations yet unknown.
Across the bar, waitresses in short, snug uniforms tend to thirsty patrons. Outside, attendants sharply clad in crisp white uniforms race to park incoming luxury cars. Mercedes, BMWs, and Porsches get the first two rows. Exotic collector autos, a Stingray and a lime-green Thunderbird share prime positions directly in front of the restaurant’s ornate nautical door. If you happened to arrive in a late model Cadillac, you’re probably hoofing it across Pacific Coast Highway from some dimly lit spot behind RadioShack.
It’s 1986—before the Internet and sex-inducing spiked drinks. The night is awash with fine-looking ladies dripping in jewelry.
Newport Beach is a granola bowl of California’s top achievers and certified whackos, so I’m not surprised when a suit sitting beside me hails a passing waitress, hands her a c-note and coos, “Honey, fetch me some cigarette change?”
In that moment, in a bar full of boozed-up, barley-soaked, high rollers, I confirm that dropping out of this racy lifestyle to become a nobody, sailing my boat wherever I want to go, is a smart career change—and what I truly want to do. I don’t know it yet, but I’ll never regret this decision.
Well, I’d better get outta here. I’ll pay up and climb aboard Endymion. Care to join me? I’m about to spin a fascinating yarn, as sailors have done through the ages—except this one is true.