“Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms” in Longfellow’s Evangeline, Winnie barked at us, with orders to “get your minds out of the gutter,” and a reminder that “the body is a temple.”
One time while walking around the classroom, Winnie spied a paperback book on Alan Melnick’s desk. It was a copy of The Untouchables, the basis for the TV series starring Robert Stack as FBI agent Elliot Ness.
Curious, Winnie picked up the book, and flipped through the pages. When she realized that the cover illustration showed an FBI raid on a whorehouse, she dropped it as if it was on fire and ran to the sink to purify her hands and soul. The next day, Winnie was absent from school.
Our substitute teacher was Elizabeth Krick, an equally old, old lady but Winnie’s polar opposite in personality, politics and prudery.
Winnie was out for a long time, and the months when Mrs. Krick replaced her were a trip to an intellectual Disneyland. The dreaded sentence-diagramming sessions were gone, there were no notes to copy from the blackboard and we were encouraged to read ANYTHING we wanted to.
I found a strange paperback book entitled The Wayward Comrade and the Commissars, by Yurii Karlovich Olesha—definitely not a book that commie-hating Winnie would approve of.
It contained one novelette and three short stories, and Mrs. Krick agreed that Alan would report on the novelette, Envy, and I’d cover the short stories.
Alan got the best part, which included the memorable line, “How pleasant my life is. Ta-ra. Ta-ra. My bowels are elastic. Ra-ta-ta. Ta-ra-ree. My juices flow within me. Ra-tee-ta. Doo-da-da. Contract, guts, contract. Tram-ba-ba-boom!”
On the day we were to deliver our book reports, the sky was dark, Mrs. Krick was gone, Winnie was back, and I was in shock.
There was no way in hell that Winnie would accept a “book report” on three short stories, especially if the three short stories were written by a detested Russian.
I had to do some quick improvising. I decided to verbally inflate one of the stories into a full-length book and hoped some creative bullshit would help get me through the crisis.
Unfortunately, the one short story that had enough of a plot to support my embellishment was titled Love.
When it was time for me to deliver my report, I quivered at the front of the classroom, put a hand in front of my mouth, and mumbled something like “I am reporting on Grphshnrf Moknop Cribnuk by Hrebdrop P. Fnarp.”
Winnie asked me to repeat it, and I mumbled something like “I am reporting on Klapfnak Heebdump by Fligglediggle Narknark.”
That didn’t satisfy Winnie either, and she demanded that I speak CLEARLY AND LOUDLY.
The jig was up. I was caught with pants down. There was no turning back. I couldn’t claim that my dog ate my homework.
So, I looked down at the floor and inhaled deeply, then raised my head, stared straight at the back of the classroom, and proudly announced to the world that “I am reporting on LOVE, by YURII KARLOVICH OLESHA.”
Winnie clutched her chest, screamed and ran from the classroom.
Love gave Winnie a heart attack.
The next day the sun shone brightly, and Mrs. Krick was back at the desk in the front of the room.
Chapter 3
The attack of the killer sunfish
In the early 1970s, while I was an advertising copywriter, the ad agency I worked for sent me to Bermuda. It wasn’t truly a vacation because I had to attend a few meetings with clients of the agency, but the trip didn’t cost me a penny and I had ample spare time to explore, swim and sail.
The hotel where we stayed had free sailboats for use by guests. They weren’t big or complicated. They were Sunfish, weighing about 150 pounds and measuring about 14 feet long. They were intended to be sailed by just one person, and all that the single sailor had to handle were a few ropes and the rudder.
Designed in 1951, the Sunfish is both simple and durable, basically a VW Beetle that moves on a liquid highway, with a sail instead of an engine.
The guy who was in charge of the hotel’s fleet asked me if I had sailed before, and I quickly answered, “Yes, Admiral!” and gave him a fake Navy salute. He said the Sunfish was “a cute little boat and shouldn’t give you any trouble at all.”
Fortunately, the admiral of the fleet did not ask me for details and there was no written application, test or oath. I did not have to supply dates, details or references.
I did not lie when I said I had sailed, but most of my sailing was in motorized vessels that had no sails. I also rowed some rowboats and paddled some canoes and I had once been a passenger on a 24-foot sailboat. When asked or commanded by the real sailor, I willingly moved from port to starboard or from starboard to port. I also coiled up some ropes and hung bumpers over the side when we neared the pier.
My major achievements were staying out of the way, not falling overboard and getting a good tan. I knew that the bow was up front, the stern in the back, a john is a head, a rope is a line and food is in the galley. I know a bit about halyards and clevis pins and cleats and I even know that “forecastle” is pronounced “foc’sle.” I also like to swim in and drink water, and if drafted to serve my country—Aye, Aye Sir!—I’d choose the Navy.
Despite my only partially impressive résumé, I felt up to the task. A Sunfish is an itty-bitty boat—not much bigger than a canoe—and I was sure I could handle it. Sunfish advertising talks about simplicity, stability and a “forgiving feel” that’s “suitable for beginners.” That’s my kind of boat.
And since my mother didn’t have any stupid kids, I was sure I could teach myself to sail in Bermuda’s beautiful protected harbor, where Spanish sailor Juan de Bermudez arrived in 1503. Bermuda was named after him.
I quickly figured out how to get the mast vertical and unfurl the sail. A convenient puff of air took me gently away from the pier, and I felt ready to skip right from raw recruit to admiral.
Had I attended Annapolis like an actual admiral, or even read the Boy Scout Manual chapter on water safety, I would have known to check the weather forecast before venturing out.
It turned out that the little puff of air that kindly and conveniently propelled me away from shore was actually an advance sign of THE BIGGEST FUCKING WINDSTORM TO HIT BERMUDA IN 68 YEARS.
That initial puff was very quickly followed by a breeze, and then a wind and then a squall. The wind speed hit 52MPH—the fastest non-hurricane wind on record.
I was never so busy in my life. I was simultaneously trying to learn how to sail, keep the boat upright, keep it from taking me out into the Atlantic Ocean, and trying to avoid being decapitated by the boom that kept swinging from port to starboard to port to starboard.
I
