Purple Golf Cart: The Misadventures of a Lesbian Grandma (14 page)

I made breakfast for the three of us while she told stories of her life as a crabber. That’s when I learned about crab trap etiquette and the law. After breakfast she took Miley and a spare gas jug to the marina in Palatka which was visible from the
Curious Wine
. Not far at all. They returned quickly. Soon we hugged the old woman goodbye and headed back in the direction of Jacksonville.

We stopped at the marina in Green Cove Springs. Although it was early afternoon we decided to spend the night there and walk around the quaint little village that was Green Cove. We were going to go into town for dinner but it turned out that the dock master was a gay man who lived with his partner on a nearby boat. We stayed on the dock and visited with them, sharing dinner and a bottle of wine in the clear night sky. We left early the next morning, heading for home.

As we travelled north on the St. Johns, we again went under the Buckman Bridge. We could see a sailboat regatta up ahead, just past the Naval Air Station. I was driving the boat while Miley was upstairs on the carpeted roof, working on her tan. Soon, I noticed that the planes from the NAS were flying awfully low over the
Curious Wine
. They were doing touch-and-go’s at the Naval Air Station nearby, then circling back around, flying too low over my boat, again and again. And then I noticed that we were fully engulfed by forty-some small boats from the regatta. What was going on? I felt like a target from both air and sea.

“Hey, Miley! “ I hollered out the window, up to the roof. “What’s going on out there? I feel like we’re in a war zone or something, between the planes and the sailboats. Can you tell what’s happening?”

Miley leaned over the top front edge of the boat’s roof to respond to me, her head and upper body hanging upside down. Her ample breasts were nearly covering her face as she tried to speak. My dear Miley, it turns out, was working on her tan, stark naked, all the time waving friendly hellos to pilots and boaters alike. Mystery solved.

16. Farley’s Revenge

I invited my boss to hold our company’s monthly regional meeting aboard the
Curious Wine
. The
Curious Wine
had a large front deck with multiple chairs, tables, and a decent barbeque grill like those in one’s back yard, not the tinny little grills attached to the railing of those fancy-pants yachts. The galley was a full kitchen complete with every appliance to accommodate preparations for any meal, but I had the good sense to have our meeting catered. While I prided myself on my well-appointed kitchen, I simply am not a chef. Hell, I’m not even a cook! But it was a great place for a gathering.

People arrived around noon and boarded the boat which was fully gassed and ready for what I hoped would be an easy and impressive departure, not like the one a few days earlier when I slammed the bow of the boat into the pilings of the slip in front of my dock. So embarrassing, but luckily there were no witnesses or damage.

I rounded up Farley and tossed him into my bedroom. He whined for a while then settled in for the trauma of that horrible sound: the engine, as if it were much larger than the single 115 horsepower Mercury. In reality, the engine purred quietly, unlike Farley who was making a terrible racket. But he got quiet, as he always did, as soon as the boat was underway and moving smoothly down the narrow Ortega River.

Guests and crew—the crew consisting of my girlfriend Miley who gladly took the day off from her exterminator job, and myself—were aboard and making way down the Ortega towards the St. Johns on which we would cruise south to the Buckman. The day was absolutely perfect. There was a light chop—okay, maybe a medium chop—that was causing only one person, Richard, the vice president and head of the office, to feel a bit queasy. He stationed his deck chair at the portside rail of the boat, just in case. He looked like he was hoping his cookies remained exactly where they were, intact inside his getting-greener guts.

Apparently it’s difficult to preside over a meeting when one’s entire bowel structure is rumbling to greet the light of day, so Richard suspended the formalities. All of us aboard the
Curious Wine
were thrilled. Some folks went above decks to work on their tans and enjoy the scenery while others stood at the fore or aft rails and waived to boaters who cruised by. We were even greeted by a family of manatees who must have come inland from the Atlantic, navigating their way south to spend the winter in Blue Springs near Deland.

About an hour into the ride, when I went to use the head, I heard Farley scratching around in my stateroom. I’d forgotten all about him! Once under way and away from the dock, Farley was always released from captivity to walk around the boat as he wished. He hated water more that he hated the sound of the engine, so he never attempted to mutiny overboard once we were away from the dock.

As I opened the bedroom door, Farley looked up at me with what could only be described as intense disdain. He stared, really, with something that resembled a smirk. I had no doubt he was thinking. “Just wait, Pal,” I said to him, “You’re a cat, you mean little beast. Just try it,” not knowing what the “it” might be.

Farley slowly, deliberately, schemingly made his way to the forward deck of the boat where Richard was trying very hard to keep his nauseated self together in the presence of his regional staff. Farley walked over to Richard and planted himself squarely between Richard’s legs. In the next moment—if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it—here’s what happened: Farley, staring right up into Richard’s face, barfed. Richard, looking fully miserable and now surprised, lost it. He dove for the side rail and spread his intestinal wealth all over the St. Johns River. And I swear, Farley, that mean cat, was laughing as he casually walked away.

~~~~~

Farley’s version of the events:

I hate her today. She threw me into that room again, cranked that hateful engine, and then made me stay there for hours. My stomach hurt, my brain hurt, and frankly, I was seriously pissed off. When she finally remembered to let me out of that damned little room, I was neither thankful nor amused. I couldn’t let this pass. No way. I had to take revenge. I wasn’t sure what it would be until I saw that jerk sitting on the deck, clearly moments away from barfing his brains out. I decided to help him out of his misery by showing him what to do. The end. Do NOT put me in that fucking room again. I mean it.

17. Aground with Mom and Dad

My parents often helped their children move, whether we needed assistance or not. It was one of the sweet ways they showed they loved us. My move from one marina to another was no exception for them. Actually, I invited my folks to come to Jacksonville from Los Angeles to cruise with me as I moved from the Lighthouse Marina on the west side of Jacksonville to the Jacksonville Beach Marina on the Intracoastal Waterway near the ocean. They had not yet seen my boat and I thought they’d enjoy the experience. They did, of course, and like most of my cruises, it wasn’t without incident.

My parents loved my boat. More important, they loved the fact that I finally had a home of my own. “Maybe now you’ll stop moving so often,” they said at least a hundred times. I lived in far too many places over the years. My addresses and phone numbers were written in pencil in their address book. They wanted ink.

My parents arrived in Jacksonville the day before we were to embark on the moving process. The next morning was filled with excitement. There was no furniture to lift or clothes to pack, just lines to throw and an engine to start (after I put Farley in my bedroom, of course). We unplugged the phone and electrical lines, unscrewed the water hose, and untied the four dock lines. With a fresh pot of coffee and a day’s supply of bagels, lox, and cream cheese, we were ready to go. Miley stayed on land and drove my car over to the new marina. She’d meet us there when we arrive later in the day.

My parents took seats on the front deck of the boat as we slowly made our way down the Ortega River to the St. John’s and towards downtown Jacksonville. The I-95 bridge, the Main Street bridge, the Matthews bridge, all color coded, the local lore goes, so the Mayor can find his way home. The ride through downtown was perfect.

The St. Johns river gently curves to the northeast and then east to the Dames Point Bridge as it meanders through downtown Jacksonville and makes its way out to the Atlantic. The Port of Jacksonville, with its huge cargo ships and multi-color boxes and cranes, was on our left. Directly in front of us but to the right of the main channel was a small island in the river. To the right of that island was a narrow waterway. I chose to bear to the right of the island for two reasons: first to keep us out of the way of the shipping lanes and those humongous ships, and second, because my boat needed only 18 inches of water to remain afloat despite her size. I thought for sure there was at least 18 inches of water on the right side of that island. I was wrong.

The pontoons at the front of my boat hit sand. “Holy shit!,” I exclaimed, embarrassed that I had just cursed in front of my parents. My engine conked out as I tried to maneuver around the sand bar. I was aground and stuck in some really shallow muck. While the back of the boat was still afloat, it was too shallow to start the engine. My father, who had never piloted a boat a day in his life, figured out what to do. There was a giant cargo ship in the St. Johns River not far from where we were aground. We were safe from it because we were in that protected waterway and it was in the shipping channel, heading away from us.

“Okay,” Dad theorized out loud. “That cargo ship makes a decent wake. See?” He was right. It did.

“When the wake gets to us, Mom and I will jump up and down on the back deck while you push us backwards with your pole in the muck. As soon as you’re free, gun the engine backwards.” It could work. My “pole” was a 12-foot long, six-inch round dowel, the biggest Home Depot sells. I used it as a tool to measure water depth. No radio, no depth sounder, just a pole. I was an electronic ditz!

The wake hit. My parents jumped. I put the pole into the muck and pushed. Damn if it didn’t work! It sure did and we were floating in deep enough water to start the engine. I backed us up and moved into the deeper water of the shipping channel but kept to the far right side. We safely continued on our way toward the Intracoastal Waterway. We turned starboard (that would be to the right) at the Intracoastal, then headed south to marker 34 and the Jacksonville Beach Marina.

As we cruised down the river, I wondered how my parents were coping with my situation, or lack thereof, with the kids. By now, of course, they were fully aware of what had happened over time and that the children were no longer visiting me. I suspect their hearts were as broken as mine though we never talked about it. Probably too emotional for any of us to deal with. Not a happy situation at all, and we had no history of dealing with issues as difficult as these. But I knew my loss was also their loss. They loved their grandchildren as deeply as I loved them. During the children’s early years, Berit and Erik spent a month each summer with my parents, the only positive condition of the custody decree. Once the kids said they no longer wanted to see me, they also stopped seeing my parents. Cynda, Jake’s mother, did her best to effectively cut the children off from my side of the family.

My parents were as affected as I by the loss, but I didn’t know how they felt, how they coped. I know that I struggled, every single day. I called the children, sent them cards and gifts, with no response at all. One day, shortly after Christmas in 1985, I called to see if they received the gifts I sent. Erik answered the phone.

“Quit calling here, Mom, and don’t send me any more presents.” The meanness of Cynda was channeling through my precious baby boy. I stopped calling. There was a tremendous hole in my heart that I tried to fill with people, with relationships, but really, the hole was filled with nothingness.

~~~~~

Miley and the dock master were waiting for us when we arrived at the Jacksonville Beach Marina. Dad accurately threw the ropes to them and they pulled us into my new slip. To this day, Dad tells the story of how he saved my boat. For me, it was the first time my parents ever heard me curse.

18.  Cruising to Key West

__________________________________________________________________

1986

U.S. President
: Ronald Reagan

Best film
: Platoon; Hannah and her Sisters, Children of a Lesser God, Room with a View

Best actors
: Paul Newman, Marlee Matlin

Best TV shows
: The Oprah Winfrey Show; Matlock; Designing Women

Best songs
: Higher Love, On My Own, Greatest Love of All, Kyrie, Glory of Love, That’s What Friends are For

Civics
: Nuclear accident at Soviet Union’s Chernobyl plant; Space shuttle Challenger explodes after launch at Cape Canaveral; U.S. Supreme Court upholds sodomy law, Bowers v Hardwick; New York passes anti-discrimination law.

Popular Culture
: The Oprah Winfrey Show debuts on television; Nintendo video games introduced in U.S.

Deaths
: Georgia O’Keefe, Harold Macmillan, Duchess of Windsor; Terry Dolan

_________________________________________________________________

Damn! I hit a boat! I hate it when I do that! I had just pulled out of the slip, didn’t even make it into the channel, and ran into that giant sailboat with its big butt sticking out. The day was a tad windy so my 43’ houseboat—with the long sides that sometimes act as non-maneuverable sails—was difficult to handle in that narrow space. The ladder of the swim platform on the back of the sailboat cut into one of my fiberglass pontoons. The sailboat wasn’t disturbed or scratched at all and no one was aboard. But I now had a puncture in my pontoon, only three minutes into the 10-day cruise to Key West. Swell. Luckily the pontoon was chambered. If water did get into it, it had no place to go. The trip continued as planned.