“Let me get this straight”, my father crackled over long distance. “You are now going to turn down a perfectly respectable job in Manhattan, all to…to…SAIL THE OCEANS on a yacht…with a bunch of bohemian deckhands (SEX FIENDS)….……IS THAT WHAT YOU ARE TELLING ME? What have I tooold you about these Hollywoooood types?? I don’t care if his yacht is 192 ft. …That is a CORK in the North Atlantic this time of year.” About that time, my hearing started to short circuit. “What kind of stunt…white slavery…dope smugglers…. NO DAUGHTER OF MIIIIINE…”
It was my last night at the Blue Martini on Clematis St. After a few drinks, I spied two scruffy gents by the door. Their rumpled shirts and salt-tousled hair peaked my interest. After the introduction, I learned the tall one was Steve, and the blonde one was “Pete with the Perfect Pecs”. They were true blue water sailors. I swooned as I sniffed the saltwater adventure of a lifetime.
During our tête-à-tête, someone said that they were looking for a stewardess. “What does one have to do to be a stewardess? What is the yacht’s itinerary?” My ears began to fail me again, but I managed to make out “Atlantic Crossing, Azores, Lisbon, Antibes, Bonifacio, Sardinia, Capri…” I mused over the idea briefly, and wildly exclaimed, “I’M YOUR GIRL”.