February 6, 2005

The Don Laing Story - The Last Year - Chapter Two

Scroll Down to read Chapter One Here

The path to a new adventure - Far Nienté at the end of the dock on my 1st day.

Daylight came far too soon in Jules' cramped UCSB dorm room and I awoke with a throbbing headache, the kind that can only be induced by drinking too much champagne. I did mange a little sleep on the dorm floor given that my only cushion was my sleeping bag and I had no pillow. Upon sitting up, it dawned on me that dorms also lacked the luxury of private bathrooms. Fortunately this was a co-ed dorm.

As I had packed all that I needed for an extended stay, I pulled out a clean towel and my bag of essentials and made my way down the hall and down one floor to the men's shower room. I was hoping not to encounter any students, as I surely would have been targeted as a non-student being nearly ten years their senior. The shower room was empty and I quickly shaved, but lingered once in the shower as one can do in an institution where the hot steamy water runs perpetually. 

By the time I was back to the dorm room, Jules and Donny were sitting up in bed with some coffee brewing. I sat down in the only chair in the room, a desk chair of course and savored the coffee which Jules' made on my behalf.

Donny was upbeat of course, seemingly unaffected by too little sleep, too much drink and the other indulgences of last evening.  Also Jules' was in a pleasant mood having completed mid-terms last week.

Apparently last night's celebration was planned in advance.  Chad's visit the night before was so anticipated because of his access to a substance that was all the rage up and down the coast is the mid-eighties.  I never cared cared for the artificial high of coke as it seemed to take a full day or two to recover from the low of it. That morning, I was relived that I passed on the ritual knowing that I would have gotten zero sleep and felt totally (instead of partially) destroyed.

When Don & Jules finally headed out together for their morning "routines," I briefly climbed on the bed, propping myself up with two large pillows, coffee in hand.  I closed my eyes for a few cherished moments of solitude and may even have drifted back to sleep briefly.  My thoughts were along the line of "what the hell lies ahead for me now?"

Don returned first, anxious to get to the harbor, so I stuffed my one bag with a wet towel and headed out to the car. As we passed the woman's shower room, he mischievously  opened the door and yelled to Jules' that we were leaving.  I'm not sure how long he had been staying there, but no doubt the female residents had grow awkwardly accustom to him.

As we headed over to US 101 for the twenty mile trip south, the coastal clouds were already breaking up to reveal a perfect Californian day. The old highway at that time still dumped you squarely into downtown Santa Barbara where the morning traffic slowed to stop-and-go.

I insisted that we pick up some breakfast, content with a bagel or muffin and some OJ to start the fluids flowing in my dehydrated body.  Don agreed, but as traffic seems stalled on the 101, he turned right into the city's newly renovated main street, lined with posh restaurants and chic boutiques.

He pulled his red Audi directly in front of a sidewalk cafe, half-populated by a stunning collection of affluent SB housewives down from there million dollar mountain estates -- to, no doubt I assumed, mingle with their own kind and begin some ritualistic Saks shopping.

I suspect he chose this place as he was still trying to "sell" me on joining him to work on this new project (like I really had any choice in the matter).  As we walked in to be seated outdoors, Don eyed, smiled and nodded at each table of the housewife collective like he lived right down the road in his own ocean view estate.

We sat in the warm morning sunlight.  I ordered more coffee, a double fresh squeezed orange juice and a massive seafood omelet which I devoured.  Don never seemed to have much of an appetite, but did manage to get down a ham & egg sandwich.

By the time we left, the snarled traffic on the 101 was flowing again and some solid food had further helped in my recovery from the night before.  North of Santa Barbara is the super-affluent community of Montecito.  Don again pointed out Nippers from the highway (the champagne bar responsible for my suffering) and a condo complex where Marv resided.

Marv was the owner of the yacht that was to become my new home.  He had sold his Summerland estate to finance the yacht renovation and was slumming it in a condo until ready to begin his South Sea's adventure.

Don failed to tell me that Marv was back in the Midwest attending his mother's funeral, who died in an auto accident.  He assured me that Marv knew that I was joining the crew, but I had my doubts.  I didn't bother to ask him directly, full well knowing that the answer I would get would be the same, truthful or not.

We cruised south along a long stretch of open beaches on the west of the highway and the steep uninhabitable cliffs to the east.  As we entered the sleepy coastal town of Ventura, I began to feel a bit of apprehension -- the feeling one gets on the first day of a new job.

Through the city, we turn west on Spinnaker Drive toward the boatyard and the new harbor complex which was nearing completion.  We pulled up right to the office of the boatyard and park in a restricted spot.

Don pulls me into the office and looks for the guy running the yard.  He introduces me to a black curly-haired guy with thick glasses - mid thirties and very Jewish looking.  Greg's the navel architect that is No. 2 in command, but runs that day-to-day affairs of this thriving business.   He asks me if my last name is Greek. "No," I say, "Lithuanian."  His eyes light up as he to, has such ancestry -- distant at best, as my father was Catholic.

Donny, for once in his life, did some planning and pre-arranged with Greg to get me an electronic key for access to the live-aboard facilities for showers and laundry.  I was relieved, as when one is near-homeless, these simple necessities become precious.

As Don had already given me the shipyard tour yesterday when I arrived, we headed straight for the dock - but not without a detailed description of each and every boat on it.

The first two large steel boats were for servicing and transporting crews to the oil rigs in the Santa Barbara Channel.  They mostly sat at dock, as there was a slowdown in the industry at the time.  But in action, they were big powerful boats able to handle the worst seas anywhere in the world. 

Off-shore oil rigs doted the channel between the coast and the Channel Islands.  The most famous island, off the coast of Long Beach was Catalina.  To the north, I would later have the privilege to explore Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santo Rosa and, my favorite, San Miguel.

Next to the idle steel workhorses was a luxury motor yacht that was repossessed from its over-extended owner.  King Neptune was an 80 foot vessel, not exactly at the level of luxury a billionaire would demand, but a comfortable floating home none-the-less.  The shipyard was holding the vessel for the bank until it could be auctioned off, and Greg, my new friend, held the keys.  Later, I would find that the old King was his personal, after-hours party vessel (always dockside of course) and I would become a by-personal-invitation-only welcomed guest.

Directly next to the Neptune was a classic wooden sloop, nothing special mind you, but well maintained.  On board was a young couple who had just had their first child.  I, sadly don't recall their names, but remember the details of all our encounters.

He was a small bearded night-shift telephone operator for Pac Bell.  She was a sweet young thing, and quite lonely, as her husband seemed to be gone or sleeping all the time.  As I got to know her, she would invite me on board while her husband was working, simply for some company.  She had a liking for smoking pot and seemed to be well connected in obtaining it.

I must say, that on more than one occasion I was tempted to take advantage of that odd situation, but managed to leave guilt free each and every time.  How could I, after all, look that young husband in his oh-so-friendly eyes, had I taken advantage of his lonely wife the night before?

In time we all became close friends, as boat dwellers often do, and I was trusted on more than one occasion to baby sit -- so this poor couple could get out a bit.

West of the sloop was Tubby - and old Nordic wooden tug boat that had seen better days.  She was retired and converted into a houseboat and never left dock.  But on occasion the owner came to stoke up the old diesels, just to prove her still ready for duty.

On board lived a Swedish woman, Karen and her 14 year old son Hans.  She had spent every dime she had to open up a nautical book & gift shop in the new marina complex.  The cost of this venture apparently set her back financially, to the point where she didn't even own a car.  Her son, a handsome blond surfer boy, was going through his terrible teens when I arrived on the scene.

He was alienated by the fact that he lived on a dumpy old boat, while his schoolmates lived in the affluent waterfront estates throughout the harbor.  His grades were so poor that he risk being held back - something that rarely occurs at the teen years. I recall telling him that his experience in the harbor was richer than all of his rich-kid buddies combined. I bet it took these twenty years for that to sink in!

As I had come to know them better, Hans, Karen and I cut a deal, where I would tutor Hans in reading and mathematics during summer school, in exchange for him teaching me how to surf!  I never did master that skill, but he got his act together with my help and went on to become a "B" student the following school year.  Amidst all the uncertainty that I was going through, that bond remains one of my fondest.

Between Tubby and Far Neinte was an open slip.  That little open space of water would become somewhat precious to me, as it gave me a little buffer from my the rest of my new little cosmos.  But one day, after about a month on the job, I woke to find a new sailing vessel as my neighbor.

She was a beautiful Nautor Swan sloop, and her owner was Ollie, a retired Swede that had sailed the world.  He lived in Santa Barbara with his wife of fifty years, but weekends he'd come down to the harbor to putter around on his second love.  It was rumored that he moved here after selling his slip in Santa Barbara for a $150K, a healthy sum back then.

He was too old to sail alone, he later admitted to me, but once a month his son would come down from San Francisco to take the old man out on his pride and joy.  Ollie never invited me aboard, or to sail with him, but we talked a lot, he from his transom and I from "mine."

Donny, of course, could not have provided me all of the insight on that day regarding my new neighbors, as I have provided briefly to you.  But he did do all the introductions, which lead to the rich friendships that developed with time in that little corner of the harbor -- my new world.

Now it was finally time to meet the crew.  All my apprehensions seemed gone -- I was ready.

To be continued this week - really!
 

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