Island Romance

By Bob Fitting

Bob Meyer drops anchor at a little known island in the Caribbean and discovers Clementine, the love of his life. He narrowly escapes her father's wrath and violent behavior, marries in Belize, only to have her disappear during the honeymoon. Three years later she calls him, there is a reunion, only to have her disappear once again--this time with a million dollars. Is she a con artist or is there

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Fitting
• Release date: Feb 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301177394

Bob Fitting

Bob Fitting founded three successful electronics companies-the last a public company with a market capitalization of $300 million trading on the NASDAQ. He is a graduate of Penn State (BSEE) and New York University (MSEE). His work experience included Bell Telephone Laboratories and Motorola, Inc.The money making rules he learned during his career are revealed in the telling of his memoir.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Dave stuck his head in the door. Please don’t get mad at me, I just gave some strange woman your cellphone number.

Why?

Jeshelle told me I must because the woman pleaded desperately and Jeshelle didn’t know what else to do. I thought it might be worth a laugh because—get this; she says she’s your wife.

It was just after three Sunday afternoon at my company, Meyer Invention Factory; Dave was my Chief Operations Officer, COO in corporate lingo. He and I were putting the finishing touches on a contract from an important customer, National Security Agency when the ringtone on my iPhone blared, Put another nickel in; in the nickelodeon, all I want is having you and music, music, music. Teresa Brewer had a remarkable voice, my mother’s favorite singer. I glanced at the screen, and could hardly breathe. Clementine. It can't be—but there aren't a lot of Clementines in the world. In my mind the debate raged, answer, you know you want to; don't answer, it's too painful; it can't be her. The iPhone is an impatient device, Put another nickel in; in the nickelodeon, all I want is having you and music, music, music. It's been three years. I thought I finally put her out of my mind. She wrecked my life. I don't want to talk to her. I can't talk to her. Put another nickel in; in the nickelodeon, all I want is having you and music, music, music. What am I thinking, it can't be her. I let the phone beckon me again, Put another nickel in; in the nickelodeon, all I want is having you and music, music, music. I let it roll over into voicemail mode.

It took a few minutes to get up the nerve to listen to the message. A sobbing voice I immediately recognized begged, Bobby, it's me Clemmie. I didn't know who else to turn to. Please help me.

The last time I saw Clementine was three years ago on October third.

CHAPTER 1

Nine years ago, my friend Steve Thomaso and I started a company. Through a combination of luck, my engineering skill, and Steve’s marketing brilliance, the company grew like the proverbial Topsy. I was a major shareholder of RCM Communications Inc. at the time of the Initial Public Offering and by agreement with the investment banker, wouldn’t sell my stock for six months.

While I waited, I built a laboratory in my basement; a constant string of diverse inventions emerged that I was thinking about while waiting for the time when I would be free to sell my stock. An Ion Beam Focusing Device, Cesium Antimony Rubidium Gallium Oxide (CARGO) Battery, Spread Spectrum Communications, Hypermagnetic Microwave Isolator, Radiation Resistant Semiconductor, Below Earth Communications Device, Super-Efficient Solar Cell, and Extended Duration SCUBA Rebreathing Device to name a few.

The Ion Beam was the first invention to make money. The most financially successful invention, which launched my company and allowed me to move out of the basement, was a handheld device that could detect warm bodies in buildings. I named it Clark Kent and sold thousands to a three-letter agency in Washington.

During the year after the IPO, the stock price climbed steadily, and by the time I sold all my stock, my shares were worth $300 million. After paying capital gains tax of 15 percent; my net worth was something north of $250 million.

I have a pilot's license with Commercial, Instrument, and multi-engine ratings; and I piloted small airplanes, both single engine and twin engine, for a number of years. Rentals were all I could afford. An airplane was one of my first purchases after selling my stock. Two features were required. First, I wanted a plane with two engines for flying around the Caribbean. A second engine is comforting for flying over water, although Amelia Earhart might argue it offers no guarantee. Second, the plane had to be certified for single-pilot operation. One of my less cerebral lady friends wanted to know why I wanted a plane where the pilot couldn't be married. The single pilot certification eliminated almost all jets and most turboprops. I looked at a Cessna Citation jet; its single pilot certified, but I was still concerned whether I could stay current and safe in a complex airplane like the Citation. While checking out a Twin Turbo Commander, I noticed a Rockwell 680FP Aero Commander for sale. The sales representative tried to talk me out of looking at it, but my curiosity required satisfaction. The plane was over forty years old, but it was completely retrofitted. The moment I sat in the pilot seat, I was impressed with the upgraded instrument panel having the latest GPS, radar, and flight manager. It was clearly implemented with single-pilot operation in mind. The representative said, This clunker only goes a little over 200 miles an hour. Your friends will not be impressed. At this point in our relationship, the sales representative became a sales jerk.

I told him, I’m not trying to impress my friends. I remembered a story of Bob Hoover, one of the greatest test pilots of all time, flying an Aero Commander from Oklahoma to Washington with one of the propellers removed and placed inside the plane. I thought, this will be much safer than the turboprop, and I like the simplicity of the fuel management system. Pilots know one major reason for airplane crashes is failure to manage fuel correctly. Many planes have multiple fuel tanks; in the wings, fuselage, and other places. Pumps move fuel between tanks to maintain balance and to be available to feed the engines. Crash-stories fill the FAA records where the engine died from lack of fuel when there was plenty of fuel on board but in the wrong tanks.

So, I dumped the sales jerk and bought my baby--a 1962 Aero Commander for $475,000 and started having some fun.

For the next two years, and between inventions, I worked on my personal bucket list. I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, and Mount Kenya; I dove the Great Barrier Reef and the Ho Chan Marine reserve in Belize, and many days I simply walked the beaches while hunting for shells in the Caribbean. It was mind-liberating and resulted in more invention ideas. I was known on many of the Caribbean islands from both the Aero Commander and my sailboat, a fifty-six foot Beneteau sloop-rigged sailboat I named Ion Beam. I named her after my first profitable invention. Ion beam is a medical tool that fights cancers and can focus a beam of ions more exactly than ever before.

The morning of September 23rd, I was on Ion Beam in the Grenadines, anchored off Union Island. I just spent a week in the Tobago Keys, one of my favorite places in the world, with my friends George and Hope Boyhan. Last evening, George received a call from his son. Their daughter was seriously injured in a car accident, just came out of surgery, and her status was uncertain. The earliest flight was out of Union island at seven in the morning.

Very early in the morning there was too little wind to sail to the airport; I used the engine and powered us to Union Island, the most southern island of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, the only five-word country in the world. I anchored in the Clifton Bay and took the Boyhans to the dock with the dinghy. The airport was a five-minute walk. The turboprop was on final approach as we said our goodbyes and hugged; then George and Hope were led outside the terminal to be ready for the plane to make a quick turnaround. George and Hope caught the SVG Airlines flight to Saint Lucia, from where they could get a flight to New York. I watched the plane until it was out of sight. I was always somewhat of a loner, but now suddenly I was lonely.

Walking back to the dock, I smelled the bakery long before I saw it. Local bakeries are on most of the islands making outstanding bread. I bought a loaf with East Caribbean dollars and hungrily tore off a chunk of the warm bread, savoring its rich texture and flavor. The early start hadn’t given us time for a relaxing breakfast, and maybe I was feeling sorry for myself too.

I was glad I had some East Caribbean Dollars in my wallet. The Eastern Caribbean dollar is the official currency of the eight political states in the Organization of Eastern Caribbean states (OECS). Six of these are independent states: Antigua and Barbuda, Dominica, Grenada, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Lucia and Saint Vincent and the Grenadines. Two--namely Anguilla and Montserrat--are British overseas territories. The exchange rate is EC$2.70 equals $1. The islanders like to say EC-come EC-go. It's probably my imagination, but I believe I get slightly more respect using EC Dollars.

After dinghying back to the Ion Beam, I planned to head north to Marigot Bay on the west side of Saint Lucia, where I tie up Ion Beam, with stops at the islands of Mayreau and Bequia. Normally sailing a yacht as large as Ion Beam single- handed is difficult. However, doing so with Ion Beam is no problem at all. I outfitted the yacht with many of my inventions; the Meyer Self Steering System, the Meyer Self Powered Winches, and the Meyer Automatic Sail Manager. These and other devices were all linked to the Meyer Audio Commander, the only shipboard autopilot in the world programmable using only voice commands. The yacht had Meyer Super High-Efficiency Solar Cells covering the cabin roof. The solar cells produced more than enough electricity to power the boat twenty-four hours a day with only eight hours of sunlight. A thousand pounds of Meyer CARGO batteries filled the keel replacing the keel's lead weight, and they could hold a charge twice as long as car batteries. The batteries could also power the auxiliary dual-electric motors, mounted on the stern to drive the boat at high speed for sixteen hours; along with the diesel engine, or alone, if the diesel failed to start. The electric motors also assist in docking the vessel.

I licensed the Super-Efficient Solar Cell invention to a start-up company for part ownership rather than selling the technology to GE knowing my ownership in the start-up someday would be worth ten times the price GE would pay today. The idiot GE senior vice president, Dan Anderson, yawned while I explained my cells could produce 50 percent of the theoretical maximum power versus the best GE cells of 13 percent. Even when I tried to further explain the benefit by pointing out a single square meter of my cells would produce 500 Watts of power while a single square meter of GE cells would produce only 130 Watts, the VP didn’t seem to understand the significance. It was another reason to go with the start-up. Many of the Corporate VPs are fluent in corporate speak, but apparently sacrificed large portions of their gray matter to careers spent in stuffy, unproductive meetings. I often wonder why big corporations seem to accumulate a cumbersome disproportionate number of Andersons.

Marigot Bay is on the west side of Saint Lucia. James Michener once called it The most beautiful bay in the Caribbean. In less than a mile offshore, the entrance into Marigot Bay is virtually invisible. The English once hid their warships from the French in the bay, and it is considered one of the few hurricane-safe harbors in the Windward Islands. The first time I saw Marigot Bay ten years ago, when I rented a sail-it-yourself-bareboat from the Moorings, I decided if I ever owned a boat I would keep it there. The island is called the Jewel of the Windwards, with its highest peak soaring more than 3,000 feet skyward. The steep slopes of Mount Gimie are carpeted with lush rain forest.

The Marigot Bay marina is small. The only way to get a slip was to buy a used sailboat from the Moorings; one of the several reasons I purchased the Beneteau. On top of which I paid a premium for the location. Every day I wake up in Marigot and look at the lush jungle setting, I realize it is worth twice the price. In addition to being a marina, there are outstanding restaurants and a small hotel.

The Boyhans and I were planning to explore Mayreau Island on our way back to Marigot Bay. I was in no hurry; it still seemed like a good idea, so I decided to stop. Mayreau is a small island of only about one and a half square miles; and the smallest inhabited island of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines. It is about twenty-five miles north of Union Island. The yachting guidebook did not recommend stopping because there was no shopping, no restaurants, no roads, no marina, and no cars; exactly the kind of place I loved.

I programmed the Meyer Audio Commander at Union Island, to sail north and anchor on the west side of Mayreau. Not only did the system respond to voice commands but it also replied to my instructions in a deep male voice. I named the Meyer Audio Commander ‘Hal’ a takeoff on the computer in the movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey. Hal, lift anchor and sail north to the west side of Mayreau at best sailing speed.

Yes, Bob.

Hal, drop anchor in Salt Whistle Bay.

Yes, Bob.

Like the movie, Hal would respond to commands, Yes Bob. Of course, I programmed Hal with state-of-the-art voice recognition. Hal wouldn’t operate unless I was on board; nor listen to anyone else without my approval. After a little exploring of Mayreau, I planned to sail to Bequia, and then on to St. Lucia where I rented the slip. On the way, I made a croque-monsieur with the fresh bread I bought at the local bakery on Union Island. The sandwich first appeared on a menu in Paris in 1910. As with so many great things in life, a croquet-monsieur is a simple concoction made of ham and Gruyere cheese. What makes this sandwich so incredible is that it is fried in butter. The bread turns an incredible golden brown, the cheese melts, and the addictive mass becomes heaven in your mouth.

There was enough food for a month now that my friends are gone. Hal piloted the yacht to Salt Whistle Bay, and using the radar and depth finder along with measuring the currents, anchored in a safe spot; how pleasant, I thought, no other boats are anchored in sight. After Hal furled the sails and dropped anchor, Ion Beam was suddenly silent; it was a reminder that my friends were gone, and I was alone. My loneliness increased dramatically, now it was overwhelming

CHAPTER 2

There wasn’t a breath of wind on the west side of Mayreau, the water was like glass, and the dead calm triggered an unusual thought; it struck me that I never felt this lonely before. This is crazy; it's time for a beer. I rigged a sunshade over the cockpit, and grabbed a Hairoun out of the fridge. I snagged a box of goldfish crackers to snack on. They are hard to beat with cold beer. A half hour later as I was finishing my second Hairoun the loneliness passed and my mind was back working on another invention.

The anchor was well set in the shallow bay; the water clear enough to see the anchor rode all the way to the white sand bottom twenty feet below. I leaned over the side to see the clear shadow of the boat on the bottom. I could see shadows of the fish congregating under the hull. I threw a handful of goldfish in the water and watched fifty or so fish, mostly sergeant majors, fight over them. Is that why they hang around anchored boats?

I felt a bit of wind as a slight breeze slowly shifted the boat around the anchor. As the boat rotated, the Island of Mayreau appeared directly in my line of sight. I could see a small dock with a boat tied to it and a path up the hill from the dock to a village at the top. I noticed some sort of building halfway up the hill. A sudden noise that appeared to be a hammer pounding followed by shouting piqued my interest. A few minutes later, I saw a man running down the path followed by the woman—they appeared to be having an argument. I grabbed the binoculars and was astounded with what I saw. While watching, I said, Hal, lower the dinghy. The Meyer Dinghy L&R System, for Launch and Retrieval, took over and began lowering the dinghy from the stern.

I thought wow, there is a case of ‘The Beauty and the Beast’, the man is the ugliest I have ever seen anywhere, and the woman is one of the most stunning I have ever seen in the islands. She’s probably married to the ugly guy. It seems to me there is an attraction I'll never understand by some women to men I consider coarse and ugly. Nerds like me who are slim, in good shape, reasonably tall, and well groomed turn off the same women. Do ugly guys like that emit a pheromone like bugs? If I could figure out how to manufacture it and put in a spray bottle, it would really sell. Maybe nerds emit an anti- pheromone.

From ugly guys, to bugs and nerd busting anti-pheromone--my mental processes were capable of jumping from one thought to another which was a constant source of amusement for me. It was easy for me to explore multiple concepts at a time. This attribute was highly honed and fully functioning during my most creative periods when I was inventing new technologies, developing exciting new products and in the process, upping my net worth by millions.

Turning to the task at hand; in the thirty seconds it took to lower the dinghy, the man jumped into the twin outboard boat tied to the small dock; I heard both engines start, and in a minute he zipped past my boat, and was heading away from the island. He was a big dark bald-headed man with a protruding beer gut. His shirtless chest was covered with straggly matted hair He had both muscular arms and legs. His skin appeared leathery, probably from long exposure to the tropical sun.

The gorgeous woman who was verbally interacting with the now departed man turned and headed back up the hill. She walked it easily, arms swinging, legs pumping. Her foot stomping though gave me a good indication of her still smoldering anger at what transpired between her and the man. It only took a few minutes to make the climb; her feet moving quickly over the path. Clearly she had a confidence born from having made the climb hundreds of times previously. Curiosity set in as I continued to track her through the binoculars until she finally disappeared into the building.

The man in the boat turned north and was nearly out of sight by the time I started the dinghy motor. I was ashore in ten minutes. The path up the hill was quite steep and I was huffing and puffing when I reached the building halfway up the hill. The building was of typical island construction; yellow-painted cement block walls with a corrugated tin roof. But to my surprise, the building was a bar! A small sign stated, Dennis' Bar. When I stepped inside I saw a doorway to a back room with a curtain made of shells and string. On the opposite side of the back room was an open door through which I could see machinery.

The stunning woman appeared to float through the shell-curtained door in a red and gold kaftan, bare feet in sandals, skin the color of mocha and cream, and her hair in a duku, the traditional African headscarf. She was like a dream I experienced but could never adequately describe. Her almond shaped eyes were the aquamarine color of Loblolly bay, my favorite snorkeling spot. Her beauty was mesmerizing, and I barely heard her ask, Would you like something to drink?

I could hardly speak, but finally remembered the local Saint Vincent beer, and muttered, "Hairoun, please. No, wait, it’s too early for a beer. I’ll have a Coke." I don't want her to think I’m a drunk.

When she spoke again, I finally understood the meaning of the word mellifluous. Her beautiful accent was partly British, with a slight island lilt. Right away sir, but the generator is broken and it may not be as cold as you would like, I am almost out of ice.

Ah ha, the machine in back is a generator. I sat at the end of the four-stool bar while she served the coke; what a beautiful creature. I was in awe of her, and finally recovering, I asked, Is that why your husband was swearing?

Then she said, That was my father, I’m not married.

I almost screamed, Yesss. But instead commented on her English accent.

She explained, "I attended school in England, and I recently returned from there after completing my degree in Electrical Power Engineering.

I asked, Isn't that kind of engineering usually for guys?

My father’s insistence. she replied.

I asked, Why England?

It's a long story.

I coaxed her, I'm in no hurry and you don't have any customers.

She looked directly into my eyes and started, "My father Dennis was born and grew up on Mayreau. However, he was working as a bar tender at Foxy’s resort on the island of Jost Van Dyke in the British Virgin Islands, when he met my English mother. She had recently flown to the BVI looking for excitement. They married a few months later when she became pregnant. They lived behind Foxy’s in a little shack. I was born on Jost Van Dyke.

"I was told my mother Iris was a wild child. She ran off to the islands to find adventure and freedom from the stuffy English countryside where she grew up. She looked very British with creamy skin, and pale blue eyes, but her tousled, red hued chestnut hair threw off hints of an Irish heritage and a wild side that was unexpected to her breeding and social status. At first, island life was exciting, the weather a constant source of pleasure, the water inviting and cooling, the geography, the people, all so different from England. Unfortunately this life fell far short of the adventure she was desperately seeking. The islands only delivered Dennis and sorrow. The dark, sometimes frightening, and out-of-control bartender, with the brooding good looks; and the English girl so full of life, crashed together, and produced a child. My parents continued to make each other miserable every hour of every one of the ongoing days they had together. Within a year of my birth Iris was talking about taking me back to England where Dennis and his drugs and drinking lifestyle could not hurt me. He would announce loudly ‘that will never happen.’ So with no money and little hope, Iris started to drink to relieve the pain; pain about what type of life I would have, pain about disconnecting herself from her family, pain about this unpleasant life with Dennis. She could not contact her mother. Janet had made it clear when Iris left, she was on her own. In fact Iris's name was forbidden to be mentioned around her mother. An only child Iris' father died young, leaving Iris and Janet alone to figure out how to