Collision of Destinies: The Story of a Ship, Its Crew, and the Evolution of a Man

By Steven L. Benson

Steve Benson is a pugnacious, outgoing, and athletic twenty-six-year-old. After losing his first professional teaching assignment in Minneapolis, Minnesota, he puts his career on hold and hits the road in a rebuilt Volkswagen. The trip takes him to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, where he discovers an ad asking for men with mechanical ability to work on ship. He wins the job and moves on board the 185 foot vessel on a promise he be chosen to accompany the newly remodeled vessel to South America. In this travelogue, the Miami-based renovation process is fraught with conflict and deception during which Steve and ten other crewmen survive the hostile work environment long enough to board passengers bound for the Galapagos Islands; where iguanas spit, whales calve, and seals dance in one of the worlds most unique wildlife sanctuaries. It is during this incredible journey that captain Mike of the M/V Buccaneer becomes Stevens father figure, the crew his surrogate family, and Steve moves a giant step closer to becoming a man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462030934

Steven L. Benson

Born November 2, 1950 in St.Paul, Minnesota, Steve Benson earned degrees from the University of Minnesota and Mankato State College. A letter-winning college gymnast, retired carpenter and cabinetmaker, gourmet cook, and world traveler, he now lives in a Miami suburb with his wife, Donnis; their son Shawn; and two wonderful golden retrievers. This is Benson’s first book.

Book preview

collision of destinies

The Story of a Ship, Its Crew, and the Evolution of a Man

Steven L. Benson

A harmless road trip becomes an incredible Galapagos adventure

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Collision of Destinies

The Story of a Ship, Its Crew, and the Evolution of a Man

Copyright © 2011 by Steven L. Benson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3092-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3093-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3094-1 (dj)

iUniverse rev. date: 11/7/2011

CONTENTS

chapter 1

A Dream is Born

chapter 2

Rough Beginnings in Very Trying Times

chapter 3

Preparing for Takeoff

chapter 4

Road Trip

chapter 5

Back on the Road Again

chapter 6

Eight Life-Changing Words

chapter 7

Chance Meeting with a Hitchhiker

chapter 8

Taking a Chance of a Lifetime

chapter 9

Settling in a New Environment

chapter 10

Taken By Surprise on the Dog Watch

chapter 11

What Most People Take for Granted

chapter 12

Finding a Jewel on the Fantome

chapter 13

Get Off My Ship—You’re Fired!

chapter 14

Trying to Save a Friend’s Job

chapter 15

The Buccaneer Receives a New Member

chapter 16

A Night at the Forge with a Wiseguy

chapter 17

Making the Final Fifteen

chapter 18

Leaving a Good Man Behind

chapter 19

A Strategy Forms to Avenge a Shipmate

chapter 20

Making Money on the Side the Hard Way

chapter 21

The Missing Case of Vienna Sausages

chapter 22

Losing a Bout with an I-Beam

chapter 23

The Final Face Off

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

Five Days of Hell and One Special Moment

chapter 27

Partying Through the Panama Canal

chapter 28

Panama to Puerta Bolivar

chapter 29

The Significance of Five Short Blasts

chapter 30

A Typical Day on The Bucanero

chapter 31

A Lesson Learned

chapter 32

Trusting a Captain’s Promise

chapter 33

Executing a New Plan

chapter 34

Making History in Guayaquil, Ecuador

chapter 35

Beware of Unrealistic Expectations

chapter 36

Flagship Inauguration Party

chapter 37

La Casa de Muñecas

chapter 38

Preparing to Set Sail

chapter 39

The Maiden Voyage

chapter 40

Daytrips to San Cristobol and Santiago Islands

chapter 41

Every Sailor’s Fantasy

chapter 42

A Gut Wrenching Moment

chapter 43

James Bay on Santiago Island Itinerary B

chapter 44

Lobster Dinner Near Bartolome Island Itinerary B

chapter 45

A Little Help From a Retired Firefighter

chapter 46

Unwanted Visitors

chapter 47

Day Trip to Punta Cormorant Itinerary C

chapter 48

Headed Home From the Maiden Voyage

chapter 49

Never a Dull Moment

chapter 50

Take the Money and Run

chapter 51

A Side Trip to the Headwaters of the Amazon

chapter 52

Saying Goodbye to Ecuador

chapter 53

Epilogue

Bibliography

Endnotes

To Donnis, my wife and companion of twenty-seven years

47000.jpg

Epigraph: Each new acquaintance met along any path of uncertainty imparts his or her influence. I am eternally grateful to those individuals who share their experiences, then slowly walk away and let me be, rather than contradict this process. Steven L Benson—2007

47006.jpg

SPECIAL NOTE

The experience living and working on the M/V Buccaneer changed my life forever. Captain Mike Fontaine is to blame for trusting me enough to take me along to share his dream. It was my good fortune to get to know him, fellow crewmate Tom Rudman, and Mike’s daughter, Brigit, among others. Mike opened my eyes to a bigger, dog-eat-dog world. The journey moved me many steps closer to becoming a man. Through his humor and companionship, Tom helped this journey become more palatable. I would be remiss not to acknowledge Brigit, who opened my eyes to the ways of a more private world and the true meaning of friendship.

Thirty-five years have come and gone since I participated in the cargo vessel conversion that would not only become the M/V Buccaneer, but also Ecuador’s first flagship. The experience revisits me still. Battered from the physical demands imposed by the construction industry, I retired my tool belt, coiled extension cords and compressor hoses for storage, and traded them for an LC Smith manual typewriter, compelled to relive the journey one last time.

Note: All the names of the characters used in Collision of Destinies have been changed except for the author’s. The timeline and events that occurred have been recollected to the best of my ability restricting the work to a travelogue based on a true story. The dialogue throughout this work was recreated but is generally true in form and spirit. The journey occurred many years ago. I attempted to be as honest as one can be under the circumstances when working from two journals, an old album of photographs, a few postcards and documents and many conversations with my crewmate and friend, Tom Rudberg. The characterizations of the American crew are fair and run within the limits of creative license. It is my sincere hope that all concerned understand that they have been represented in a frank and entertaining way but by no means maliciously. I’m sure each person involved has their own interpretation of what occurred during the months between December and May of 1977 as a member of ther MV Buccaneer, and therefore is free to write his or her own version of the experience. Any questions, comments or suggestions can be directed to [e-mail].

54%20SHIP%20WITH%20CROSS%20SECTION(a).tif54%20SHIP%20WITH%20CROSS%20SECTION(a).tif

THE CREW OF THE M.V. BUCCANEER

Captain/Owner - Mike Fontaine

Captain’s daughter - Brigit Fontaine

First Engineer - Uhlig Benkert

Project Manager (restoration)- Bart Wychek

Bosun - Timothy Tanner (company man)

Purser - Vince Washkileski

Carpenters

Tom Rudman Steve JoHansen

Steve Benson Bobby Bixby

Laborers/Deck Hands

Carl Walkton Ennis Arnold

Moss Maderra Greg Goldstein (Crazy Greg)

Allen Kalaski (cage rat)

Glasser/Painter

Robert Hussman (Macho Man)

Ship’s Nurse

Jenny Marteez

Galapagos Ship Captain- Edward Scott

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to my loving wife and companion of twenty-seven years, who patiently let me struggle as I strived to become a legitimate author, while confronting computer illiteracy at the same time, and who also dedicated countless hours proofreading.

To my lifelong friend and former shipmate, Tom Rudberg, (T. Rudman in the story) and his wife, Gail. Tom’s trademark humor made my experience more palatable, and his journal assisted me in the accuracy of the timeline. And to Gail, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for her input, and for watching Tom’s back all these years.

To Corey Ginsberg, creative writing specialist at Florida International University and editor, who took my manuscript to the next level and, in the process, helped me become a better writer. I wish I found her sooner after several others failed in their attempts in one way or the other.

To the guys I visited with at the Fire Station in West Kendall, Florida—Truck E-9—who shared their time and expertise regarding firefighting technique.

To Dr. Richard and Pat Bohn of Coral Gables, Florida, who spent hours proofreading and who gave their support on a literary journey I had not yet traveled.

To my friend of twenty years, Dr. Kathy Geller, who was and is a model in perseverance.

To Mike Leonard of The Today Show, New York City, for his encouragement.

To my illustrator, Joe Behar, who, without his contribution, this work would not have been complete.

To Mark Egdall, a fellow writer’s workshop acquaintance and potential first-time author, and now friend, for his support and many generous hours of proofreading.

To Rick Bragg, Pulitzer prize-winning author with the L.A. Times for his words of encouragement during a Miami Writer’s Workshop. He warned me to be prepared for an industry that does not always listen to first-time authors.

I would be remiss not to acknowledge my friends and family, who participated in a survey and gave moral support. You all know who you are.

Finally, to my surrogate parents, Will and Mary Schneider, who took me into their Minneapolis home one winter and kept me from becoming a college dropout. I can only imagine where life would have led without the self-confidence I attained striving for what seemed to be an unreachable goal at the time. I share any success I may realize from this undertaking with them.

62%20BOW%20OF%20BUCANERO.tif

chapter 1

A Dream is Born

AS RELENTLESSLY AS THE fancy arms walk the face of a Jerome and Company timepiece, the days marched steadily onward, culminating in this all-important event. Our nautical heading was finally established and our destination clearly defined, as our captain eyed the fractured remains that once formed still another flawless blue in the calendar of Miami skies.

YES, THE MOMENT HAD finally arrived. It was time to cast off lines and test the waters. The sun had set, silhouetting the Silver Palms and Bottlebrush trees lining Douglas MacArthur causeway, named in memory of the decorated WWII general. The March winds had already swept the pier clean of Styrofoam cups and discarded manifests documenting tons of recently stowed cargo.

Then, in what seemed like minutes, the constellations all but disappeared, replaced by a quilt work of imaginary faces glaring down at us from above as twisted branches of electricity clawed at the horizon like a cat with a ball of yarn.

As we admired her freshly primed bow from the pier, I asked owner and Captain Mike Fontaine if he found what he was searching for.

Lad, he said, as I stepped from the gangway to the vessel, and slid my hand over the blistered mahogany taffrail, I already suspected she was ‘damaged goods’. The poor girl had been wasting away in Nova Scotia, scarred by steam, smelling of oil, and bleeding rust—all one hundred eighty-five feet of her.

Mike went on to say, The North Sea had been home to the mid-sized cargo vessel, and she had performed well in her prime, but I also knew that a handyman and some fresh paint couldn’t restore the ship to her original condition.

Mike Fontaine made his fortune perfecting the design of shallow draft boats that the Armed Forces required to navigate the jungle waters of worlds where drug runners, pirates, and guerrillas hid. His dream, he told me, was to create a market for those tourists desirous of a shuttlecraft that was safer and more luxurious than the current overworked fleet running tours from Guayaquil to the Galapagos Islands. He already owned a travel agency in Guayaquil. He had both the connections and investment dollars to pull off the venture, if only the Ecuadorian government, a military dictatorship, was to permit such an undertaking. Captain Mike’s multimillionaire friend, Enrique Ponce, was the man with the influence and matching funds to cinch the deal. If all went well, the two men would claim the tourist market as their own, once the ship was renovated and prettied up again. The partnership had success written all over it.

She was a real looker in her day Steve, and will be again. It’s just a matter of time! he promised, smiling down at me out of the corner of his mouth, most of which was hidden by an overgrown, western-style mustache.

To the casual observer back then the vessel was just a pile of steel formed into a V, disfigured from rust, with a high tapering bow and a Brazilian wood deck. Although she was handsomely detailed, she was not something to write home about as she sat tethered to a Halifax pier like an old horse beside a barn.

Yet a sensitive eye could appreciate her original interior: Indonesian teak, Bird’s Eye Maple, (milled in Minnesota), and brass fittings polished like jewelry. She also had rich red Mahogany taffrails, hand-hewn to embellish her exterior like an expensive silk scarf. But, like a woman who wakes one day to discover middle-age staring back in the mirror, it must have been daunting—the worry lines as distinct as borders on a map. At some point during her lifetime, she was abused like a backyard dog; her friendly advances shunned away after so many wonderful years of companionship. She was taken for granted, punished instead by salt and sun, wind and neglect, until Mike Fontaine found her standing alone, snow-covered: then, under his breath, he vowed to take her home.

After the no-name vessel was deadheaded to Miami, Florida, a strategy formed to bring her back to her original condition. But months of work produced little progress. Workmen came and went like bees to flowers. Then, when all seemed for not, a former business partner helped Fontaine jumpstart a lifelong ambition with a cool million dollars.

Two other crews had been run off the jobsite before I was hired. A small fortune had been invested to renovate the sea-beaten bucket of steel and wood. Many dollars had been wasted, tools stolen, furniture and dishes destroyed by the last group of day laborers, who had no stake in his vision; they were just putting in their time.

Renamed the Buccaneer, she was reclassified a passenger ship after a solid year of remodeling. I showed up during the last few months to complement a steady crew of thirty. She was no ordinary ship in my eyes. She had become my mother, home and family for three grueling months. My Captain was a father figure to me, the crew a surrogate family.

A landlubber travels by car from city-to-city in the modern world, but a sailor from wave-to-wave. The automobile engine makes the wheels turn; on the sea, the craft must also rely upon wind and current. As our temporary Captain carefully steered his craft through the channel markers near Key Biscayne Bay, we passed within a mile of Miami’s South Beach district, which cast off light from its hotel windows like a campfire brightens a wooded campsite. I was amazed how silently our ship stalked the darkness as we watched the city lights shrink behind us until they danced on the water. The light chop gradually grew during our first thirty minutes of travel. Then, within less than an hour, our environment took a nasty turn for the worse.

Fifty-knot winds and twenty-five-foot seas stretch a ship’s skin, make her skittish, and then grimace and groan. She had no say in the matter, thrust into the soup like a freshly peeled carrot, spiced with salt air and sea foam, and left to survive in a hostile Caribbean Sea, boiling over like a kettle on the stove. And no one could have imagined the sea would grow so quickly. Fighting to stay on course, the M/V Buccaneer sounded like a woman going into labor. The waves and their relentless pounding were wearing her thin; there was one giant slap after another, like an abusive husband treats his wife after too many glasses of gin. Cabin doors opened and closed themselves, and often slammed shut, reopening once again automatically as the walls around us shape-shifted; metal jambs were forced out of square like solid images bend in a science fiction movie.

The halls beyond these portals reeked of the sweet-sour smell of vomit as the voices down the way reported their suffering, one swell after another, after each forty-five degree list to port, and after our propeller was exposed to rare glimpses of the moon. Seasickness of one kind or the other visited us all. Sleep was just a word stolen from the dictionary—not a state of mind anyone achieved just by closing one’s eyes. Not a condition one could wish for, or find—just pray for. At least not on this night anyway. So severe were the forces in play that they struck fear into us—as subtle as the barrel of a loaded gun pointed at your eye. What in God’s name had I gotten myself into this time? What was I running from that so scared my sensibilities that hell’s gate seemed like a reasonable alternative?

Unable to sleep at 1:00 AM, apprehensive, sweat-soaked and exhausted from two solid days preparing to leave port, I tied myself to the bed frame with some rope and a belt then stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl, doors slam, and friends suffer. Flashing back to how my half-baked cross-country journey began, I realized I had been influenced by five of the most turbulent years in modern US history. I was sixteen when the Vietnam War was forced into my consciousness. By 1970, I had grown a beard and long hair, and traded beer for pot to get high. I borrowed money to be educated, then graduated from one of the largest institutions in the country— the University of Minnesota—and I didn’t have a damn thing to show for my effort but a six by ten-inch certificate with a fancy seal stamped on it.

1%20HAT.tif

chapter 2

Rough Beginnings in Very Trying Times

BOB DYLAN, JIMI HENDRIX, and Janis Joplin were my top-three favorite singer/songwriters during the late sixties. Dylan had intimated that the times were a-changin. The words echoing over our country could not have been more accurate. The Vietnam War had been dragging on for years, and we were all sick of a government promising the war would not expand into Laos or Cambodia. There wasn’t a college campus in America not torn by demonstrations. Amazingly, to the White House’s chagrin, you could even watch the war on evening television. Yes, the times were a-changin’. For months, the Chicago Seven challenged the very essence of our hallowed court system. Yippies , including Abbie Hoffman and Tom Hayden, faced charges of conspiracy and inciting to riot at the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Again, I could watch the proceedings on television when many celebrated figures from the counterculture were called on to testify—like folk singers Phil Ochs, Judy Collins and Arlo Guthrie, as well as writer Norman Mailer, LSD advocate Timothy Leary and Reverend Jesse Jackson. Institutional norms were being challenged at all levels, while bras and draft cards burned in effigy by the tens of thousands. LSD and marijuana were the new drugs of choice. Getting high with friends was cool. Pot parties had become as commonplace as beer bashes. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, man! Only recently had my local Draft Board classified me a low-priority after I had applied for, and been denied, conscientious-objector status. But at least they were no longer dogging me as a member of the fourth-largest student population in the country, even though I held student deferment status. How could I ever forget my pre-induction draft physical, where a line of fifty naked inductees and I waited, toed up to a yellow line, to have our chocolate whiz-ways inspected? How could I forget the blood letting window, where an angry soldier created a hole so big in my finger that the wound would bleed for an entire day?

MANY TEENS, INCLUDING MYSELF, had been lured into the campus womb, blinded by lofty expectations that college degrees would automatically bring success and financial reward. It wasn’t that easy, though. I remember having beers with a twelve-man construction crew at quitting time, to learn that each one of them had a four-year degree. Was this all I could look forward to? What a sobering realization, or worse yet, what a bummer!

The transition I was asked to make from high school to college was traumatic; I was forced to support myself and scrounge while I paid tuition through the financial aid program. The first in my family to graduate from high school, I was challenged to create income quickly when my mother and five siblings followed my father on a series of out-of-state moves to protect his insurance job.

A High School State Champion, I was offered athletic scholarships from several state colleges to compete in gymnastics but chose the University of Minnesota instead because it was a Big Ten school. As a walk-on I did not receive any scholarship money so I lived on the dorm room floor of a teammate for an entire winter my freshman year, until I found a frat house, and a bed to sleep on. Despite the advantages afforded me by the new living arrangement, I will be the first to admit my fraternity brothers and I partied too hard, and I wasn’t surprised when the national charter disbanded our chapter a year later. The pot parties and debauchery had finally caught up with our brotherhood. Quite frankly, we were unable to attract enough pledges to sustain our turn-of-the-century, four-story animal house.

The Pill was a new form of contraception by this time, and many women were experimenting with their newfound sexual freedom. Morality was being redefined. It was okay to have multiple sexual partners, take LSD, and live communally. I dropped acid once and had a bad trip. No one had told me the punch bowl was spiked with the drug. So I watched the walls crawl and the carpet grow up my legs for several hours, until my buddy, a Vietnam veteran, talked me down. But the multiple-partners idea, I quickly got used to that. However, hanging out with thirty people in an ashram in Colorado wasn’t my cup of tea.

Predisposed to wield greater control over my own destiny, I found a three-bedroom rental home owned by the university, which was backed up to the river road across campus. I then rented rooms to my two closest friends. The arrangement made my rent affordable and allowed me to control the house’s finances. If a tenant didn’t meet his obligations, I could send him packing, no questions asked.

Fast forward to 1974. Life had become more comfortable during my senior year of college. I had survived campus life, and finally met a woman whom I adored. She kept me warm at night, but also kept me off balance. And not unlike runs of bad luck people experience in their lifetimes, she dumped me and broke my heart, my car was stolen and left at the scene of an accident the same day, and I was also the recipient of a Physical Education degree in a job market that had recently halved. The vow of poverty I had taken to become a college-educated man had transformed into a day-to-day struggle. However, I was determined to stay afloat and beat the odds. By networking in the volunteer ranks of my community, a serious job offer blossomed that provided a part-time teaching position at a nearby federally funded open school program. I was promised full-time employment if I re-certified for the position as an elementary classroom teacher.

All was faring well on my new path to success. By using my school for on-the-job training, combined with night classes, I was able complete the new degree credits in a year. My after-school gymnastics program at Darcy Elementary was very popular. I was assured my planets were properly aligned. My little acrobats helped turn the tides of sentiment in my favor. I knew that a full-time position I’d been promised a year earlier was definitely mine!

Everything I had struggled to achieve was coming to fruition, so I could finally put that teaching degree to good use, and transcend my poverty once and for all. I was stoked with the knowledge that I finally had my shit together. I was proud of my accomplishments, and slam full of hopeful expectations. Since I had been re-certified, I had been checking off the days on my calendar until tenure.

Mr. Benson, your presence is required in the principal’s office, Joyce Peterson announced over the public address system: her voice still breathy and inviting for a fifty-year-old. That very opportunity came during the last week of a very long school year.

Yes! Contract time, I whispered to myself, pumping a fist into the air. I was so damned excited my body floated over the muddied gray linoleum as I sped toward the meeting most part-timer’s loathed. Joyce greeted me when I entered the principal’s office.

Mr. Elliot will be with you shortly, Steve. Have a seat, and I’ll call you when he’s free.

Thanks, Joyce, I said as I kicked back on the aged oak wood bench seat and conjured up the ways I would spend my new salary—probably in the twelve to fourteen-thousand dollar per-year range. This amount would triple my current part-time pay, actually. No more frat-house-style living for me! I wanted my own pad, a color TV and a new car with a far-out stereo system. It had taken me a long time to get here. I had paid my dues. This was what the struggle was all about, right? Joyce’s voice broke through my thoughts just as an ecstatic Phil Washburn exited our principal’s office: the only African American male on staff. When I said hi he marched right past me.

Steve, Mr. Elliot can see you now, Joyce said.

Mr. Elliot was shuffling papers when I entered the cluttered, poster-clad walls of his tiny office. Without looking up, he said, I saw your gymnastics program in action on Parents Day. I must say we all really enjoyed seeing your kids flip-flopping around. Just amazing, what you’ve taught them to do in six weeks. When our eyes finally met, Richard looked tired, office-worn, and preoccupied, and I was suspicious of his accolades right away. Uh-oh.

"Let me get right to the point, Steve. We received a mandate from our district office last month. It seems we have a minority imbalance on our staff at Darcy Open School. I’m only the messenger here. I’ve got to tell you that I have to fill your position with someone else," he explained.

At that moment, all my plans shattered on the freshly waxed floor and splayed out like a glass jar filled with marbles.

"But damn it, Mr. Elliot, I am a minority. I am one of only five males working in this entire building, correct? The elementary school industry is saturated with women!" I snapped back, deeply angered and totally frustrated. Then it hit me why Phil seemed so Goddamn happy.

And that’s so true, he assured me. "But you’re not a black male. There’s a difference."

Not what I wanted to hear. I was so pissed you could see the veins in my teeth as I bit down. Six years of college then add the additional sacrifice to achieve a second certification, just to be told this time that my ethnicity was wrong.

So, have you picked a replacement? I asked, pretty sure I already knew the answer.

Yes, I have. I just hired… Phil Washburn, he answered softly, tight lipped.

I knew it! Phil had been introduced as an observer to all of us at the school about two weeks prior. He had also attended a TGIF gathering with me and other teachers, carrying a store-bought cherry pie he said he had made. I wondered if I was the only dolt on staff who resented his presence and his plastic smile, knowing he was here to take one of our jobs. I guess I never dreamed it would be mine.

Steve, I realize this is really disappointing for you. You were a good fit here at Darcy. However, I have to follow the mandates passed down to me. Then, like saying goodbye to his ex-wife on the telephone, he said, Things will work out for you, I’m sure. Keep in touch and best of luck to you.

And that was that. Mr. Elliot opened the door I had only entered moments earlier, back-patting me out of the office to take a phone call. When I recovered from shock, I was already depressed and going numb sitting in my car in the parking lot.

Honestly, I do not remember the ride to the bar. It didn’t take long to down two pitchers of barley pop at Stub and Herbs a popular campus pub located three blocks from my house. When my bartender buddy, Ariel, walked over to chat, I shunned his attention and threw him my car keys anticipating a well practiced brain-cell-killing ritual. When I came to, I was curled up on my front porch with my car safely parked in the driveway, and the keys neatly tucked above the driver’s-side visor.

Yes, I had great friends. However, I was determined to rearrange my priorities to sidestep a totally depressing situation. My realizations were pretty simple: I had no job, property, or any serious relationship restricting my freedom. My overly educated sense of self-esteem had been trashed. Worse yet, I’d been ambushed. I badly needed a change of scenery. I felt like doing something radical—not just taking a trip to the woods for a long weekend. No, I was too deeply wounded and pissed off to sit staring lethargically at a campfire stoned asking why me? for three days. Considering my mental state, it meant selling my household possessions, saying goodbye to close friends, and hitting the road running. Yeah man, it was definitely the perfect time for a road trip!

4%20HAT%20WITH%20FEATHERS.tif

chapter 3

Preparing for Takeoff

PARTING WAYS WITH A tight group of friends is never easy, especially when you know that you may not see them again for a long, long time. And when you add special women like Joanie, Terri, Nancy and Adrian into the mix, saying goodbye was much harder to do than one can imagine. I’d met Joanie a while back during a party-crashing event, when I was out with my drinking buddy, Robert. He and I had finagled our way into a second-story apartment by the university that was packed with students and young working professionals, listening to Led Zeppelin, taking tokes on what smelled like some killer weed. When he and I entered the main room, it didn’t take long for me to zero in on a beautiful blond with robin’s egg blue eyes, who was sitting in a party circle on the floor beneath a huge spider plant in the sun room. She noticed me looking at her, so I moseyed over, just as she was taking a hit. I sat down, crossed my legs, and waited for the pass. Rob shot straight past me to locate the beer cooler and party food.

Don’t mind if I do, I said taking the fat joint she passed to me. My name is Steve. What’s yours?

Joanie. Do I know you? she asked curiously, waiting for me to exhale.

You do now, I answered holding in the toke before adding, Nice party.

Melanie always gives good parties. She always has good weed, too! Joanie said with a wink.

She was right. My teeth were going numb already. Scanning her tailored business suit, short golden blonde hair and full bosom, I asked, You work on campus, Joanie? She hesitated.

I work at St. Mary’s Hospital as an adolescent psychology nurse, but unfortunately, my schedule doesn’t allow for much social life, so think twice if you’re trying to hit on me, she reported rather blithely. Wow, dagger-through-the-heart time! Well, okay by me. I was up for a challenge.

Then before her neighbor could pickup where they left off I responded. Damn, you don’t pull any punches, do you, lady? I stated more than asked.

Still a little preoccupied she asked, Why were you staring at me before? There are plenty of other women here to look at. Now a few others in the circle were following our banter.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I replied simply, I’m a sucker for blue eyes.

Sounds like a line. I’m sure my eyes looked more red than blue from the doorway. The room is filled with smoke, and my eyes are very sensitive.

She wasn’t giving an inch. I was seated to Joanie’s left. The woman to her right was throwing darts at me. I continued, Well then, let me ask you a question, Joanie. How do you ever get to know anyone if you relentlessly cut them off at the pass? No pun intended.

A hint of a smile flickered on her face as she passed another joint my way. I sensed she was melting, just a little. I was also aware that our banter was generating an audience, their nosey necks stretching, eyes darting.

So, what are you into, Steve, besides blondes with blue eyes? she asked cleaning her wire-rimmed glasses with a tissue. I’d never seen such mesmerizing blue eyes.

I’m trying to get hired to teach and coach, I answered, a little more seriously.

I knew it—a jock, she said with a teasing smirk. Wait, I know you. You’re on the university gymnastics team, right? My younger brother is a gymnast, and he attends all your meets.

But I kept going. I know we just met, but can I ask you just one personal question?

Depends on how personal, Joanie answered through a long exhale before carefully picking a bud of cannabis from her tongue.

Do you have any serious romances going, Nurse? I asked her directly.

Damn, you sure don’t waste any time, do you mister! she fired back.

Well, you are so direct with me that I thought you’d appreciate someone who can get straight down to business, I reasoned. The guy across the way gave me the thumbs-up signal.

Like I said, I have a stressful job that doesn’t allow for much free time—for anyone.

This broad was tough, and I enjoyed her moxie. Not even for lunch? I persisted. Hospitals have cafeterias, right? Just then the women to her right shook her head, no.

I guess so, but . . .

In that moment of opportunity, I did not allow her to finish. Knowing we’d made a connection I said, Then, I’ll see you Monday at noon at St. Mary’s cafeteria. Lunch is on me. Now can you pardon me for a minute, I need to take a pause for a cause.

Anxious to get back into the conversation, I pushed through the crowd to the bathroom, but when I returned, the feisty, blue-eyed therapist had disappeared. However, I did find her at the hospital the following Monday. Joanie did have lunch with me, and we began a casual, on-and-off affair.

One night in particular I’ll never forget. The date began after a cool run across town on my candy-apple tangerine colored Beezer. (650cc BSA motorcycle). The week in question had been exceptionally hot. I was house painting that summer and looking forward to a few hours of downtime killing a few brain cells with a special lady. I let myself in.

Steve, is that you? I’m in the sewing room. Come help me, won’t you?

I brought a couple bottles of Boones Farm wine, I called out.

Stash the bottles in the fridge. I have one open already. Just bring a glass, she answered.

When I entered the sewing room, Joan was silhouetted in the light of a window seat, the sill filled with every size candle. The oddly shaped figures reminded me of a city skyline. Joan had one leg perched on the seat, the hem of the antique dress the focus of her attention. Several other dresses were displayed on hooks alongside the opening, all products of the turn of the century. On the opposite side, a wooden stand displayed examples of exotic hats on fancy brass hooks. Some were feathered, one was fitted with a veil, and my favorite one captured the eye with a long purple plume. The double sash windows defined the space below: a spacious cushion covered area large enough to sleep on.

You’re just in time. Button me up, would you Steven? she asked, preoccupied by the task at hand. Joanie’s unsupported breasts were exposed in the position—a view she shared freely.

Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! What period are we in? I asked.

The Roaring Twenties of course—now get to work on that row of buttons, she ordered.

Damn, there had to be fifty. I could just imagine how great the midnight blue velvet felt upon a naked body. God was this woman voluptuous! Obviously pleased with the new addition to her collection, Joan stood finally, posing, with one hand on her hip, the other upon her forehead, her left leg exposed by a slit open from the ankle clear to the waistline.

So, what do you think? she prompted.

I’ll tell you what I think. I was salivating like one of a Pavlov’s dogs! Very stylish, but too formal. I’m almost compelled to ask you to dance, I replied. I crossed the room to fill my glass.

Come over here. Touch the fabric and describe how it feels, she asked as a devilish smirk transformed by degrees to a face flushed with arousal.

Man, all that shapely thigh and bursting cleavage going on was overpowering. I whispered back that the fabric was outrageous as I traced her shoulder and hip with my palm, adding, Is there any room in there for me?

Ignoring my question she replied, It was a real bargain. Her comment was out of sync with the moment, and may have also had to do with what I was exploring with my other hand.

Well, it didn’t take long to end up in a pile together on the window seat, playing doctor and nurse. Did I mention that the two outside windows were not shaded? The window-seat sex was incredible; it was preoccupied by thoughts that the neighborhood was watching us, and was my friend’s obvious attempt to create more tension. She then told me rather nonchalantly that she had four more dresses to show off, and that I should pace myself. Still lying between her legs and breathing hard, I looked over at the wall.

Why don’t you try on the red, backless number next, the one without any buttons? I asked.

That was my lover Joanie—a real classic. I especially remember her image around midnight, poised with a wine glass in hand, perched upon the window-seat legs crossed, butt naked, except for the hat—the one with the purple plume. God in heaven she made those dresses come alive!

Joanie was the most open, non-judgmental, and spontaneous woman I had ever met. When she found out I was planning to leave on this new adventure, she dropped by to tell me some important news of her own, poured into her jeans, substituting a western leather vest for a bra. God help me. While we sat at my kitchen table, she declared matter-of-factly that she had good news and bad news.

Give me the bad news first, I guess. I was both intrigued and curious.

I am getting married soon, she said straight out tempering her excitement.

Although Joanie and I had had an open relationship, I was surprised and shocked. As intimate as we had been, I was taken aback to learn there was someone else she felt that strongly about! She had fallen in love with a farmer and wanted to settle down and have a litter of kids right away, she explained excitedly.

What’s the good news, then? I sputtered, still off balance.

"In about two minutes, you’re gonna get laid right here in this chair! You know I’ve always been in lust with you, Steve. I love you, too, of course, but in a different way than I love my farmer. You know what I mean?" Then she pulled down her jeans, spread her legs, and reached for my belt buckle.

That was my Joanie, direct, honest and no bullshit. Talk about being taken off-guard. What a woman, and what a way to kick-start our new life-adventures—with some passionate goodbye sex! Our relationship had always been uncomplicated and fun. We had practiced the no-demands and no-promises free love of the times, and had made that work for us. At this point in my life, I may not even have known what I really wanted, but obviously Joanie and I needed each other for one more no holds barred roll in the hay.

The next morning, after bar hopping till 1:00 AM, I woke up first, and just lay quietly beside this precious creature, wondering why I failed to recognize the diamond in the rough. Focusing on the spot that always got her attention, I kissed her tiny ear. Her sleepy mouth formed a smile, then poured out a yawn, as the woman stretched to greet the morning sun filtering through a dust-stained window. True to her promise, and without saying a word, Joanie pulled me gently upon her beautiful body and took me to heaven one last time—a perfect way to say goodbye.

After Joanie wished me luck and took off, I continued stuffing the last of my worldly possessions into my 1968 powder blue VW Bug. The used car had come with a rebuilt engine when I bought it. I didn’t think there’d be any problems making it to Florida, where my aunt lived. Gas was running about thirty-six cents a gallon, and the owner’s manual promised thirty-two mpg’s. Those were the days! Torn by the thought of leaving it behind, I lashed my ten-speed bike to the top of the car, simultaneously reviewing my checklist of Things To Do Before Hitting The Road. For one, I had to get out of my lease, prep my motorcycle for storage, give away my ping-pong table, close my bank account, and store some sports equipment and a few other boxes of belongings. And there was my brass bed that, upon its sale, would generate gas money for the trip. I knew I was forgetting something, oh yeah I needed to call my Aunt in Florida to let her know when I was actually coming to visit. I also thought about making a call to Joanie to talk her out of her decision to marry as a scene from The Graduate, staring Dustin Hoffman and Katherine Ross, rattled my brain in the same way Hoffman beat the choir loft glass at the church as his sweetheart stood on the alter to take her vows with another man. I had seen the movie six times and it was the only movie I bought tickets for more than once. The sound track by Simon and Garfunkel was hypnotic to me, just like Joanie’s beautiful bedroom eyes.

Changing the spark plugs and engine oil was a simple task and did not take very long. I was bent over the hood, studying the three-year-old road atlas I’d been given as a going-away gift, when I heard a car jump the curb in front of my two-story rental house. That could only be one person—Dicky McMillon. Sure enough, he’d pulled to a stop, wheels banging over the storm drain in his metallic blue Ford van with the lime-green running lights that lit up the wheel wells. The driver’s side-view mirror obviously had been ripped off at one point then reattached with some bailing wire. It was carving a channel into the paint job right down to the bare metal. The squeak it made just then reminded me of an old porch swing at my grandma’s house.

Son of a bitch! I hate it when that happens! Dicky said as he walked toward the sun-bleached Volkswagen. His mirror was about to fall off, so I asked if he thought about getting it fixed, half-laughing.

Tomorrow. Finally takin’ it in tomorrow. Honestly! he promised me.

Yeah, right! And I’m going to get my cock shortened tomorrow! You are full of more shit than a Christmas turkey, and you know it! I yammered back.

Well, what can I say? I was an abused child, Dicky countered.

That was a pretty typical conversation with Dicky McMillon. He was well known in our circle of friends for being a tomorrow guy. I had grown prematurely old trying to collect his share of the rent money last winter before I threw him out in the spring. More than once, I caught him wearing my shoes. But if you were to get mad or holler at him, within three minutes you would be hacking up loogies from laughing so hard. Dicky bought his pot before groceries, explaining that in the absence of either, it was better to have good pot than good food. I was convinced there was more synaptic activity in the bottom of his ashtray than in his melon. But it was hard for anyone to stay mad after a good toke of his wacky-tobacky.

You still want to sell your bed, Benstonian? he asked using my nickname.

Sure do, Magoo. No credit, though. Cash on the barrelhead. I need it for my trip.

Dicky reached into his windbreaker pocket and produced a fat lid of weed, emphasizing the diameter. This was one time I felt like trading. I had a long trip in front of me, and could use a little road aspirin.

"Okay, dude! Even trade for my bed but remember, when you move into my room, the rent is not part of the deal my friend." With McMillon, you had to be letter specific.

So you’re actually going through with this trip, then? How ‘bout I ride along? Dicky asked smoothly, gauging my reaction. I knew he wasn’t serious. There wasn’t even enough room left in the Bug for a sandwich and a six-pack. Then he asked where I was headed exactly.

Remember I told you about my widowed aunt in Queens? She moved to Sunrise, near Ft. Lauderdale, and has offered me a free place to crash, I answered.

Cool. Well, you be good. I just wanted to say goodbye and settle up for the bed before you blew town, Dicky said with a more serious face that usually looked buzzed.

I sensed he truly felt bad that I’d lost my teaching gig, and was actually a bit sad to see me taking it so hard. I would miss the crazy pothead, too. Reaching for the baggie of herb, I thanked him then added, You want a taste before I leave?

I’m already off.

That explained why he hit the curb. As we walked toward his van, Dicky offered me his hand then turned the firm handshake into a hug. He got the van going, and rolled back over the curb. I saw him lip-synching son of a bitch to himself as his bumper sent sparks flying off the cement. Waving him off, I never dreamed that it would be the last conversation Dicky and I would ever have.

I had just locked the side door to 722 Fulton Street when I heard a car enter the drive behind me. A woman with big brown teary puppy dog eyes slid out of her car holding a package wrapped with silver paper garnished with a fancy red bow. It was my friend and coworker of almost two years whom I had worked with at Darcy Open School. She was a part-time teacher that I had gotten to know sharing playground duty, and after a while, many sporadic cold winter’s nights curled up together in her loft apartment, located across campus. Of late our casual relationship had become complicated and I had been spacing out our get-togethers to cool things off. I had also been very clear about my intentions with the dedicated Special Ed. teacher and had warned her not to get serious with someone like me, who liked playing the field. Everything changed the night she persuaded me to make love, afraid the changing times were going to pass her by. I felt more like a big brother to her than a lover but she was determined to explore her sexual freedom and take the next step. I was honored that she wanted me to share her bed and scared to death at the same time. Terri was also one of the nicest but most naïve women I ever met living on campus for all these years. It was obvious that she felt more strongly about me than I did her. What a dilemma.

Hey sweetie, you weren’t going to leave town without saying goodbye? she asked trying to mask her emotion with a smile.

Hey Terri. I’m lousy at saying goodbye. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me? Then I panicked. I promise to bring you back something nice from Florida, if I make it that far, I said looking at my second hand automobile out of the corner of my eye. Boy, this was awkward.

I know you’re probably very busy getting ready to leave, but I brought you something so you wouldn’t forget about me on your trip, she said as a tear bled down her cheek.

Oh, now what did you go and do girl? I know you’re strapped as it is, I answered, accepting the present about the size of a small book. I carefully unwrapped the package not to ruin the paper so she could use it again. I was surprised to find she had bought me an instamatic camera and had even included an extra cartridge of film. Wow Terri. You know I couldn’t forget about someone as special as you. I know she was trying hard not to, but at the word special Terri burst into tears. It took every ounce of strength I had not to lose it too.

My friend and confidante was the most selfless and caring person this world had to offer and I felt terrible that I hadn’t called or written to her for weeks. I guess I had a lot on my plate and got distracted. Now face-to-face, I realized what a lame excuse it was. When Terri regrouped I pulled her close, wiped her tears, and administered a brief hug. She must have realized at that moment that there was no real future chasing a jerk like me.

After thanking her again for the thoughtful gift, I placed the neatly folded wrapping paper in her hand and stuck the bow to my driver’s side visor. When I turned to say goodbye Terri was already backing out of the drive. As I held the camera in the air she managed a smile, waved me off and drove away still crying.

Shaken by the well of emotion I wasn’t prepared to feel, I sat down on the steps, and before God and everyone else, I wept as hard as I ever had as a child.

5%20BAG%20OF%20WEEDS.tif

chapter 4

Road Trip

A SENSE OF EXHILARATION overtook any feelings of loss or sadness I had, once I ramped onto Interstate 94, when I knew I was really on the road. It was truly liberating to be leaving the city that had tolerated my youthful exploits, but hadn’t fulfilled my adult expectations. With each passing mile, I was increasingly excited about the possibilities awaiting me. I noticed through my window that a flock of Canadian geese (or Honkers as we Minnesotans called them) were flying overhead—tattooing the sky in their arrowhead formation, resonating a migratory song. Staged to avoid the winter weather, they circled the land of 10,000 lakes where legend Paul Bunyan was born. In the distance, I could see Fort Snelling overlooking the confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers. From one of my lesson plans, I knew the fort had been built in 1825 by Colonel Josiah Snelling to oversee commercial traffic on the two rivers, which served as the hub of the Upper Mississippi acquired by the United States after the War of 1812. From this very complex, General George Armstrong Custer staged his campaign to eradicate the Lakota and Cheyenne Indians, who were led by Sitting Bull. Come to think of it, George was crazier than Dicky.

Within an hour of travel, the commercial buildings of the metropolis gave way to family farms and freeze-dried cornfields.