Then of course my dad, well, being my dad, went on to recite a long laundry list of “Things the Rocket Family Would Not Be Doing This Year” along with the closely affiliated “Ways the Rocket Family Will Be Saving Money This Year!” and the fan-favorite, “Lucrative Summer Jobs For Teenagers!” In order to save up for the eventual purchase.
Guess what? I didn’t listen. Guess what else?
Jimmy Crack Corn and I don’t care!
As it turned out, purchasing a home on such a magical island was more difficult than at first imagined. Mom and Dad’s “Big News” ended up taking a few years to manifest, but manifest it did!!
In the fall of 1970 it finally happened, my folks bought a great little three-bedroom cottage up on Wianno Road. Alison and I finally got our very own bedrooms. We would be spending every single summer at Mashnee. It was the best thing ever!!
Chapter 20
Skiff
The year was 1969, I was thirteen years old, and my dad had bought a boat! An actual motor boat! Well, he didn’t really buy it. Some customer who owed his advertising agency money gave it to him to even the debt. That way my mom couldn’t protest. Perfect!
The boat was a ten-foot, homemade, no-name, wooden skiff, powered by ten mighty horses, purportedly enough to propel it around the (potentially choppy) waters of Phinney’s Harbor, and I would be (part-time) captain. My dad decided to name her Can of Worms, which somehow sounded perfectly fitting and preferable to the runner up entry of Garbage Can Afloat that my sister suggested (right after declaring she’d never go anywhere near a boat that small). The Can certainly wasn’t very pretty but we spent most of the winter (said boat now fully occupying our single car garage), cleaning and vacuuming and mending and prepping it. What my mother called, “Making everything worse.” Point taken.
There were solid wood bench seats. (You could now see your reflection in the new coat of lacquer and they were so pristine you could probably have eaten off them.) A single seat cushion placed on a portion of the bench seat effectively signified the “captain’s chair.”
The boat had a Johnson pull-start engine, which, in reality started about half the time, a ten-gallon gas tank, a pair of oars—for just-in-case, but seriously, nobody was gonna be rowing this thing. And who were we kidding here? We were jumping overboard if this shipwreck conked out. It also came with a handheld, louder-than-should-be-permissible foghorn, sufficient life preservers, an oft-needed bilge pump, a good compass, and a decent pair of binoculars.
At my dad’s insistence, I would be required to take (and pass a tough exam!) the Coast Guard’s Auxiliary Training Course certifying my knowledge of starboard from port, aft from stern, knot from nets, and hither from yonder. With this newfound knowledge, I would be in ship-shape, even if my craft wasn’t! Let’s friggin goooooooooo! I wanted the summer to begin at that very second, but unfortunately I had to wait out spring first. Torture.
Of course my dad used this time to continuously lecture me about this enormous responsibility that came with an entire litany of rules and regulations, dos and don’ts, mostly don’ts, and all-around excruciating pressure to never screw up. Ever. Dad being Dad, punctuated each constraint with his infamous death-stare, “Dad Eyes.” The stare that penetrated your very soul. Fine. Got it. Understood.
Let the summer begin!
Finally, it did, and between renting for the entire summer and owning a boat, this one was extra special. Not the best one ever, mind you, that honorarium would belong to the next summer, the crazy summer, the greatest summer of them all!
Chapter 21
Too
Over the winter of 1970, my dad traded-in our wooden Can of Worms for a gorgeous, brand-new, sixteen-foot, fiberglass Sea Ray ski boat with a Johnson 115-horsepower outboard motor (yahoo!), complete with electric start, walk-through windshield, onboard stereo system (which frankly could only be heard with the engine at idle but whatever), not to mention, two large ice-coolers hidden under the deep blue seat cushions situated aft, just itching to be filled with refreshing beverages including, I was sure, two of our personal favorites (Ok, we were too young to know that much but the older kids told us.) Schlitz Malt Liquor and Boones Farm Apple Wine. Maybe some Bali Hai too! Oh, and a soft drink or two.
The boat was super cool, and pretty expensive. It came with a new and improved list of additional maritime responsibilities and navigational boundaries that my very existence would depend upon. Translation, I would definitely be able to take this boat farther than I’d ever have been able to take our first boat. Hopefully, a lot farther. Oh, and the new Can of Worms Too promised to be fast. Very fast.
Got a rocket…
This prized possession was not only my dad’s showpiece, but come Monday – Thursday, when he was back home in Seekonk working, it was mine, mine, all mine. Well, as long as I kept it gassed-up and spotless that was. This, for a fifteen-year-old teenage boy sowing his oats, was the biggest game-changer imaginable. I was in the big leagues now, and planned to make the most of it!
Once again I found myself counting down the long, tedious hours until summer, excited about the launching of our new boat. I would often daydream while jogging, about all the fun I was going to have on the open waters. Naturally, my dad made me take yet another Coast Guard Auxiliary Class, this one being the “Small Motor Boat Advanced Maritime Safety Certification Course,” over the winter. It was hard, with a bunch of overly technical navigation and nautical exams that I despised studying for, already swamped with homework from good ole Seekonk High, thank you very much. But the stuff they taught was super important and could save your life. Ok, not just could, did.
As Spring approached, my dad sat me down and explained I’d need a “better” summer job (i.e. higher-paying) and I should start applying soon. A real job, one that paid actually money so he wouldn’t have to give me allowance that summer, and I’d have money to spend on whatever it is teenage boys spend their money on (don’t ask).
There wasn’t a choice, but I was game.
Chapter 22
Wigs
At the end of the previous summer I had met a new kid, Brain Styles, and we quickly became close friends. Brian and his five sisters lived just off the island in Grey Gables, in a modest cape house near the railroad tracks. But they had a seasonal membership to the Mashnee Pool & Beach, and their dad moored a small motor boat there as well. Which truth be told, spent more time out of the water for repairs, than in actual service. But his dad was a handy guy, always in his front yard working, and he seemed to thrive on small projects.
Brian, was a very good-looking kid. Decidedly more cute than handsome, I’d say. The girls would say extremely cute. He had sea-green eyes and shoulder-length dirty-blond hair parted roughly in the middle. He often donned a black or green L.L. Bean felt fedora, with used concert tickets tucked in the hat band, and he wore the hat slightly crooked, which made it look perfect and rakish all at once. Along with his upbeat personality and a contagious laugh, came a hankering to party, and a penchant for mischief.
Brian was a year older than me, although he had a baby face. He was from Plymouth, Massachusetts, a city known to be a rough and tumble place, so he was also a good bit more street savvy than me. Nevertheless, we hit it off right away and became inseparable buddies for the last few weeks of summer.
Seeing as I needed a summer job, I called Brian to try and coordinate something with him, with the thought that if we got something at the same place, I’d be able to bum rides to work with him. As it turned out, my dad had a business client who owned a very popular high-end seafood restaurant located just off the island in Gray Gables, and they were looking for summer help.
The job in question was the lucrative position of busboy (involving cash tips!!) so we figured both of us were eminently well qualified, based primarily upon our willingness to schlep dishes. We also knew that my dad’s connection might help secure the jobs, but we would have to prove ourselves.
Brian was totally down with the idea, since he hadn’t yet come up with his own plan to earn money over the summer. He must have giggled about it for ten minutes on the phone. We made an appointment to meet there two weeks later and interview together for the jobs that would start later that spring.
When the time came, I got (uncomfortably) dressed up for the interview and was relieved to see Brian had too. At our parents’ insistence, we both had stiff shirts on. We both had ties on. We looked dorky. We both hated it. Solidarity.
In the distant past the site had once been the Summer White House of President Grover Cleveland, and later it had been the famous Gray Gables Inn. In its current incarnation it was the Gray Gables Ocean House, owned by my dad’s advertising client Mr. Eddie Davis.
It had a beautiful Victorian style restaurant, and sat on a peninsula at the end of a long narrow street. The property was surrounded by a stone seawall, and it had views of Onset Harbor, The Mass Maritime, and the channel entrance to The Cape Cod Canal.
We were greeted inside the front door by a nice-enough hostess who gave us the once-over (making at least me feel self-conscious), then asked us to wait while she sought out Jennifer, the assistant manager, to speak with us.
While waiting we took notice of the hustle and bustle of the large dining rooms, along with the bar and other seating areas, and were more than a little bit intimidated by the frenetic pace and heavy loads we saw being carried. Some of the busboys balanced heavy trays high above their heads on one hand! And this was during the off-season, and on a Sunday! Oy!
“Can you imagine doing this when you’re high?!” asked Brian in a hushed voice out of the side of his mouth. “It’s gonna be a pissah!” he giggled! And with that, I cracked up, and poof, no more nerves! Of course, he was right.
Jennifer was apparently having a bad day, or perhaps all her days were bad. I’d be willing to bet the latter. She was an older gal, a bit on the stocky side, who wore a stern look and smelled of expired cigarettes, burnt black coffee, and perhaps Lysol.
“Hello, gentlemen, my name’s Jennifer McCloud, and I’m the manager here (didn’t say assistant even though that was plainly delineated on her named badge), have been for six years, God help me, and I do all the hiring and firing here. So it’s me you’re wanting to see.”
