“This is going to be
a … well … let’s just say
an interesting experience.”
“How are you, Rico?”
Even in my just-woken, REM-deprived state, I recognized that deep, gravelly voice of his instantly. It matched the big-bear physique, which tended to severely intimidate those who didn’t know the man, an amiable and resourceful fellow of gentle demeanor with bold but tasteful tattoos and a huge heart.
Though my driver’s license reads otherwise, Bob preferred calling me ‘Rico.’ For some reason, he got it in his mind back in those days that I reminded him of that slick, stylish ‘Rico Tubbs’ character in the hugely popular TV show Miami Vice, and the nickname just stuck.
I certainly looked nothing like that dapper crime-fighting character, who one could easily picture on the cover of GQ magazine. And I hated wearing suits. Wasn’t a big fan of guns either. Bob continued,
“Hey man, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I am now living in Tahiti ... you know, that enchanted tourist island in French Polynesia. After four years of work, I’ve just completed building my island-hopping cruising catamaran sailboat, a gorgeous Polynesian double-canoe like the one you built a few years back, only much bigger. And I was just about to get the word out about my new chartering business when I was contacted by a friend of a friend. His name is Sammy, though he prefers to be called ‘SlimC.’ Says he’s some hotshot Hollywood reality-show producer who wants to hire me and my ‘exotic’ boat for some strange new show he is putting together — something about a shot at a ‘second-chance romance’ for a bunch of divorcées and widowers or some such nonsense. There’ll be cameras installed all around the decks and galley to capture events as they happen. And he’s counting on me to make sure that the drama is never too long in the doldrums, if you know what I mean. He’s offering some serious cash, Rico. And I could sure use it right now.”
Bob sounded excited.
“I could really use your help on this one, buddy. I need your skills and trust your instincts. It would be a seven-day sail from Moorea just off the coast of Tahiti to Rarotonga in the Cook Islands. You, me, a chef and the six cast members of the show. Check this out: SlimC says the reality-show ‘actors’ were carefully selected after various psychological screenings to ensure they would not get along with each other very well. Man, can you believe that shit?”
Bob’s voice suggested he was quite tickled by the whole thing and was looking forward to what drama that might unfurl on the high seas.
“We’d set out in early June. The critical cyclone period ends in May in that part of the world, you know. Whaddya say, Rico? You were the first person I thought to call after I got the offer. It’d be good to hang out again after so many years, no? Lots of catchin’ up to do, buddy.”
Bob had been hit hard by the double-whammy financial and subprime mortgage crises in 2008 and never recovered from those twin body blows to his business.
This man-made, most unnatural of disasters and the subsequent Great Recession was not kind to my good-natured sailing buddy. The financial meltdown had been delivered by evil-genius ‘banksters’ who had mastered the insidious art of privatizing profits and socializing losses after lending for purchases of ‘financial instruments’ promising low-risk, short-term returns.
When the housing market tanked, he lost his respectable and lucrative job as a general contractor and had to pursue alternate means of earning a living. Though Bob’s career took a lethal blow from the financial crisis of 2008, as a self-employed general contractor, he had had a little more control over his income up to that point than the majority of middle-class workers, who hadn’t seen an increase in real wages in decades. At least he had managed to put away some savings for the proverbial ‘rainy day.’
But that financial discipline did nothing to save his most cherished relationship from the stress and disruption of the economic implosion. Lagging not far behind a faltering economy, his marriage soon tanked.
Back in the day when times were good, Bob used to build wooden boats in his spare time as a hobby, as did I, and we would exchange ideas and tips on our nautical labors of love. We both had a fascination with traditional wooden Polynesian sailing canoes, which were simple in construction, yet very capable and rugged sea-going vessels. And they were beautiful works of art as well.
Polynesians believed each of their hand-built boats had a spirit of its own — and stories to tell. Me and Bob, we really dug that kinda stuff.
Aside from our shared interest in wooden boatbuilding, Bob knew that I was a handy and reliable fellow with a deep love and respect for the ocean, having spent quite a bit of time over the years on all manner of watercraft.
I had worked as a marine electrician for a time in Annapolis and messed around with sailmaking and canvas work, sewing my own sails, seat cushions, and a rugged trampoline for a small Polynesian-style cruising catamaran.
I had built Morning Star, a 26-foot Polynesian-style sailing catamaran, in my backyard under a portable pop-up fabric-and-steel garage, to the utter bewilderment of my landlubber suburban neighbors. Perhaps they were a bit concerned that I knew something that they didn’t about accelerating sea-level rise.
Bob surely figured I would be a great help while underway, as he knew I could always find some creative MacGyver way to temporarily patch anything up if, or rather when, Murphy came a-callin’. ‘Mister FixIt,’ he liked to call me.
I was sure Bob would ask me to bring my guitar along, in addition to my extensive collection of marine tools and gear, to entertain cast and crew while underway. What an opportunity! During long ocean passages, I could test out some of my quirkier original songs on a bored captive audience of digitally disconnected passengers, especially after the rum had started flowing. They’d certainly appreciate that.
“Wow. This is big news, Bob! I’m sure I can manage to clear my calendar in June.”
I had many gigs already booked that month, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime offer to cruise aboard a large, custom-built, traditional Polynesian double-canoe in the South Pacific. There would always be more gigs, I reasoned; they are not too difficult to come by once you’re plugged-in to the local music scene.
The words burst from my mouth,
“Great! I knew it wouldn’t take too much persuading, Rico. I will call you in a few days with more details. Oh, and bring your guitar along. I’m sure the passengers would love to hear a few JB tunes from time to time, as we make our way through paradise to some exotic Margaritaville in the South Pacific.”
What an incredible opportunity, I thought.
“Hell, Bob, maybe I’ll get a chance to play for a national audience. I’m sure the director would want to keep a scraggly, salt-n-pepper bearded, beach-bum guitar player in some of the scenes. I’ll just need to find ways to stir up some gratuitous drama for the cameras while I’m entertaining, so that I can land a spot on primetime TV.”
“Yeah, right man. See you soon, Rico. And thanks. This is going to be a … well … let’s just say an interesting experience. Later!”
The call ended abruptly.
His last statement brought to mind an old Chinese expression that goes something like, ‘May you be blessed to live in interesting times’ ... or was it, ‘May you be cursed to live in interesting times’?
Geez, … I couldn’t remember the correct version, but I didn’t dwell on the confusion for too long as I jumped off the sofa and raced for the closet where my weathered, rust-stained duffle bag of accumulated marine gear and tools was stored away.
I felt that old familiar lifting-off feeling coming back.
I was flying a hull again!