Going in Circles in the Middle of the Ocean

THE PAST…The truth be told, I’ve only really had one best friend in my entire life. His name was Hans. I met him through the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club Swim Team. He came from a family of eight. I never knew exactly how he ended up at the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. There were rumors about his brother and being asked to leave the Detroit Yacht Club, which is where Hans spent a lot of his time growing up. But all of a sudden, there he was. He was two years younger than me. He was tall, handsome and popular. He was fourteen years old. I was sixteen. Age worked in my favor. Hans, like Paul D after him, adopted me and proclaimed me "friend."

I don’t think I ever rejected anyone who actually wanted to be my friend. Hans asked me to fly to Fort Lauderdale Florida, to help his dad deliver his new Morgan Out Island 41 from its place of purchase back to Lake Saint Clair Michigan. I talked to my parents. The graciously jumped on the opportunity and told me I needed to go.

I’ve never been on an adventure before. In fact, I had never done anything before. One of my most vivid memories is on that Out Island 41, the third week of June in 95 degree night time heat, in the v-birth on Hans’ dad’s new boat. My mom had sent me down with a soft pillow for the trip. Hans promptly stole that pillow and, being a full foot taller than me, won the fight for that pillow. I slept on a hard pillow that night. But Hans wasn’t being mean. He was bonding in a way that a household of boys learns to bond; tough, physical, posturing behavior.

I don’t know when Hans decided to make me his best friend but all of a sudden without me even barely noticing, I was. Hans even looked up to me.

I remember things about that boat trip. I remember the engine didn’t work and there were other mechanical problems, stranding us in Fort Lauderdale. I remember Hans and me, a 16 year-old boy who looked 12 and a 14 year-old boy who looked 16, wandering the alleys in Fort Lauderdale asking anyone we met whether or not they had any weed for sale. I remember paying $40 for what must have been two ounces of weed from a Mexican, who signaled his buddy who let us in the secure parking lot, who laughed when we told him we wanted a quarter ounce, who ran home anyway and got his personal stash which must have been two ounces, who sold us a bag of marijuana which ultimately defined our two-week adventure up the Atlantic Coast with my new best friend.

I remember that Hans and I had the 2am-6am shift. I remember Hans’ dad, now deceased, waking us in alarmed voice sometime around 5am. The boat was going in circles and Hans and I were fast asleep.

I remember a storm off Cape Fear North Carolina when the wind violently shifted; the mainsheet wrapped around my neck and threw me across the boat. I remember trying to get my wits about me lying flat on my back. I remember a feeling a sense of nothingness, my neck stinging. I remember Hans’ dad yelling Captain’s orders as freighters bore down on us in the channel that would take us to harbor. I remember that a third of the skin off my neck had been sheered by the mainsheet as the storm hit, leaving a scab across my neck for the remainder of the trip.

I remember arriving in Atlantic City, taking a cab to the Atlantic City Boardwalk and Casinos. I remember somehow sneaking in to the Atlantic City Club Casino on the strip, and eating joints in the restrooms with Hans. I remember scraping up our remaining money after being completely cleared out of money on the Boardwalk for a cheeseburger with grilled onions. I remember the moment we realized that we weren’t winning in the Casino, despite the coins that seemed to pour out of the slot machines on the odd occasions that we would win. I remember Hans stealing my pillow and thinking "what the hell?"