Being as how upward of 40 years passed between our respective birthdays and we mostly frequent the sort of upscale locales where the high-stakes Hollywood-type long-con is ubiquitous, we also tend to garner a lot of judging looks from bystanders who likely think they are witnessing a May-December gold-digging effort in full swing. The truth, though, is this: my association with Billy Billionaire has platonically outlasted a litany of actual romantic Billys who have come and gone over the years. It has made me both much more aware of, and critically skeptical of the sort of social pressures that dictate who should have what sort of affiliation with whom (here's a spoiler: they're all bullshit). And, my friendship with Billy Billionaire has brought me into the yearly-reunion orbit of several absolutely amazing women, who I completely adore and would nowadays classify as some of the most solid girlfriends out there (unfortunately, way out there, geographically speaking).
And, it's been a fucking fun friendship (I like to think for both of us), so when you boil it down, that's not a bad deal at all.
(To be fair, the glares may have been less about the age difference and more about the bicycle being ridden inebriatedly into the bar, Billy.)
So one time, long ago and far away, Billy Billionaire and I and two of the abovementioned gals - I'll call these lovelies Ms. Boston (the sexy fashion model) and Ms. Backwoods (the Amazonian beauty) - went on a boat trip. Not just any old boat - no, Billy Billionaire had an attack of nostalgia and decided to charter his own good old familiar Sailing Yacht Delirium, which he had sold several years prior.
This is the story.
***
Holy shit, she was in shabby shape.
From the end of the dock, she still showed the lines of the elegant old racehorse she'd once been. But on closer inspection, as we took off our shoes and stepped aboard, it was painfully clear that she was hurting for maintenance. Everywhere, there were over-worn cushions, threadbare seams, unpolished stainless, unshaved teak, unbuffed waterlines, unscrubbed exhaust and docking smudges. It was a little bit like finding a former showring champion put untended out to pasture, bony and ungroomed and long in the tooth. This sort of neglect would never have stood under Billy Billionaire's benevolent reign.
(Well this should be a fantastic ride!)
That was the vessel. Now, if you can take that mental image and lower your expectations just a touch more from there, you have our Friendly Charter Crew.
Exhibit A: the Mate. She is no less than 50 years old, a chain smoker, an obvious and only semi-functional alcoholic, covered in questionable tattoos, and unkempt in even the most generous sense of the word. She has the voice of an angel, if that angel's throat had been stuffed with gravel and sawdust and beef jerky and then baked at high temperatures for several hours, has a laugh that would shut a junkyard dog right up, and exhibits a passion for actually working on-deck that rivals that of a sloth with mono. She is the epitome of a Leather Handbag. She is immediately amusing, but (or possibly because) she is also utterly useless.
Exhibit B: the Chef. He is a strangely-mannered, socially-awkward little Austrian fellow with a shrill voice, an unsettling way of moving about very quickly like one of those spiders that jumps unpredictably everywhere instead of walking with its eight goddamn legs, and body-language that Billy Billionaire quickly pegs spot-on as follows: "I'm pretty sure the small Nazi is going to try to kiss me. Or kill me." The Chef, too, clearly has no ambition to expand his duties beyond the galley, which arrangement all of us actually prefer.
Exhibit C: the Captain. His name is Dusty and he is squishy and easily sunburned and he is just terrified, *terrified* of Delirium. Incompetent is too gentle of a word, so I'll put it this way: Dusty is in so far over his head that it's unclear if this man has ever been at the helm of another vessel in his life, or if perhaps he is just a middle-management financial-sector-type guy who had a mid-life crisis in Fort Lauderdale and hasn't quite figured out how to get himself back out of this particular jam and into something more suitable, such as used-car sales, yet. He has no concept of the physics involved in the docking of a boat, nor those of casting off lines in sequence to leave a dock. He does not seem aware of the series of tasks necessary to raise the sails. He is absurdly afraid to take the boat into anchorages, even though they are well-charted and deep and Billy Billionaire and I have sailed to each of them innumerable times before on this very boat.
He also, of course, does not receive any assistance whatsoever from his two crewmembers - and I know from years of physical experience that Delirium often takes two strong and competent bodies to safely maneuver in good weather. Billy Billionaire, because he is a wonderful reader of people and also a hilarious asshole, picks up Dusty's furtive trepidation toward All Things Sailing before we even leave the dock, and gives us all a wide-eyed "heeere we go!" smile and wink-wink-wink-WINK-WINK. He insists on calling our Captain "The Duster," which Dusty does not like but about which he can't really do anything. Another thing The Duster doesn't like is when I offer to help with docklines, but he doesn't have much choice about this, either, since his other two crew are already nowhere to be found when the time quickly comes to leave port.
Where Delirium's current ownership ever found such a band of incompetent misfits, I honestly have no idea. But fuck it - ahoy! All aboard! Anchors aweigh!
(Unclear if this .gif is of our hapless crew, or of Ms. Boston, Ms. Backwoods, and I at the exact moment our carriage has arrived.)
Several alarming things happen in rapid succession: the boat's entire hydraulic system goes kaput (or, more honestly, was probably already fucked before our charter began) as the mainsail is halfway up the mast, and there is no winch handle aboard with which to manually continue raising it. The engine has already been cut when this happens, and requires a crew member to go belowdecks to be restarted, but The Duster politely declines my offer to perform this task and instead, announces that no big deal, we'll just drop anchor. This is also a catastrophe because the anchor chain will not feed out of its locker at a rate of more that one painstaking goddamn link at a time, because of corrosion and a broken guide-pipe, which means we are drifting, anchor not up but anchor not down, either, blinking at each other and stifling laughter like shitty children in church. Meanwhile The Duster, already bright pink and sweating profusely in what is clearly a years-old Delirium polo shirt that is two sizes too small (a leftover from my era aboard), is toeing the line of panic up at the bow, wrestling with the dangling anchor, which is probably 75 pounds of galvanized steel and which, due to mild waves and aforementioned physics of which The Duster's grasp is woefully deficient, is swinging with a distinctly axe-like chopping motion into the hull.
But The Duster has a Plan-B (or -C or -D or -WhateverLetterWe'reOnAlready). He springs into action and hauls the dinghy up alongside the boat, jumps in, and unties his tethering line, on his way to a heroic anchor-debacle rescue.
Except after he launches himself, the dinghy doesn't start. The Duster levels a stare of dull sorrow at us, his passengers lined up on the edge of Delirium, the distance between us widening lazily as he drifts away, with a look on his face that I can only describe as utterly deflated. You can just tell that nothing this wholly demoralizing ever used to happen in his cubicle-farm job.
(Accounting department Teambuilding Day was always such a hoot, eh Duster?)
Speaking of deflating and the inflatable-pontoon dingh--No. No, you know what? I'm getting distracted here and this story, much as it could continue to grow like some sort of sad, sad superhero among stories were I to set it free, isn't about The Duster. Miraculously, and unbeknownst to him, The Duster had someone else on board who would soon divert the harsh spotlight from even his incompetence.
This story is about our odd little chef.
This story is the story of Billy Bavaria.
***
Things first started to get a little weird when I noticed that Billy Bavaria was sneaking extras onto my plate when he brought the china up to the table for every meal. A little homemade chocolate candy here, a heart-shaped bit of cream-puff there - all things he would set before me, in front of Billy Billionaire, Ms. Boston and Ms. Backwoods, without a word of explanation.
Naturally, because my abiding love for Punchin' Judy has done nothing for my self-esteem if not for digging deep, permanent holes in which body-image-based self-loathing has been the hardiest weed to take root, I at first assumed these little additional tidbits might be Billy Bavaria's way of trying to fatten me up and push me onto the "No Longer Needs Buoyancy Devices" passenger-safety-watch list.
(Someday you will eat those words, Judy. Unless I get to them first.)
But then he began doing things like winking with each delivery, and then intently staring into my eyes for as long as possible while backing away toward the galley, as if maybe he was casting some sort of witchcraft spell that would steal my soul later in the night. This, of course, did not go entirely unnoticed or at all un-latched-onto-and-then-underhandedly-encouraged by the rest of the gang. The most ripe-for-humor wild-card thing about it was, though, that while Billy Bavaria displayed this undue fixation with me, he also seemed to have an insatiable urge for physical contact with Billy Billionaire. None of us knew what to make of it, other than an unending and escalating series of inside jokes. And so that is exactly what we made of it - and how.
Our week on Delirium generally looked like this:
Me, darting back and forth across the length and beam of the boat and up and down the mast as The Duster glumly and relentlessly sets us up for our next narrowly-averted sailing catastrophe. Me, scrambling to keep us from crashing into such wily objects as docks or other boats at anchor or large stationary islands, all the while also doggedly avoiding the accursed experience of eye contact with Billy Bavaria, who would invariably pop his head abovedecks to do the Dahmer-stare at me in action and who would occasionally come up behind me when I was working a line or otherwise occupied with a task from which I couldn't physically depart, to whisper compliments and to mention his desire for a sailing ladyfriend on his own small liveaboard sailboat in the Dutch West Indies. Me, in what retrospectively just had to be the world's most annoying attempt at helpfulness, starting so many conversational sentences with The Duster with the words Y'know, just a suggestion, but when *I* was on Delirium, we used to...
Meanwhile, the rest of the gang raptly looking on, like front-row ticketholders at some sort of Captain-Ron-Meets-Cirque-du-Soleil show, in emotional states ranging from horrified breath-holding to hysterical under-breath laughing. And throughout, The Leather Handbag could always be seen, a slouching, haggard fixture at the stern of the boat behind a panicked Duster, intently dragging on her fifth cigarette of any given hour and gazing obliviously off toward Give-A-Fuck Island, which was always geographically situated in the exact opposite direction from the action of whatever current crisis The Duster had managed to create in that particular fifteen minute block of time.
(To be fair, thick clouds of smoke *can* be disorienting.)
So over the course of our charter various ports and beaches and coves were visited, several tan lines were created, endlessly-compounding jokes of the sort that left us all chronically breathless sprang to life (to wit: to this day, Billy Billionaire and Ms. Boston and Ms. Backwoods and I all still reflexively refer to this sailing trip as "The Voyage of the Damned"), and innumerable cocktails were consumed. Perhaps needless to say, while The Leather Handbag had shown enough restraint to wait to partake with us until approximately 4 pm on our first day out, after this zen-master-like exertion of willpower, she was quite possibly never truly sober aboard for the remainder of the week. This meant we did a fair amount of our own cocktail-fixing from that point on, but somehow, we persevered. In fact, so inspiring was our perseverance that one evening about halfway through the week Billy Bavaria, who had initially announced that he was something like ten years sober, invited himself to join us for a high-octane nightcap.
(This... is... cool with you guys, right? (*asked Billy Bavaria, never))
Of course shit just rolled downhill from there.
By which I mean, our time as paying guests on Delirium was the most ridiculous, horrendous, shockingly unprofessional shit-show of a charter I can imagine (and that's saying something after years in yachting). Also, it was simply the most delightful charter ever.
***
Suddenly our final evening had arrived. As it's customary for guests to treat their crew to a restaurant dinner ashore at the wrap-up of a charter, Billy Billionaire booked a table for seven at a local joint. We all dressed up and trooped in, and the martinis began to flow. Clearly, tonight was going to be do or die for Billy Bavaria, and so I made very certain not to be stuck sitting anywhere near him. Instead, Billy Billionaire and I escaped to one end of our long, white-linened table, while Billy Bavaria was pinned at the other end, next to Ms. Boston.
Martinis were ordered. Bread was broken. Abs were worked to their limit via laughter. Other patrons were overwhelmed and likely offended. And once the details were all a bit blurred, we trooped back to Delirium, where the party continued in proper Billy Billionaire fashion. At one point, as I began to confusedly put myself to bed in Billy Billionaire's stateroom, I was blessedly intercepted by Ms. Boston, who gracefully escorted me to our shared cabin. Lights out.
(I feel you kid. I feel you.)
In the morning, Billy Billionaire and Ms. Backwoods take off for the airport first thing, leaving Ms. Boston and I to breakfast and pack up for our own respective flights home without them. I wake to Ms. Boston's stirring in the opposite bunk, and her sneaking out the door for coffee. Then, the next thing I know, our cabin door has burst open again and in one blink Billy Bavaria has scuttled across the room, locking the door closed behind himself and landing in a crouch next to my bed.
(Agghgggagguhuhghaaaaahhhh!!)
I have quite possibly never felt more trapped in my life. While I'm struggling to keep what few linens are in use on a boat in the tropics clutched resolute between us like a shield, Billy Bavaria is reaching for my hands, which are also propelling me backwards in the bed toward the aft wall with surprising speed and force, hangover considered. And as he is pawing for my wrists, he is laying out his offer to me:
Susie, you have to come home to my boat with me. I am in love with you. Step aboard, my princess.
Being as how I was at most 35% awake, I honestly can't remember exactly how I responded. But "step aboard, my princess??" I can say my reply entailed some form of a confused and gutteral waiyghhhh, whuughh? and then, in rapid succession, no. Nononono.
Billy Bavaria seems shocked.
You are confused. We are soul mates, Susie. I KNOW we are soul mates! You will live with me.
Again, Nononono. Whuck-No!
Now Billy Bavaria wants answers.
Why would you not start this life with me? Why would you fight destiny? I will fill my whole boat up with fine liquor for you, if that is what it takes. You WILL BE MY BRIDE.
Well now hold a sec, the gentleman *does* make a seductive offer. But still, Nonononono. UhaaanhauhNO.
And finally, because my brain has at last turned over and the engine has caught and is now fully firing and has simultaneously remembered I am not wearing pants and also processed how many boundaries are being flagrantly broken in this room and not by me, GET OUT OF HERE. NOW. GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT. GET! OUT!
(Time to floor it.)
Billy Bavaria stares me down in trembling silence, his face maybe five inches from mine and frozen in an expression that is at once shocked and enraged, then retreats in another fast-motion leap. I scramble out of bed once the door clicks shut to throw the bolt behind him, truly shaken. What. The. FUCK?
When Ms. Boston returns, I tell her a quick summary, after which we both state the obvious out loud, essentially in tandem: We have to get the FUCK off this boat.
***
Imagine the way you might pack if you have been ordered to evacuate your house because of an all-consuming fire sweeping toward your neighborhood. Imagine how you might gather your possessions if you had just heard the alarm begin to sound that indicated the final rover was about to depart from the suddenly catastrophically-crippled space station you used to call home. Imagine how you might throw your life into a bag if you had witnessed the haunting mushroom-cloud flash of nuclear Armageddon, and were subsequently counting down the precious few moments remaining in which to get below-ground. Ms. Boston and I put those scenarios to shame.
But in the midst of this flurry, we began to hear something strange.
Is that... music? I asked Ms. Boston, cocking my head.
Ms. Boston listened and made an involuntary face, much like an infant first tasting a lemon (but sexier, because this is Ms. Boston). If it is, it's nothing I would ever EVER listen to, she said with a look of disgust.
It got louder. It began to drown out our packing. It became an almost unbearable racket. And finally, in part because my goddamn freediving fins were still on the back deck of the boat and had to be fit into my bag, but also because what the eff?, I threw open our cabin door.
I was met with the sight of Billy Bavaria, seated in a chair in Delirium's main salon. He was pointedly facing directly toward our door, blasting James Blunt, mouthing the words, and there were rivers of tears streaming freely down his face.
You're byooo-tih-fuhhl... (tears and unmistakably homocidal glare during other awful James Blunt "lyrics") 'cause I'll nevehhh bee with youuuhh...
This was just fucking fever-pitch insanity.
(Yes, for GODSAKES, I said James fucking Blunt - the man has LOST IT.)
I accidentally made eye contact one last involuntary time, whilst slamming the door back shut immediately. Fins be damned, nothing is worth that.
***
Later, after Ms. Boston and I had literally fled down the dock - our carelessly-stuffed baggage in tow like that of refugees desperate to make the last boat out of Cuba - to the marina office, a thoroughly defeated Duster shuffled down the dock to join us, carrying a shopping bag of lukewarm canned beer he had salvaged from somewhere in the galley. With his bloodshot eyes averted, he let out the sort of inadvertent sigh that communicates nothing if not an utter and complete Oh FUCK this shit, popped one open and drank half of it in a single long pull, and only then, as if an afterthought, wordlessly offered us each a tepid can. He hadn't even bothered with coozies. Right then it was clear: The Duster, more than anyone I have ever before or since witnessed, had reached the end of his rope. The Duster was done.
This... said The Duster, dropping his head to his hand for several seconds of disheveled, morose silence, ...this is... the worst thing I have *ever* been involved in. I am truly, truly sorry.
I'm not entirely certain, what with the mild PTSD from the morning's earlier events clouding my attention to detail, but I'm pretty sure The Duster and Ms. Boston and I silently warm-brew toasted this proclamation as if it were a solemn oath.
***
I hope, for The Duster's sake, it remains an unbroken - nay, unbreakable - record.
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