Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... (12 page)

At her command I waded into the wet and nasty dinghy that had brought the captain to shore. Judy waited until he carried her into the dinghy. Was this going to be the transportation for the bags too? It would take most of the night just to load them. My mood was sinking faster than the sun, and it didn't improve once on board.

The boat was ugly, all of it. My “stateroom” was an eight-by-ten dark, windowless closet with a double-decker bunk nailed to the wall. A dresser was its only other piece of furniture, and the unfortunate smell inside the drawers was reminiscent of what I thought Smee the pirate might smell like. I knew I would put no new clothes away there. The carpet in the living room looked as if it had been on a sinking ship, and the furnishings, such as they were, could generally be found on a curb awaiting the garbage truck. Where did I go wrong? I asked myself. The most obvious answer was: in Saks Fifth Avenue!

Orval—such a decent, kind, concerned, and likable man—and I had absolutely nothing in common except, of course, Judy. Conversation about her was off-limits. So there we were, chugging off into the dark, watery unknown with little or nothing to say to each other: one Midwestern hairdresser and one New York wannabe-sophisticate. He wondered if he had brought along enough hairspray, given the humidity, and I wondered if I would eat or starve. The best we'd been able to pull together in that department was cheese-and-mystery-meat sandwiches moldering in the ship's tiny fridge. Our first-and-only mate was busy with the equipment. Omigod! Where was the crew?

The handsome captain had disappeared into Judy's living quarters and was not to be seen again that evening. First-and-only mate was all by himself. I didn't know squat about sailboats, save for what I had seen in the movies, and what I had seen in the movies convinced a sailing moron like me that a staff of two on an eighty-foot boat was woefully insufficient. And now we were down to one. Didn't Errol Flynn have at least forty pirates with him? I started recounting the faces of the character actors I remembered in pirate movies—kind of like counting sheep—to occupy myself with something silly enough to keep me from being depressed.

Handsome C (which is what I will call our captain because I no longer remember his name—and he was not memorable, except maybe to Judy) wasn't anywhere in evidence the next morning either. At some point that night we'd put into port in a small marina at Bimini. Everyone was asleep, ostensibly, and since it didn't look like we were soon going anywhere, I got off the ship. I thought that if it suddenly left without me, that would not be the worst thing. It was now more important to try to find a muffin or a bagel. There were bikes to rent right across the road from the dock; I got one and pedaled all three miles of the island from one end to the other without, alas, finding a town, a scone, or even a bread crumb. So far nothing on this trip was decent except the weather.

Judy called for Orval at three that afternoon. It had been smooth sailing, not that I had as yet seen one sail hoisted. Apparently it took two to do that, and our captain was still belowdecks. So we simply chugged along, using up our supplementary fuel, and I suppose Handsome C belowdecks was still doing the same thing. At four we pulled into a gorgeous marina with a yacht club, at the tip of an island called North Cat Cay. Finally a place that held some promise!

Hungry for more than just bread alone, I ran around the smallish island to see what it was about. Money! That's what. A haven for wealthy fisherfolk, but hardly what one thinks of as your little fishing village. I saw nothing but large estates scattered about, and the kind of gleaming boats I had dreamed of not long ago in Saks.

Returning to the yacht club, I was able to con a piece of pie out of a server cleaning up after the lunch crowd, hoping that it wouldn't be long before I would be sampling something more nutritious. Every step along this merry vacation seemed to be a problem. Not yet having had breakfast (or dinner the night before), I felt ready to do an unnatural act for the kitchen staff to get us something to eat. The name Judy Garland opened their refrigerator if not their warm ovens and hearts, and soon the five of us were gobbling up all the leftovers, the only patrons in the empty dining room. Oh, for some glamour too!

Handsome C's head was falling into the gazpacho. First-and-only mate was dazed as well. Orval was praising the hairspray he'd chosen, and Judy's coif bore the motionless proof. But she was smiling. I was too busy eating to care about any of them. Who could possibly know when, or even if, the next meal would appear?

At Cartier, one of a few elegant shops close to the yacht club, Judy bought the captain a watch. The thought crossed my mind that such a gift is generally awarded to a faithful employee after twenty-five years of service. I wondered if something even more substantial should have been given to our beleaguered Handsome C, who had likely done twenty-five years' hard labor overnight. He forced a smile in gratitude and made a shy thank-you in front of Orval and me, while leaning against the exterior wall of Cartier helped keep him upright.

I inquired if we could stay overnight at the yacht club, thinking there would be a swell dinner crowd and the strappy sandals would get their first outing. I saw the captain's face brighten a little. I'm sure he was grateful to be topside. Judy, however, wasn't interested. She was anxious to get going again. The break was over. Handsome C had to go back to work belowdecks.

Then we were again powering off into another sunset, now aware that it was the wrong time of day to get under way. Judy and Handsome C again vanished. Not able to endure another night talking about either hairspray or sea spray, I went below to spend time in the library, such as it was. The books were yellow with age, their bindings cracked and dried. I was in despair. I turned in by nine, knowing I would want to get an early start in Nassau the next day. Civilization! Sophistication! Food awaited me!

Sometime in the wee hours, maybe around two, I was thrown out of my bunk. Wacker's wonder was pitching and rolling, each roll sending me across the small room to collide with the nearest wall. It was almost impossible to stand, harder still to walk, but I had to get out of my tiny cabin before sustaining serious bruises and upchucking the only meal I'd eaten in two days. I made my way into the living room, where I saw a yellow oilskin outfit lying on the sofa. No one had to tell me it was for me. I had a terrible time getting the pants on; I felt like I was inside a bottle being violently shaken. I had a death grip on the dining table with one hand, simply trying to steady myself so I could dress with the other. After I'd somehow managed to tie the hood tight under my chin, I climbed up to the deck to see where the merry vacationers were. The massive waves I saw overwhelmed me, but I had no time to think about being scared. I had to tie on to the lifelines first. That or go overboard.

Here comes the tall-sea-tale part. Even as I think about it today, I fear no one will believe it. But I do know what happened that night, and I'm grateful to be alive to tell the story.

Everyone was up on deck clinging to the lifelines while waves washed over our heads, leaving each of us gasping like so many asthmatics. It's over, I said to myself. This ship is going down, and we're all going to die right here, right now, tonight.

Suddenly the most insane thought washed over me along with the very next wave: the black humor of the dying. No one will ever know I was here. Headlines will scream: “Judy Garland lost at sea!” I hate my billing. I have no billing. There won't even be a single mention of my name. It will all be Judy. I looked over at her. She was shrieking nonstop. This time she finally had good reason to. My next thought: Judy, it doesn't matter if you strain your voice anymore. Nothing can save you. I remained calm and stupid. “Are we in the Bermuda triangle?” I screamed, aware of all the vessels that were lost out here and never found again. No one could hear me. Would they send out people to find us? Would the loss at sea of the great Judy Garland be made into a film? My mind danced around these stupid questions as I struggled to stay on my feet.

We finally managed to use up our fuel. No-longer-Handsome C and his first-and-only mate somehow got to the mainsail, and in trying to hoist it, bent the winch. No gas, no sail. We would toss like a little microbe in this maelstrom until either the storm was over or we were finished, and I thought the latter the more likely of the two.

But no—not what happened. The storm stopped—just stopped dead. It disappeared as quickly as it had arrived—from out of nowhere, back to nowhere. No-longer-Handsome C told us squalls like this suddenly popped up and then, just as suddenly, vanished. Nowhere on the horizon was there even a vestige of the storm left to be seen. The sky was cloudless, and our captain went about his business as if nothing had happened. Instead of being grateful to be alive I was angry that he was living. Why didn't you warn us earlier, you moron? It was a silent scream. There had been enough screaming going on without mine to add to the confusion.

The sea was now as flat as a tabletop, and we were resting on its smooth surface, motionless in a gently falling rain with one single cloud in sight. Right above us, of course. Looking east on the horizon we could see the glow from a sun that would soon show itself on what promised to be another perfect day in paradise. It was the most beautiful dawn I'd ever seen. There's nothing prettier, I thought, than watching the start of a sunrise through the rain. It was a spiritual moment deserving of an inspiring movie score by the likes of Dimitri Tiomkin or Vangelis. Judy might have appreciated that, but at the moment she could appreciate nothing. She was still shrieking.

Our hapless captain was finally able to get through on the radio to the shore patrol on the Nassau coast. Their coast guard arrived a few hours later with fuel and provided us with an escort into the harbor. We had drifted fifteen miles in the storm during the night, but we had survived. This part of our luxury vacation cruise was now over, thank God.

The beautiful Nassau I'd imagined, however, was not where our nautical escort brought us. The large cruise ships, gleaming yachts, and sailboats were all missing. We were in an ugly, heavy-duty commercial port where the freighters that normally supply Nassau were being unloaded. Big old rusted container ships were tied up to the large cement docks that jutted out into the harbor. As usual, our galleon looked ridiculous, and our silly appearance attracted unwanted attention. The longshoremen just beginning their day's work stopped what they were doing to stare at us as we tied up. We were an oddity in any port; I'd gotten used to that, but Judy's howling turned us into a freak show. I decided immediately that we had to get Judy off the boat and away from this island ASAP. Personally, I couldn't wait to get away from the boat. If I never had to look at it again, that would be just fine with me.

No-longer-Handsome C wanted to know the plan. His look was grim. I assume he was worried that we would want to stay here a little longer, or, worse, go somewhere else. “Get out of here as fast as we can,” I assured him. It came out sounding as angry as I really was. I noticed that he did not offer to help; he just stood there waiting for instructions. I spied a dismal little hotel across the street and told Orval I was going to check it out. He said, “We can't take Judy to a place like that!” I could see that no-longer-Handsome C, too, was worrying that I would change my mind about the dump and decide not to leave his ship. Trust me, when I took a second look, I almost did.

The lobby of this dreary hotel was a haven being used by some nonthreatening derelicts to sleep off their drunk from the night before. I had a feeling that they'd been in the same chairs, rent-free, for the last twenty years. The desk clerk gave me the key to a suite on the second floor that was not only available but for which I doubted there had ever been any demand. I ran back to the boat, where Orval had brilliantly managed to calm Judy (with promises that he could save her hair? Mine was completely finished) to the extent that she was now merely crying—a notch down on the disaster scale from shrieking. Crying was manageable. However, Judy could not manage to walk. I grabbed her purse and the little white carry-on, left my beautiful Saks wardrobe behind (it didn't seem I would have any immediate use for it), and Orval and I, each holding Judy under an arm, literally dragged her across the street. Our great crew had disappeared below. I intended to come back to tie up the loose ends once we got Madam sedated and put down.

We dragged Judy into the lobby, and the desk clerk (and everyone else who came suddenly awake) looked at us with something between disbelief and disgust. After explaining to him that our “friend” was seriously seasick, we were able to schlep Judy up the flight of stairs to the second floor, and into the shabby apartment, where she swallowed the offered sleeping pills and fell on the bed.

Orval followed me into the ugly hospital-green living room so that I could tell him the plan. “We're not going to stay in Nassau,” I said. “We'll let her sleep for a few hours so I have time to get on the phone and make some arrangements to immediately go back to Miami, where we can get some control over this mess.” Orval quickly agreed because in his view I had debased Judy by putting her in this fleabag. Although he meant well, he had little else to offer besides extra very-much-needed male muscle. And one other thing: He was good company in this awful moment. He was unflappable and of sound mind, which I so appreciated. I asked him to return to the boat to start getting our luggage off while I made plane reservations and tried to find a car to take us to the airport. Off he went only to come back a few minutes later: “They're gone,” he told me.

“What do you mean, ‘gone'?”

“I mean the boat is so far out of the port they couldn't hear me yelling to come back.” Our crew now had plenty of gas, and it was unlikely they were going on a lunch break. Most likely they wanted to see the last of us more than I wanted that very same thing.