A botched champagne christening
The launch of my future home during my teen years. Book review: A 1700's tale of shipwreck, mutiny, and murder.
July 2023
This is Out of Step, a subscription-free newsletter, posting the first of every month, highlighting excerpts cut from Unmoored: Coming of Age in Troubled Waters, Lyons Press, May 1, 2023, tidbits from my current WIP, upcoming speaking events, authors I like, book reviews, and praise for independent bookstores and libraries.
In between those dates, I’ll be posting random essays on whatever piques my interest in my out-of-step life, which you can find directly on my Substack: jrroessl.substack.com
Featured Five-Star Reviews of Unmoored
“I'm a reader and a sailor. I've read thousands of books in my life, and of course any book about sailing that I can get my hands on. This book took me a bit by surprise.
“I expected another book that told of adventures and trials and lessons learned, crystal blue anchorages, friends made, towns explored, fish caught and eaten, maybe a few storms and mishaps. Frankly, I never get tired of that.
“Those things are all there, but mostly this is about a young girl growing up in a difficult family in the turbulent 70's. This is real-life human relationships, and difficult relationships at that. Personality clashes, fears, generational family dynamics, sibling rivalry, and the early days of feminism when women were just starting to change the perception of gender roles. A man and 5 women all shoved into a tiny 40-foot boat traveling thousands of miles together over several years.
“This book was far from what I expected, but right from the start it hooked me and led me on the tumultuous journey of a girl growing up far from home.”
— Amazon reviewer
“Unmoored quickly captivated me in the first few paragraphs: it was hard to put down until I finished it. The story was very gripping - I truly felt the fear, loneliness and adrenaline of living through such a precarious adventure aboard a very cramped vessel. I loved the author’s vulnerability throughout the book and learned from her sharp self-insights.”
— Amazon reviewer
Readers across the country are picking up Unmoored. I’m adding sticky dots to every city where my book has found a home.
Unmoored Cuts
Operation Big Move and Launch Day
In April of 1963, two and a half years after we started construction, the boat was finished. My father spent two days removing the siding from the back of the barn in anticipation of the move to Alameda, thirty miles west. On launch day, hours late, a twenty-six-wheeler finally pulled up and parked in the field directly behind the barn, drawing the attention of passing cars.
While two reporters from the local papers interviewed my father, the truck crew shored up the cribbing. By this time, people had parked along the shoulder of the road and were getting out of their cars to watch as Heritage’s bowsprit began to emerge.
Forgoing the decision to lay out rollers, the crew instead dragged the boat and cradle along the leveled ground, slowly winching it forward, until Heritage’s sleek white hull cleared the barn. Finally, with a half-hour to spare before the special highway permit expired, the truck pulled out onto to the main road with my parents, sisters, and me following in our station wagon. As the driver barreled through town, ignoring the low-lying telephone and power lines, we watched in horror as the lines caught on the cabin top and snapped, causing the boat to rock unsteadily in its cradle. My father cursed and leaned hard on his horn, signaling the driver to pull over and stop.
After assessing the downed lines and damage to the cradle, it was too late to move the boat, so it was parked in an empty lot for the weekend. On Monday, accompanied by power and telephone crews who cleared the lines, Heritage headed out of town and onto the highway, toward the marina in Alameda.
By the time the crane operator moved the boat from its cradle and positioned it over the water, a large crowd gathered. At the bottom of the ramp, my father held onto my mother as she leaned forward to christen Heritage. She closed her eyes and, to the chant of the crowd, swung the champagne bottle as hard as she could.
Clunk.
The crowd gasped.
“Oh dear,” my mother said, dazed that the bottle was still intact.
My father, embarrassed and still holding onto her, grumbled, “Just break the damn thing.”
Considered bad luck to botch a christening, my mother readied herself again, and with a mighty swing shattered the bottle, spraying champagne over my father and herself as the crowd clapped and cheered.
My mother conveniently omitted the failed first attempt in her article for SEA and Pacific Motor Boat magazines:
“Jim grips me in case I swing too enthusiastically. ‘Now,’ he says.
“‘I christen thee, Heritage!’ Crash! The aim was right! Champagne’s running down my face—mmm, tastes good! Boat continues to lower; touches water and straps are released. We hold our breath . . . she floats! Bobbing like a cork. She’s beautiful!”
It was over. My parents looked exhausted but were smiling.
My father hopped on board and checked the bilge, noting a bad leak around the propeller shaft and a couple of planks near the waterline. Water rushed in and now it was our turn to join the fun. My sisters and I took turns bailing while my father checked for more leaks. The crowd, so enthusiastic a moment before, quickly dispersed when they saw us bailing out our leaking vessel.
After hours of pumping and dumping over the side, the mahogany planks finally swelled and the incoming water slowed to a trickle. We were cold, tired, and hungry. Dusk had arrived, casting long shadows in the marina and spreading a chill through the evening air. There was nothing left to do.
“Think I’m going to stick around for a while,” my father said.
“Are you sure?” my mother asked. “I thought I’d make a little celebratory dinner.”
“Uh, I’m not really hungry,” he replied.
I could tell by her crestfallen expression she hadn’t counted on his response. Ever the optimist, her face brightened. “How about I get a bucket of Colonel Sanders and we can eat it onboard?”
He shook his head and said, “Listen, you and the girls must be exhausted after a long day. Why don’t you grab dinner and head on home? I’ll catch up with you later.”
My mother sighed.
As we walked down the dock, I turned to see my father relaxing in the cockpit, smoking his cigarette. Never once did he glance in our direction.
My Work in Progress
Mirror, Mirror on the Wall . . .
“Darling, darling girl,” she sighed.
How many time during the past six years has my agent Gillis McGill uttered those words, I thought. I’m as much her “darling,” as the guy who her trims her hedges in South Hampton.
Gillis shook her head and made a tsking sound as she looked me up and down. “Something is happening, I’m afraid. How long has it been since your last booking?”
We both knew I hadn’t worked in over two months.
“I’ll admit, it’s been a little slow,” I responded. Damn if I was gonna get caught in her web.
“You do know what that means now, don’t you darling?” Gillis gave me her famous Cheshire Cat grin, bow lips pressed together with the corners of her mouth curled upwards. How vividly I remember that same smile the first time I met her. This time, though, I had the sinking feeling it would not be followed by a “hello, darling.”
“At first I told the clients they were mistaken, that everyone has a bad day now and then.” She leaned forward and, and in a breathy, conspiratorial voice said, “Even I have a bad day now and then, although, I must admit it’s rare.” She settled back, satisfied with her bold confession. “But, darling, you look tired. Let’s face it. Six years is a reasonably long run.”
I can’t believe she is saying that, at thirty-two, I’m washed up. I feel great. My friends tell me I look great. I even stopped seeing my therapist and, more important, I have no cellulite. “Who are the dissatisfied clients?” I asked.
“Oh, I cannot divulge that. Just trust me, they were insistent,” Gillis said.
I knew it was that prick, Arnold Schlumberger, the 7th Avenue garmento, who made every excuse to trespass behind our flimsy dressing space, so he could get his daily thrills of catching us in our underwear. I’d finally walked out during my lunch hour mid-week and never returned. Instead, I’d marched up to Mannequin and complained to Gillis about what a lech Arnold was and that I was never going back. But before she could verify my accusations, Arnold called with his version of the events, insisting I’d been snide, disrespectful, and prone to taking more than my allotted forty-five-minute lunch. More important, he’d threatened Gillis by saying that unless I apologized, he would take his business to her competitor, where he was sure there were models who would love to work for him.
I refused and made it clear I was never going back. So, he refused to pay the days I’d worked. Gillis garnished my check until I paid the commission she would have earned. I thought that was the end of it. But Arnold, the vindictive little man that he was, wouldn’t stop calling and complaining.
“I know it was Arnold,” I said. “He’s a pervert and he’s just mad he got caught.”
“He’s not the only one who said that you are. . . looking a bit worn. Even his buyers, he said, complained about your unpleasant attitude and expression.” Why would she, I thought, believe anything that creep said? Did she forget when I described how many times he’d brushed his hands across my chest or lifted my skirt up with the excuse he was explaining the bust darts or hem detail?
“Let me show you,” Gillis said, clearly exasperated. “Let’s walk over to the mirror in my office.”
Once in her office, she closed the door and guided me over to her full-length mirror where she positioned herself behind me. “Now, look in the mirror, darling.” Pointing to my face, she said, “See how you have these little fatty pouches around your mouth?”
I look at the sides of my mouth and reminded her that I’d always had these. In fact, I tell her that not only was I born with them, but I had them when she welcomed me to the agency, and that I’d walked down the runways of the most famous couturiers in the world with them. No one ever mentioned they were a problem . . . until Arnold. And frankly, Jane Fonda had done quite well with hers.
Losing her cool, Gillis threw up her hands and shouted, “Well, goddammit, they’re getting worse!” As I stared back at her in the mirror, I felt the tears well up and run down my cheeks, skirting around the aforementioned problem area.
Registering the effect her outburst had on me, she softened her tone and said, “It might be time to think about other avenues, other doors to walk through.”
I swiped my hand across my face and turned around to face her. “Am I to understand that you’re letting me go? I mean, out of loyalty to you, you owe me the truth.”
She shook her head before looking up. “Loyalty?” she said, staring at me. “Darling, one is ‘loyal’ to one’s country. I’m telling you this out of friendship.”
Friends like this, I didn’t need. The only thing I was thinking about was how was I going to pay next month’s mortgage.
I nodded, turned on my heel, and as I walked out I heard her say, “Darling, it’s nothing personal . . . it’s just business.”
Sitting in a coffee shop a few blocks from the agency, staring out at the passersby, I was jolted out of my reverie by a grating, nasal voice. “Hey, Miss, you wanna napkin?”
“What?”
“I said. Do you wanna a napkin or a plate or somethin’?”
I looked up at her, confused.
She waved her hand and said, “Jeez, will ya look at the mess on your table. All those crumbs on the floor. And, where the hell is that sound comin’ from? It’s givin’ me one of those Excedrin headaches you see on TV.”
While she continued her tirade, I rummaged through the contents of my purse trying to locate my beeper. I finally found it and turned it off. It was Gillis calling, no doubt to get the last word. I debated whether to call and then decided I could always hang up before she delivered the final insult.
I looked down at the pile of broken pretzels covering the table and then at the waitress. “No, thanks. Just bring me the check and tell me where the pay phone is.” She pointed towards the front of the bar and walked away, grumbling to herself.
“You beeped?” I said, when Gillis answered.
As if our previous encounter had never happened, Gillis gushed, “Oh, darling, I have wonderful news.” The vicomtesse just called me from Paris to make sure you will be at the showroom tomorrow to show her collection to some private clients. She’s flying in on the Concorde in the afternoon, but the clothes will be arriving in the morning, so she wants you there at nine o’clock sharp. And, darling, make sure you look your beautiful self.”
What I’m Reading
The Wager: A Tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny and Murder by David Grann
If you’re looking for more sailing mayhem, look no further than David Grann’s tale about His Majesty’s Ship, the Wager, set during the imperial war with Spain in 1740. Sent to capture “the prize of all the oceans,” a Spanish Galleon filled with gold, the Wager and crew encounter a terrible storm and are shipwrecked on a desolate island off the coast of Patagonia. Stranded on the island, and disobeying British protocol, part of the crew rebels against the captain, leaving him behind and escaping the island in a makeshift craft, sailing thousands of miles to finally land in Brazil. Meanwhile the captain and his remaining men eventually make it to Chile. Months later, the survivors return to England with conflicting stories and counter charges.
Upcoming Events
Aug. 4 — Ooh La La Store, Carnegie, PA, Book Signing
Aug. TBD — Zoom Event, New Richmond, WI, Book Club
Aug. 27 — Livermore Public Library, Livermore, CA, Book Reading
Aug. 31 — Mill Valley Public Library, Mill Valley, CA, Book Reading
Sept. 20 — Private book club, Minneapolis, MN, Book Reading
Sept. 27 — Mt. Lebanon Library, Mt. Lebanon, PA, Book Reading
Spotlight
Friday Memorial Library, New Richmond, WI
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