The following is an anecdote from Playing Gatsby Worlds, my memoir in progress, a replay of fun-filled, love-and-friendship-sparked adventures in Gatsby Greenwich still celebrating F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Twenties in the Roaring Fifties, publishing in Gatsby Gotham, breakthrough advertising campaigns in the Mad Men era in Boston, my own Gatsby games throughout the North Shore Gold Coast, inspired ever onward by Marblehead’s for-real green light.
The summer of ’52 was my second year lifeguarding at Rocky Point Club in Old Greenwich. We’d belonged there since I was a little kid. My parents enjoyed it; I was never big on it. I did the Sunday morning swimming meets in my kidhood, because in those ‘unenlightened’ days of yore, kids did what they were told to do — and I was told to.
I never took sailing lessons, though; I wasn’t told to — I had zero interest. Which is why it knocked me twelve ways to Sunday when George Reichhelm stopped by the lifeguard chair one day and said, “Would you be my crew for Junior Day at Larchmont Race Week next week?”
Consider the reasons for my shock:
* George Reichhelm was the coolest guy in all of Greenwich. George Reichhelm was a natural born winner. A hero in my book. For one thing, he looked the part. Wiry, chiseled features, falcon’s eyes. Never took a lesson in anything. A natural: kicked serious ass at whatever crossed his path. Club swimming championships, crosstown football games, poker, unattainable babes — you name it, George snagged the W. When it came to sailing, he was the coolest guy in the country. The previous summer, he’d skippered the Rocky Point team to victory in the Sears Cup, the United States’ National Junior Sailing Championship. (I should note here that Marblehead’s Robbie Doyle and Joan Thayer were later Sears Cup winners.)
* George said we’d be sailing Skip Etchells’ Shillalah, the boat Skip and wife Mary had won the Worlds Star Championships in in 1951. (That statement is ripe with sailing iconography. Skip Etchells, a giant of a man, was one of the founders of Rocky Point. He was also one of yachting’s premier designers. In 1967, Skip introduced what became one of the gold standards of contemporary racing sailboats, the Etchells — the big, fast, stable sloop described by America’s Cup victor, Dennis Conner, as “the world’s best racing class.” The slightly smaller Star boat, originated in 1911, has always been one of the most popular ‘racing machines’ for competitive sailors.)
I had no illusions whatsoever about George’s invitation. It was getting close to deadline, and his regular crew was likely unavailable — he needed somebody to make an attempt at working the jib and whatever else — as per the skipper’s orders. But the way George asked, and the fact that he’d always gone out of his way to be nice to me, I said “Sure.” With enthusiasm.
The following Wednesday, I met George at Rocky Point at 6 a.m. — flat calm Long Island Sound, and pea soup fog. We rowed out to the beat up old launch, which of course, had no intention whatsoever of starting. Which meant that George had to fuss and tinker and “you f-bomber” it until it finally gasped into submission to ignition. We grabbed Shillalah off her mooring and George somehow miracled our way through the soup — which of course lifted the minute Larchmont Yacht Club hove into view.
On the way to Larchmont, George demonstrated yet another aspect of his larger-than-lifeness. No opener to liberate the caps of our bottles of Coke? George demonstrates that’s what teeth are for.
In the race itself, I was a clunkburger crew, made none the better by a busted winch on the starboard side. (That’s about the extent of my salty vocabulary — “winch” and “starboard.”) We didn’t finish last. But thanks to me, we weren’t far off. George, to his everlasting credit, didn’t sweat it. We had a bunch of laughs and made good use that night of Larchmont’s party room, The Pandemonium — is that the best name ever, or what.
That story, iconically seasoned with “Skip Etchells”, “World Star Championship boat” and “Sears Cup-winning skipper,” gets a nod of respect from even the crustiest salts I share it with. I end saying I never raced again for the obvious reason it’s an impossible act to follow.
