Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  The Morgan is ideal for the Long Island Sound, perfect for trips up to Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, Block Island, and out to Provincetown. The Morgan’s major drawback in the bays and coves is its deep keel, but that’s what makes it a safe family boat on the open seas. In fact, the original Morgan was developed by J. P. Morgan for his children, and he designed it with safety in mind. It’s sort of an ideal club boat; good-looking and prestigious without being pretentious.

  It would actually be possible for me to make a trans-Atlantic crossing with this boat, but not advisable. And now that my children are older, the plodding Morgan may not be what I need. What I need, really need, is a sleek Allied fifty-five footer that will take me anywhere in the world. I would also need a crew, of course, as few as two people, preferably three or four.

  I imagined myself at the helm of the Allied, heading east toward Europe, a rising sun on the horizon, the high bow cutting through the waves. I saw my crew at their tasks: Sally Grace mopping the deck, Beryl Carlisle holding my coffee mug, and the delicious Terri massaging my neck. Down in the galley is Sally Ann of the Stardust Diner making breakfast, and impaled on the bowsprit is the stuffed head of Zanzibar.

  I took the Morgan west, past Bayville, where I could make out the lights of the infamous Rusty Hawsehole. I continued west into the setting sun, around Matinecoc Point and then south, tacking into the wind toward Hempstead Harbor.

  I skirted the west shore of the harbor, sailing past Castle Gould and Falaise, then turned in toward the center of the harbor where I ordered the sails lowered. Carolyn and Edward let out the anchor, and we grabbed fast, the boat drifting around its mooring with the wind and the incoming tide.

  In the distance, on the eastern shore, the village of Sea Cliff clung to tall bluffs, its Victorian houses barely visible in the fading light. A few hundred yards north of Sea Cliff was Garvie’s Point, where Susan and I had made love on the beach.

  The sun had sunk below the high bluffs of Sands Point, and I could see stars beginning to appear in the eastern sky. I watched as they blinked on, east to west behind the spreading purple.

  None of us spoke, we just broke out some beer and drank, watching the greatest show on earth, a nautical sunset: the rose-hued clouds, the starry black fringe on the far horizon, the rising moon, and the gulls gliding over the darkening waters.

  You have to pay close attention to a nautical sunset or you will miss the subtleties of what is happening. So we sat quietly for a long time, me, Susan, Carolyn, and Edward, until finally, by silent consensus, we agreed it was night.

  Susan said, “Cari, let’s make some tea.’’ They went below.

  I climbed onto the cabin deck and steadied myself against the mast. Edward followed. We both stared out into the black waters. I said to him, “Are you looking forward to college?”

  “No.”

  “They will be the best years of your life.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

  “Everyone is right.”

  He shrugged. Presently, he asked, “What kind of tax problems?”

  “I just owe some taxes.”

  “Oh . . . and you have to sell the house?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can you wait?”

  I smiled. “For what? Until you use it in August?”

  “No . . . until I’m twenty-one. I can give you the money in my trust fund when I’m twenty-one.”

  I didn’t reply, because I couldn’t speak.

  He said, “I don’t need all of it.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, Grandma and Grandpa Stanhope meant that money to be for you.’’ And they’d have apoplexy if you gave it to me.

  “It’s gonna be my money. I want to give it to you if you need it.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay.”

  We listened to the waves breaking against the distant shore. I looked out to the east. Farther north of Garvie’s Point, about five hundred yards from where we lay at anchor, I could see the lights of the big white colonial house on the small headland. I pointed to it. “Do you see that big house there?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was a long pier there once, beginning between those two tall cedars. See them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Imagine where the pier ended. Do you see anything there?”

  He looked into the black water, then said, “No.”

  “Look harder, Skipper. Squint. Concentrate.”

  He stared, then said, “Maybe . . . something. . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. When I stare, I think I can see . . . what do you call that stuff . . . ? That algae stuff that grows in the water and glows kind of spooky green? Bioluminescence . . . ? Yeah. I see it.”

  “Do you? Good.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s your green light, Skipper. I think it means go.”

  “Go where?”

  I’m not good at the father-son talk, but I wanted to tell him, so somewhat self-consciously I replied, “Go wherever you want. Be whatever you want to be. For me, that green light is the past, for you it is the future.’’ I took his hand in mine. “Don’t lose sight of it.’’

  Twenty-one

  In retrospect, I should have tried the Atlantic crossing with my family and never returned to America; a sort of decolonization of the Sutters and the Stanhopes. We could have sailed into Plymouth, burned the Paumanok, set up a fish-and-chips stand on the beach, and lived happily ever after.

  But Americans don’t emigrate, at least not very many of us do, and the few who do don’t do it well. We have created our own land and culture, and we simply don’t fit anywhere else, not even in the lands of our ancestors, who can barely tolerate us on two-week holidays. In truth, while I admire Europe, I find the Europeans a bit tiresome, especially when they complain about Americans.

  So we didn’t cross the Atlantic, and we didn’t emigrate, but we had a spectacular weekend of sailing with sunny weather and good winds.

  We had stayed at anchor in Hempstead Harbor Friday evening, and at daybreak we set sail for Connecticut, putting in at Mystic for a few hours of sight-seeing and shopping. Actually, after about an hour in town, Susan told Carolyn and Edward that she and I had to go back to the boat to get my wallet. Carolyn and Edward sort of grinned knowingly. I was a little embarrassed. Susan told them to meet us in front of the Seamen’s Inne in three hours.

  “Three hours?’’ asked Edward, still smiling.

  I mean, it’s good for children to know that their parents have an active sex life, but you don’t want to give them the impression that you can’t go without it for a day or two. However, Susan was very cool about it and said to Edward, “Yes, three hours. Don’t be late.”

  I took out my wallet and gave them each some money, realizing as I did so that I had created a slight inconsistency in the wallet story. But good kids that they are, they pretended not to see the wallet in my hands.

  Anyway, on the way back to the dock, I said to Susan, “That took me by surprise.”

  “Oh, you handled it quite well, John, until you pulled out your wallet.’’ She laughed.

  “Well, they knew anyway.’’ I said, “Remember when we used to tuck them into their berths at night, then go out on top of the cabin and do it?”

  “I remember you used to tell them that if they heard noises on the roof, it was only Mommy and Daddy doing their sit-ups.”

  “Push-ups.”

  We both laughed.

  So, we took the Paumanok out again and sailed past the three-mile limit where sexual perversions are legal. We found a spot where no other craft were nearby, and I said to Susan, “What did you have in mind?”

  What she had in mind was going below, then reappearing on the aft deck stark naked. We were still under sail, and I was at the helm, and she stood in front of me and said, “Captain, First Mate Cynthia reporting for punishment as ordered.”

  My goodness. I look
ed at her standing at attention, those catlike green eyes sparkling in the sunlight, the breeze blowing through her long red hair. I love this woman’s body, the taut legs and arms, the fair skin, and the big red bush of pubic hair.

  “Reporting for punishment as ordered,’’ she prompted.

  “Right. Right.’’ I thought a moment. “Scrub the deck.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She went below and came back with a bucket and scrub brush, then leaned over the side and scooped up a bucket of salt water. She got down on her hands and knees and began scrubbing the deck around my feet.

  “Don’t get any of that on me,’’ I said, “or you’ll get a dozen lashes across your rump.”

  “Yes, sir . . . oops.’’ She tipped the bucket over, and the salt water soaked my Docksides. I think she did that on purpose.

  She rose to her knees and threw her arms around my legs. “Oh, Captain, please forgive me! Please don’t whip me.’’ She buried her head in my groin.

  You know, for a woman who’s a bitch in real life, a real ball-buster if you’ll pardon the expression, Susan has a rather strange alter ego. I mean, her favorite and most recurring roles are those of subservient and defenseless women. Someday, I’m going to ask a shrink friend of mine about this, though of course I’ll change the names to protect the kinky.

  Anyway, I made Susan lower the sails and drop anchor so we could stop for a little punishment. I tied her wrists to the mainmast and delivered a dozen lashes with my belt to her rump. Needless to say, these were light love-taps, though she squirmed and begged me to stop.

  Well, we passed the next hour in this fashion, Susan performing all sorts of menial tasks in the nude, bringing me coffee, polishing the brass, cleaning the head. I can’t get this woman to clean the crumbs out of the toaster at home, but she really enjoys being a naked slave on board the boat. It’s good for her, I think, and very good for the boat.

  Anyway, after about an hour she said to me, “Please, sir, may I put my clothes on?”

  I was sitting on the deck, my back against the cabin bulkhead, sipping a cup of coffee. I replied, “No. You can get down on the deck on your hands and knees and spread your legs.”

  She did what I ordered and waited patiently while I finished my coffee. I rose to my knees, lowered my pants, and entered her from behind. She was sopping wet as I discovered, and I wasn’t in her for more than ten seconds when she came, and about five seconds later it was my turn.

  • • •

  On the way back into Mystic, Susan, who was fully dressed again, seemed somewhat distant. I had the impression that there was something very weighty on her mind. In fact, if I thought about it, Susan’s behavior over the past month or so had alternated between periods of clinging affection and bouts of sulkiness and withdrawal. I’m used to her moods, her sullenness, and her general nuttiness, but this was something different. As Carolyn observed, Susan was not herself. But then again, I was not myself either.

  As we sailed back to Mystic, with me at the helm, I said to her, “Maybe you were right. Maybe we should get away. We could take the boat down to the Caribbean and disappear for a few months. The hell with civilization.”

  She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “You have to settle your tax problem before it becomes a criminal matter.”

  Which was true, and like most Americans, I resented any government intrusion into my life that caused me an inconvenience. I said, “Well, then, as soon as I take care of that, we should leave.”

  She replied, “Don’t you think you owe Frank something?”

  I glanced at her. “Like what?”

  “Well, you promised him you would handle that charge against him.’’ She added, “When you told Carolyn and Edward about it, you made it sound as if you still hadn’t decided.”

  I stared out at the horizon for a while. I don’t like people telling me how to run my business, or reminding me of what I said. Also, I didn’t recall telling Susan that I promised Bellarosa I’d handle the murder charge.

  She said, “Didn’t you exchange favors or something?”

  I said, “I suppose we did.’’ I asked, “Why does it concern you?”

  “Well, that’s your challenge. I think it would do you some good to get involved in a criminal case.”

  “Do you? Do you understand it would probably end my career with Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds if I represented a Mafia don? Not to mention what it would do to us socially.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t care, John, and neither do you. You’ve already chucked it all in your mind anyway.’’ She added, “Go for it.”

  “All right. I will.”

  • • •

  On Saturday afternoon, we sailed out of Mystic and headed south again to Long Island, spotting land at Montauk Point, which we rounded against a strong wind and tricky currents.

  Out in the Atlantic, about ten miles southeast of Montauk, we saw whales breaching and lobtailing in the distance and we headed toward them but could not keep up. While still not a common sight, in recent years I’ve seen more whales, which is good news. But an hour later, we had a less happy sighting; not fifty yards off our port bow, the conning tower of a huge black submarine broke the water and rose up like some ancient obsidian monolith, dwarfing the thirty-six-foot Morgan. The tower had numbers on it but no other markings, and Edward gasped, “My God . . . is it ours?”

  I replied, “No, it is theirs.”

  “The Russians’?”

  “The government’s. Russian or American. The Sutters don’t own any nuclear submarines.”

  And that, I think, completed the conversion of John Sutter from right-thinking, taxpaying patriot to citizen of the world, or more precisely, the sea.

  With a few hours of usable light left, and a strong southwesterly wind, I headed back toward the south shore of Long Island and sailed west along the magnificent white beaches. We passed by East Hampton and Southampton, then turned into the Shinnecock Inlet and sailed past the Shinnecock Reservation, putting in at The Southampton Yacht Club where we anchored for the night.

  The next morning, Sunday, we took on fresh water, then navigated around Montauk Point again and into the Great Peconic Bay. For small and medium-size craft, the sailing in Peconic Bay is some of the best on the East Coast, offering the appearance of open seas with the safety of protected water. Also, there is a lot to see in terms of other craft, seaplanes, islands, and spectacular shoreline, so we just explored for the entire day. Edward explored with a pair of binoculars, spotting four topless women. He kept offering the binoculars to me, but I assured him I wasn’t interested in such things. Susan and Carolyn, on the other hand, told him to give them the binoculars if he spotted a naked man. What a crew.

  On Sunday evening, we put in at the old whaling village of Sag Harbor for provisions. Susan, as I mentioned, is not much of a cook, even in her modern kitchen at home, so we don’t expect much from the galley. Susan and Edward thought that provisions should consist of a decent meal at a restaurant on Main Street, but Carolyn and I voted for roughing it. Since I am the captain of the Paumanok, we had it my way. You see why I like sailing. So we took a walk through the village, which was quiet on a Sunday evening, and found an open deli where we bought cold beer and sandwiches. We took our provisions back to the ship, which was docked at the Long Wharf at the head of Main Street. As we sat on the aft deck drinking beer and eating baloney sandwiches, Susan said to me, “If we get scurvy on this trip, it will be your fault.”

  “I take full responsibility for the Paumanok and her crew, madam. I run a tight ship and I will not abide insubordination.”

  Susan shook a bottle of beer, popped the cap, and sent a stream of suds into my face.

  Normally, this sort of horseplay between Susan and me is actually foreplay, but there were children present, so I just joined in the laughter. Ha, ha. But I was horny. Boats make me horny.

  We played cards that night, talked, read, and went to bed early. Sailing is exhausti
ng, and I never sleep so well as when I’m on a gently swaying sailboat.

  We rose at dawn on Monday morning and set sail for home. Out in Gardiners Bay, we sailed around Gardiners Island. The Gardiner family came to the New World about the same time as the Sutters, and the island that was granted to them by Charles I is still in their possession. The present occupant of the island, Robert David Lion Gardiner, has what amounts to the only hereditary title in America, being known as the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor. My father, who knows the gentleman, calls him Bob.

  Anyway, the circumnavigation of the big island was a tricky piece of sailing, but the crew was up to it. As we sailed away from the north coast of the island, I couldn’t help but reflect on the ancient idea that land is security and sustenance, that land should never be sold or divided. But even if that were true today, it were true only as an ideal, not a practicality. Still, I envied the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor.

  We rounded Orient Point and lowered the sails, letting the Paumanok drift as we finally broke out the fishing gear. Susan, Carolyn, and I were going for bluefish, using as bait a tin of herring that we’d brought along for the occasion. Crazy Edward had brought a much bigger rod and reel with a hundred-pound line and was out for shark. He proclaimed, “I’m going to get a great white.”

  Carolyn smirked. “See that he doesn’t get you.”

  Edward had kept a whole chicken in the refrigerator as bait, and he secured it to his big hook with copper wire. Bubbling with his old enthusiasm, he cast his line in the water.

  We pulled in six blues, which we kept in a pail of seawater to be cleaned later by the captain. And indeed, Edward did tie into a shark, specifically a mako, which is prevalent in these waters in July, and I could tell when the mako broke water, and by the bend in the rod, that it weighed about two hundred pounds. Edward shouted with delight. “Got ’im! Got ’im! He’s hooked!”

  The Paumanok has no fighting chair, which is a requisite if you’re trying to land something that size, but Edward fought the fish from a kneeling position, his knees jammed against the bulwark. The shark was powerful enough to tow the boat and even to make it heel whenever Edward locked the reel. Eventually, Edward reached the end of his line, literally and figuratively, and he was so exhausted he could barely speak. The fish, however, had a lot of fight left in him. I recall a similar incident involving me, my father, and a blue shark. I had refused to let anyone relieve me on the rod and refused to let anyone cut the line and end the uneven battle. The result was that after an hour, my arms and hands were paralyzed from fatigue, and I lost not only the shark but the expensive rod and reel as well. What I was watching now was myself about thirty years ago.