THE STORM PASSED but the sea remained rough all night. My sleeping bag, with me in it, was tossed to the floor more than once. But we managed to ride out the worst of it, and in the morning … the sea was like glass. Absolutely no wind anywhere. We were grateful. We were also lost, pushed miles out to sea, with torn sails and no power. The tabasco had shorted our radio, saturated our sleeping bags. Below decks looked like a crime scene. Twelve of our fourteen water glasses were broken.
We immediately knew that we wouldn’t be at our next port of call on schedule. The Coast Guard, whom we’d kept informed of our progress, would worry—and maybe try to find us. That, in turn, would distress our families if we were missing for long enough.
“Are you scared?” Steve asked me.
“What do you mean?”
“After what happened in the war? Drifting for days.”
“No, no. Not at all,” I said. I wanted to inspire confidence and calm, but I wasn’t lying, either. What I didn’t say was that because we were so well stocked with fuel and food and drink, I could probably last forty-seven years—not that I wanted to encourage the idea. At any rate, keeping the crew on an even mental keel was a role that I was used to, and good for the soul.
I TOOK ON two repair tasks. One was to hang over the rail in a sling, with a hand drill, and bore some holes in the sides just above the deck line, to drain the water. The other was to sew and patch the sails, which I did with a baseball stitch. The others cleaned below and secured everything.
Otherwise, we were stuck waiting for the wind. We decided to go swimming and rigged the halyard so that we could swing ourselves out and, at the highest point, let go into the water. We took turns plummeting into the smooth sea with the most graceful trajectory we could manage, always being aware of the possibility of sharks. We swung and dove and swam naked. Steve ended up with a sunburnt penis.
We still had a good supply of food and water aboard. Also lots of liquor. Cases of Canadian Club, crème de cacao. That called for drinks. We cut the tops off of coconuts, fortified the milk with vodka or gin, and added fresh-squeezed lime—to ward off scurvy, of course. We also had a sack full of live langouste. We boiled these spiny lobsters in a deck bucket then dipped the tender and tasty morsels in a coffee can of hot salted butter melted by the sun. Yes, we worked to restore the boat, but otherwise we had nothing to do but party and wait for some wind. What a way to live.
WE MUST HAVE been drifting slightly toward the coast because, although we could not see land, we could finally smell it. Harry and I redoubled our efforts to start the motor, which we’d painstakingly dried as best we could. We’d done the same to the electrical components and radio. After careful examination and a thorough process of elimination, we agreed that the problem with the engine was that the intake jets were the wrong size for the heavy fuel we picked up at Puerto Vallarta. We changed to larger jets, and the engine somewhat reluctantly came to life, as did other equipment.
We set a course for Puerto Vallarta, where we effected more repairs and restored the radio. We’d been drifting for almost a week. I got a message to my wife describing our predicament and assuring her I was all right. Later, I would get a letter she’d sent chiding me for being selfishly out of touch for a whole week. But another letter quickly followed saying that she understood what had happened and would I please ignore what she’d written.
We arrived in Acapulco in early March. The inner bay was aglow with ship lights. The encircling hills were dotted with homes and a few hotels.
While motoring slowly toward the yacht club, De Yatez, we heard a yell from a nearby schooner. It was Lee Lewis from the Adelia, who told us to anchor up next to him. He had already been in Acapulco for fifteen days. Lee and crew came aboard and gave us all the dope on the place. “It’s not too expensive,” he said, “but good chow is scarce. Nightlife starts at ten p.m.”
We went to the best hotel first, the Casablanca, then the Hotel Americas, where we made a beeline for the outdoor bar that served drinks in hollowed-out pineapples. The whole joint was surrounded by a ten-foot bamboo fence. When we finished our drinks, the bartender told us to toss the pineapples over the fence where the locals waited for the shells.
This was our routine. Beach by day, hotel life by night. On the third night we went back to the Hotel Americas bar but found the lobby leading to the bar and pool area closed. Two bulky security guards forbid anyone to enter.
We peeked past them and saw a large private party in progress behind closed glass doors. “Whose party is it?” I asked one guard.
“Virginia Hill’s,” he said, blankly. He had no idea who she was, but I did. Virginia was Bugsy Siegel’s girlfriend. And I do mean was. Bugsy had since been assassinated.
I asked the guard to take a note to Virginia and she came running out. After a big hug she said, “Louie, come on in!”
“There are six of us,” I said.
“If they’re your friends, they’re all welcome,” she said.
THE NEXT DAY, March 7, I got a telegram from Cynthia. “Your presence is urgently needed come home at once.” Now what? I felt that old sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I caught a flight for Los Angeles; Harry and the crew stayed behind. When I got home, I got the bad news: Remember the D8 Caterpillars deal I’d gotten involved in when I gave our Hawaiian middleman $7,000 to hold the machines?
Our contact had spent the money on himself and his family. I’d lost everything.
And yet, not long after, Cynthia also had good news: She was pregnant. (Our daughter, Cynthia—known as Cissy—was born on January 7, 1949.)
AS I’D PREDICTED, when the Coast Guard hadn’t heard from us they got worried. They triangulated our supposed position with weather reports and figured we’d gone down in the squall. Thanks to my cabling Cynthia before leaving Puerto Vallarta for the second time, she knew I was all right. When contacted by the Associated Press, she said, “He certainly isn’t lost, and he’ll be home in a few days.” That story ran on March 7, 1948, the day she cabled me to come home immediately.
IS THERE A moral to this postwar slice-of-my-life adventure story? Maybe more than one. First, a fool and his money are soon parted. Second, you can’t run away from your problems and responsibilities, because they’ll be waiting for you when you get back—no matter how much fun you have in the meantime. Once I got home I slipped back into my old ways, and with the added responsibility of a child looming, I grew more desperate.
And third, don’t tick off the parrot.
Don’t Leave the Crucial Details to Others
_______
Not long after I got back from my sailing trip along the Mexican coastline, I went missing again. I didn’t plan it. I promise. But this time, I didn’t make the headlines either because I used a phony name to avoid attention.
A FAMOUS DENTIST in those days, with office branches up and down the West Coast, had a crazy son, Tommy, who was a fraternity brother of Harry Read’s—the skipper of the Flyaway—and mine. He told us that he wanted to go to Catalina. He had it all worked out. “Sailing is too slow,” he said. “So I’ll make you a deal. You’re close to the girls at the Earl Carroll Theater—the most beautiful girls in the world. I’ll get my dad’s twin-engine cabin cruiser if you bring some girls.”
“Okay,” I said, after I asked my wife, Cynthia, and got her blessing. She knew how much I loved Catalina—though usually we sailed there on Harry’s boat and spent time with a group of actors and actresses.
I did know some of the performers at the Earl Carroll Theater, and a few of them would certainly enjoy a fun day off. “Gas up the boat, put plenty of drinks and food aboard, and I’ll bring three girls,” I said.
The Earl Carroll Theater was at 6230 Sunset Boulevard, just east of Vine Street. (Later it became the Moulin Rouge, the Hullabaloo, the Kaleidoscope, the Aquarius Theater, the Longhorn Theater, the Chevy Chase Theater, and the production facility of the Nickelodeon Channel called Nickelodeon on Sunset.) The theater
had opened in 1938 and included technical innovations like a stage with a huge, two-section revolving turntable in the middle that allowed each ring to revolve at different speeds at the same time in the same or opposite directions, an elevator to bring performers up from beneath the stage, three swings that lowered from the auditorium ceiling, a revolving staircase, and a rain machine. Out front was a twenty-foot-high painting of Carroll’s girlfriend Beryl Wallace. There was also a Wall of Fame, which preserved in cement the personal inscriptions to Earl Carroll of more than one hundred and fifty of Hollywood’s most glamorous stars.
Earl was an extraordinary showman. A partial guest list for opening night on December 26, 1938: Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, Marlene Dietrich, Tyrone Power, Sonja Henie, Bob Hope, Betty Grable, Jack Benny, Claudette Colbert, Robert Taylor, Constance Bennett, Daryl Zanuck, Franchot Tone, Errol Flynn, David O. Selznick, Louis B. Mayer, Dolores del Rio, Edgar Bergen, Jack Warner, W. C. Fields, Don Ameche, Walter Pidgeon, and Jimmy Durante.
Carroll’s motto/boast: “Through these portals pass the most beautiful girls in the world.” And it was true.
After the show, I went back to the bar and out came the girls. I was in uniform. I quickly found three young ladies happy to take a day trip to Catalina. Two were solo dancers and one was part of the ensemble. One had been dating Mark C. Bloome, the tire magnate.
Earl said, “Louis, these gals have got to be back for tomorrow night’s show.”
“We’re leaving early in the morning and we can be in Catalina in thirty minutes on this boat,” I said. “We’ll be back early. Don’t worry about it.”
THE NEXT MORNING we met in San Pedro, had breakfast, and took off. We wanted to keep our promise about getting back in time. With the twin-screw engine pumping I stood on the deck and let the cool salt air wash over me as we shot through the water. “Oh man,” I said to Harry. “I can’t wait to get to Catalina.”
I’d have to. About halfway there we ran out of gas. One minute we were on deck having fun, taking turns driving the boat, and the next minute, we were sputtering. I had failed to take my own advice to be prepared, and hadn’t thought to check the gas gauge. We’d depended on Tommy to be responsible. Big mistake.
Dead in the water, the boat started to pitch a bit on the waves. The girls were nauseated and Harry went below to find something to settle their stomachs. Instead, he discovered that Tommy had forgotten to stock the boat with food or drink. Harry did find some stale crackers, and an old ginger ale bottle three-quarters full of water—with a cigarette butt someone had thoughtfully dropped in.
The radio didn’t work, either.
Boy did we give it to Tommy. What a slipshod, totally irresponsible guy.
We drifted for hours. The girls were below, where the boat rocked the least, trying not to lose their breakfasts. Finally, a big vessel came by. We waved our shirts at it. They pulled alongside real slow.
“What’s your problem?”
“We ran out of gas!”
That’s when the girls came up. They’d heard us talking. Imagine the captain of the other boat watching two blondes and one brunette, all long-legged dancers, appear from below. They were beautiful. They had outstanding figures.
“Jesus!” he snapped. “What is this? Some kind of gag? You guys can go to hell.” And he took off.
Soon, we had drifted as far as Catalina, which lay a few miles east. Harry said that if we put him overboard in the dinghy, he’d row in and get help.
We didn’t hear from Harry again, and by the next morning we were beyond Catalina. I needed a plan. I went below and got the mirror from the bathroom, took it on deck, and waited, hoping a plane would fly over. One eventually did and I gave it an S-O-S. The pilot saw and came circling down. He could see we were out there plopping around and had to believe our S-O-S was serious. Next thing I knew he dropped a long ribbon attached to a package. Inside were malt tablets and some gum. Big survival kit! He’d also included a note: “Promise to give me the phone numbers of the three girls and I’ll send for help.”
I flashed out O-K, O-K, O-K with the mirror. Before long the sky was full of planes—or at least it seemed that way. Later, I found out that he’d relayed in a message: “Three beautiful girls with long hair… .” Who would come to our rescue otherwise? The aircraft all kept diving as low as they could to take a look at the girls. One of the planes just skimmed our nonfunctioning radio aerial. The girls did their bit, though, standing on deck, waving at the pilots as they flew by.
Then we saw the Coast Guard ship. “Look,” I told everyone. “I’ve been missing so many times. The newspapers will make fun of me. Please, please don’t tell them my name. I’m going to give them a false name, my uncle’s name: Louis Dossi.”
Everyone agreed. The Coast Guard pulled up and threw a line. We all went aboard, and I carried out my little deception. Before long we were all in Avalon, with Tommy’s cabin cruiser towed in as well.
But what about Harry? Turns out he’d made it ashore—but on the deserted end of Catalina. He’d had to hike to get to Avalon, where he’d alerted the Coast Guard.
We gassed up the cabin cruiser and got back to the mainland as quickly as we could. I’d also taken the name, address, and phone number of the first pilot, and I kept my word, sending him the girls’ names and the phone number of Earl Carroll’s.
Carroll was madder than a hornet, but we never got to settle the situation. On June 17, 1948, he and Beryl Wallace died in an airplane crash.
Is there a lesson here? Sure. Don’t leave the crucial details to someone you don’t know—especially when your life may depend on it.
And: There’s rarely a situation that a pretty woman can’t help fix.
There’s Always an Answer to Everything
Meeting Cynthia’s plane at Burbank Airport, 1945. A few weeks later we were married. In 1949, her love and faith lit the path to my rebirth.
You Need a Cloud to Have a Silver Lining
_______
I survived the war, but then I had to survive myself coming home from the war. Despite the good times and all the attention, I was under a cloud that kept growing darker. I had nightmares about killing the Bird from which I woke up shouting and sweating. My running legs were gone and I couldn’t compete anymore, which broke my heart. I wanted to strike it rich, but lost money instead. I drank and fought. I knew I was on the wrong path—but didn’t know what to do about it.
This situation was especially troubling because I’d always been an optimist, figuring I’d find a way through my troubles—which I usually did. But now I’d lost my positive attitude. I felt entitled, put upon, and that life was unfair. I was confused, frustrated, and desperate. I couldn’t blame myself so I blamed God, in whom I believed, but didn’t otherwise think about. I’d forgotten my promise to Him on the raft that I must have made ten thousand times.
I remember driving my wife down Hollywood Boulevard one day and getting into an altercation with a guy in the crosswalk ahead of me. He had slowed down for what I thought was no reason. I didn’t brake, and just barely missed him. As I passed on his left, he turned and spit. It hit my wife’s window. I screeched to a stop and confronted him. I was just going to beat the hell out of him when Cynthia shouted, “No, Louis, no! Please! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” So I let go of him and shoved him away, and got back in the car.
Another time, in Newport Beach, I was walking into a bar with my buddies. A big guy shoved the door and knocked me back. He had forty pounds on me. The beach was right there, so I got him out on the sand. I knew I had to dance around him until he got tired. Sure enough, that’s what happened. Once he got winded, I pummeled him with punches until he went down.
I couldn’t stop hating. And worse, my marriage to Cynthia had reached a breaking point. I was cruel to her in public. At home, belongings were tossed and dishes broken. One afternoon she stopped me just before I shook the baby because she wouldn’t stop crying. I was out of my mind.
Cynthia took Cissy an
d went to Florida to see her mother and explain the situation. She came back determined to get a divorce. She said it was hopeless. Cynthia had every right to complain. We were partners and I kept acting alone. I was angry. Depressed. Erratic. I didn’t have a steady income. I got taken by different people because I was always sure that, “This is going to be the deal.” All my life they’d called me “Lucky Louis.” But everything failed, one after the other. I may have kept in shape but I was also drunk every night. I just didn’t let others see it—though I’m sure they had their suspicions. But I couldn’t hide my distress and dissolution from my family.
A neighbor couple knew we were in distress and tried to get us to go to hear a new evangelist speak. I wanted nothing to do with it. I knew I was a rotten failure. An evil stinker. I knew that everything about me was wrong, but when the subject of religion came up, I couldn’t bear it.
Cynthia decided to go anyway, with our neighbors. I said, “Okay, as long as I don’t have to go, she can go.” I loved Cynthia, but I knew we were going to get a divorce anyway, so what did it matter?
When Cynthia got home, she seemed to glow. She was so enthusiastic about what she’d heard and experienced that she announced she would not seek a divorce. I was relieved. But then she began to press me to go with her the next time. She was certain that what I’d hear might be the solution to my problems. I still did not want to bend.
Cynthia finally persuaded me to go because she said the preacher would talk a lot about science. I loved science. Still, it took about a week to get me to downtown Los Angeles. We drove with our neighbors because I’d lost my car as collateral on a loan I couldn’t pay back. I stood outside the tent entrance studying the preacher’s picture. He held an open Bible in one hand and seemed like a serious young man. Otherwise, he was hardly my picture of an evangelist, and my impression was confirmed inside when, after some hymns, the young man walked purposefully onstage.
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