"I'LL JUST RETIRE AND LET THIS GENIUS SUPPORT ME." (1)

Summer 1953  

       Hubert Kent was a purchasing agent for the Ford Motor Company, whom Ed had met on a business trip.  Mr. Kent had mentioned that he would be vacationing on the Cape in August. 

       "Look me up," Ed said, "and I'll take you out fishing."      

       Rather to his surprise, the man took him at his word.  Ed came home beaming one night and told me he’d invited Mr. Kent on a shark‑fishing trip.

      "Is this likely to get you a Ford contract?" I asked.

       "Shh," hissed Ed, cringing and looking over his shoulder.  "Don't ever say things like that!  If this guy thought I was taking him fishing just because he's a Ford purchasing agent, it would queer things for sure!"

      Hubert Kent thoroughly enjoyed his day aboard the Happy Days,  A whale sounded not far from the boat and had its picture  taken for the folks back home in Detroit.  We spotted several sharks; one of them hooked himself long enough to convince Mr. Kent that shark fishing was the greatest sport in the world.

      "Mummy, look what I found on the beach!" our daughter Vonnie called, thrusting something black and wet in my face, when we returned home with our guest.  It looked and smelled like a dead dog.

       "How can I dry him out, do you think he'll dry out if I put  him in the sun?  Doesn't he look real?"

        Our son Timmy was simultaneously jabbering that his new kite was caught in a big tree.  Should he call the fire department to get it down?

       "Mm‑hmm," I said, meaning yes, the dead dog did look real; but Timmy went off to call the fire department.  I told my older daughter Kathie to take our guest upstairs and show him where to change while I set out the caviar and pate de fois gras.  Mr. Kent had barely left the room when Timmy piped up:  "Is Daddy going to get the contract?"

      "Shh!  Timmy, will you shut up for God's sake!" I whispered, aghast.

       "Well, all I want to know is, did he—"

       I clapped my hand over his mouth.  "Where did he ever get an idea like that?" I asked Esther.   "Urmph, rrurmph," said Timmy, squirming.

      "I don't know, Mrs. Malley," Esther said.  "He's been talking like that all day.  You know how he is when he gets an idea in his head.  I thought maybe he heard you and  Mr. Malley talking."

      Timmy was still wriggling.

      "Timmy, I'm going to let you go, but if you dare say one more word like that—well, I don't know what your father will do to you."

      "What's Timmy done now?" asked Ed, appearing on cue.

      I told him.  Ed glanced wildly upstairs, then started for Timmy.  "I'll strangle him, I swear I'll strangle him!"

      "Why can't I just ask‑‑" Timmy began calmly, not at all intimidated. 

      "Timmy," I pleaded, while his father collapsed in a chair, "not now.  Tomorrow.  Do you understand?  Tomorrow you can ask all the questions you want."

      "Who the devil told him, anyway?" Ed asked.

      "Nobody told me.  I saw the license plate and I knew you went to Detroit to get some business and I read in a funny‑book about a guy taking another guy on his boat because he was trying to get a contract."

      "I give up," Ed said weakly.  "I'm never going to work again.  I'll just retire and let this genius support us."  

      On another summer evening in 1954, Ed and I dropped the hook in Provincetown Harbor and, 

breaking out our new outboard motor, putted ashore to have dinner.  We visited all the bars and explored all the shops, and only regretted we couldn't dine in all the restaurants.  Toward midnight we made our way back to the beach where the dinghy was pulled up.  The sand bit my legs and angry waves slapped at the shore.  We had failed to notice a brisk wind developing.

     Removing our shoes, Ed and I dragged the dinghy into the water, hopped in and started the outboard.  We had gone a few feet when a wave drenched us—and the outboard motor.  Wading back to  shore, we tipped the water out of the dinghy and set off again, this time with a pair of oars.

    "Now don't you wish we'd built that terrace instead?" I said, congratulating myself that I hadn't lost my sense of humor.  I could tell that Ed had lost his by the look he gave me.

     The shadowy outline of the Happy Days, pitching and tossing, loomed ahead.  Ed brought us close enough to the stern for me to grab the ladder.  Then the dinghy heaved and I lost my grip.  At the same time Ed lost one of the oars.  Half swamped, the dinghy was rapidly being swept from the boat when Ed grabbed the dinghy painter and plunged overboard. 

     I had married Ed, despite qualms, when I was an eighteen-year-old, slightly pregnant Smith College freshman, wishing I didn’t have to.  Now, as he fought through the waves to the Matthews with me in tow, I realized once again, with awe, that I had unwittingly married the right man.

     "Go below and change into some dry clothes," Ed ordered in his Captain Bligh voice when we were safely on board. I meekly went below.  "Come up here and hold the flashlight while I bail out the dinghy," he called a minute later.

     I started to say, "Wait till I get some clothes on," then thought better of it.  This was no time for niceties.  Ed bailed out the dinghy while I stood by with the flashlight, wearing only a look of admiration.

    The next day we were almost back to Cohasset when our engine quit outside of Scituate Harbor.   Ed worked on it until the sun went down and it grew cold.  He always considers it a personal affront when anything goes wrong with his boat, and rescue by the Coast Guard was a fate worse than drowning—but this was a crisis.   Reluctantly, the captain sent up flares. 

     While the Coast Guard was towing us in, Ed gave me my orders.  "The minute we get to the dock, you run into town and find a taxi.  I'll try to brush these fellows off as quickly as possible.  They'll want to make a big thing of it and have pictures in the paper‑‑"

     "Oh boy, pictures!" I said, whipping out my mirror and comb.

     "—but there won't be any publicity if I can help it," Ed concluded firmly.

     When we reached the dock I scrambled up the ladder, bundled to the ears in Ed's big windbreaker, and went in search of a taxi.  The Coast Guard, noting my disguise and Ed's evasiveness when they questioned him, put two and two together. 

     "Oh, we understand perfectly, sir," one said with a leer.   "Yes, sir, we'll make sure that there's no publicity."  They clapped him on the back, winked and would no doubt have pinned a medal on his chest if they had one handy.   For the next two weeks Ed swaggered.  

August 6, 1955, Cohasset to Gloucester and back

      Left Cohasset 10:45 with Alden and Florence Pinkham, Kathie and her friend Debbie Rohde. As usual, it was flat out all week, but come the weekend, the sea gets chunky, and we must all take a Dramamine.

     Arrived Gloucester 1:30. Florence fixed a snack of sardines and crackers and cheese.  Ed almost 
got away with that second gin and tonic, but I reminded him he’d taken the pledge (not to live it up more than once a day). Or as the man said: “It was 8 a.m., too early for breakfast, so we had to drink on an empty stomach.”

     I heated Franco-American spaghetti for Kathie and Debbie with a side of boned chicken, which soon became chicken-of-the-sea because they didn’t like that icky jelly stuff that surrounded it.

     Arrived Scituate Harbor 5:45. Dropped the girls off and gave them taxi money so they could go exploring.  Florence’s son Warren and daughter-in-law Vi joined us for Happy Hour. We brought our BYOB ashore, had a fine dinner at the Yacht Club. Started home at 10:30--one engine on the blink, “but that’s why I like two engines,” said our captain.. 

August 9, 1955, Cohasset to Draggers

     A beautiful day for Kathie’s long-planned, oft-postponed outing for her friends. The busted engine was repaired just in time, and Hurricane Connie is prolonging her vacation in Florida, so here we are, rolling along in gentle and variable breezes.

     It’s a wee bit chunky out. Remembering last summer’s ashy-pale young faces, I made the gang line up for Dramamine. There were the familiar cries of, “Oh, I never get seasick!” but the first mate pushed a pill into each and every sailor. The crew: Kathie, Stephanie Tashjean, Susans Churchill and Davis, Debbie Rohde, Priscilla Lincoln, Mary Humphreys, Judy Merritt, Margo Wilcox--and The Boys: Bobby Bailey, Don Damon, Jack Bursk, Roy MacDonald, and Jack’s friend Burt Urlick.

     Caught loads and loads of trawler fish with a dip net--not the kind you’d want in your chowder or even in your garbage pail. The sharks seemed to feel the same way about them. For excitement, the kids played Flying Fish--all it takes is a good throwing arm, a dip net, and a plentiful supply of dead fish. The deck is covered with their scales.

August 16, 1955, Cohasset to Provincetown and back

     Ed took the day off and persuaded Wes Marsh to do the same. (This was like persuading Minxi to eat filet mignon).  Arose at 5:15, met the Marshes at the Yacht Club at 6:00, chugged out of the misted harbor along with the other early birds—Cohasset’s lobster fleet.

     The old myth about school tuna in Provincetown has been circulating again, so we set out with our customary high hopes and zero expectations, arriving at Race Point three hours later. While we were cruising around in search of the fantasy fish, the starboard motor stalled. Ed and Wes worked on it for an hour and a half but got no response. This would have been a good day to go to the movies.

     Had beer and snack, started limping home around 2:00 p.m. Saw shark, missed shark. Saw more sharks, missed more sharks. Finally Ed harpooned one through a fin, and the shark took off, pole and all. Ed pulled the line in gently, at first met resistance, then it came easily and we knew we’d lost him. Also lost metal end of pole, which put an end to further attempts. The sharks seemed to catch on that they were safe, because we were soon surrounded by them.

     Lost our bearings in all the excitement. Ed tinkered with the RDF, but it was Wes who finally sighted the Light Ship with his trusty naked eye. About the same time we saw a tremendous aircraft carrier steaming along, apparently from the port of Cohasset, which seems unlikely. I won’t believe we’re really home until I see Minot’s Light dead ahead.

August 21, 1955, Cohasset to Sharks

     If seagulls were sharks, what a fisherman Ray Remick would be. He was getting really over-eager, though, when he saw that sinister triangular-shaped beer can. This was after he’d had a number of opportunities, both with the harpoon and rod and reel. It’s a funny thing, I told him, Bob Whitcomb didn’t have a bit of trouble catching his shark. Ray said he heard a phone ringing and he thought it was for me.

     Also along on Our Most Unsuccessful Shark-Fishing Trip were Dottie Remick, Frank Massa, Kathie and Teddy. Teddy had a shark on the hook for several exciting minutes but lost him. Dottie and I had more fun than anyone, reading our books.

August 22, 1955, Cohasset to Sharks

     Lois and Larry Hyde from Detroit are our guests on this beautiful August Monday. Ed guaranteed he'd get Important Business Contact, Larry, a shark on rod and reel, with a harpoon, or at least with our movie camera.

     Before tackling the sharks, we devoured cold boiled lobsters. Lois told us it was impossible to get fresh fist of any kind in Detroit. Once she planned to have boiled salmon on the 4th of July, and when she asked for some in the market, the clerk pointed to the canned goods section. “But I want fresh  salmon,” she protested. “Lady,” he said, “It only comes in cans.”

     We met some good-natured fishermen on one of the draggers. They told us to come alongside and they would give us some bait. In return, we offered them six cans of cold beer which they accepted without hesitation. They dumped an entire pail-full of fish into our net -- including a couple of fine haddock, all cleaned and ready for the pot. These we put on ice immediately.

     This was not a lucky day unless you consider it from the sharks’ point of view. We saw a couple, dragged our bait in front of their noses, but they were uninterested. At least we shall have a tasty haddock chowder as a consolation prize.

August 26, 1955, Cohasset to Provincetown

     ALONE AT LAST!!!!!!!! I love my kids, but oh, their father! He’s down in the galley right now making things shipshape after a cow-steak dinner--Mr. Butcher, how could you? We spent Happy Hour trying to think up titles for the Springmaid Sheet contest. “Plenty of Elbow Room on a Springmaid Sheet.” “Men Seldom Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses--Even on a Springmaid Sheet.” 

August 27, 1955, Provincetown

     The Provincetown jinx is thwarting us again. Woke up to find the rain beating down after the weatherman had predicted fair and warmer. Took movies of Ed swimming in the rain and bleating about how cold it was. Then I stood on the ladder, waiting to have my picture taken (Ed always says Gee, honey, there wasn’t much of you in that reel) and finally had to suggest it pointblank. I said if Marilyn Monroe were aboard, he wouldn’t need to be reminded to get out the camera. His rejoinder about what he'd get out is too vulgar for inclusion in the Log.

    Had sausage, beans, applesauce, coffee cake for breakfast -- agreeing to have a hearty one and skip lunch. I spent the morning struggling with a letter to Darrell McClure -- the man is one slave driver of a correspondent, hardly giving me a chance to recover from writer’s cramp before he shoots back another letter, sometimes two in a row. I tear my hair, trying to think of some amusing episode to tell him about, but it seems as if I shot my bolt in my earlier letters.

     I made a copy of the first one for the Log: 

October 11, 1954

Dear Mr. McClure;
     I am writing to ask a favor.  My husband, Ed, has been subscribing to Yachting magazine for many years and is an admirer of your cartoons.  He even reads Little Annie Rooney.  When I was recently trying to think of a Christmas gift for the man who has everything nautical, it occurred to me that you might consider drawing a personalized sketch for him. Certainly nothing would please him more.  I realize the enclosed check isn’t much for a man of your reputation, but it’s all my bank account can spare.

     If you accept, the following may help you find an appropriate theme:

     What Captain Malley really needs for Christmas is a gift certificate to a psychiatrist’s office. He is a rabid perfectionist about everything pertaining to our Matthews, but when it comes to extracting a few dollars for household repairs,  I might as well ask him for one of his eyes. Consider the matter of the bathroom linoleum, stained and faded and so cracked the rugs had humps in them.

     "New linoleum!" sobbed my husband.  "I bought you new linoleum 10 years ago!"

      A few days later, however, Ed breezed into the house with a box full of linoleum samples and said cheerfully, "Pick a color!"

      "Is this a game?" I asked

      "No," he said, looking hurt.  "We need new linoleum.  You know better than I about things like colors."

     Hastily, before he could change his mind, I chose a practical bathroom design.

     Ed was shocked.  "That one!  On a boat?"

     There followed a brisk exchange of opinions.  Don't misunderstand me, Mr. McClure;  my husband and I have no differences that couldn't be settled by the Supreme Court.  This time we compromised:   new linoleum was installed throughout the Happy Days; she was freshly painted inside and out; new curtains and slipcovers were ordered for her.  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the bathroom was resplendent in black marbleized linoleum.

     According to Ed, most of his extravagances (he calls them "investments") have been in the interest of safety. Inclined to be safety‑conscious since our first boat sank under us, he is determined to be prepared for any contingency except bankruptcy.  Since we have been unable to find anyone with enough derring‑ do to buy what's left of the Barbara, we are the  only folks in town who own, not one, but two boats we can't afford.  Without blinking an eyelash Ed will dash off checks for such things as a ship‑to‑ shore telephone, built‑in CO₂ system,  or automatic pilot. But mention a new lampshade or shoes for the kiddies and he clutches his heart, or his wallet.

     In spite of my complaints, however, there isn't a boat in the world I'd rather have.  I'd even settle for the same captain.                          

Old Saybrook, Conn.

October 28, 1954

From Darrell

     Yes, lady, I'll draw up a sketch for you and tear up your check. Your letter is sufficient payment.  I'm sending it to the brains at Yachting to see if it can be used as material in some fashion.  Of course, we would never do anything about it without your consent.

THE CAPTAIN IS A SLOB AT HOME.   

      Finally, glassy-eyed, I finish my latest letter to Darrell and find it has cleared outside. Ed had gone below to take a nap but I roused him and said come on, fella, let’s live a little. We went ashore, hired bicycles, cycled to tennis courts to see how wet they were, and made a reservation for tomorrow.

     Back to the Happy Days for a nap, a swim to wake us up, a cocktail.

     Gene Krupa was at the Atlantic House—a special show for teenagers 5-8 p.m. Figuring we were qualified, we dropped in at 7:00 to listen to the Old Master. My feelings were hurt when we ordered daiquiris and no one asked to see my birth certificate. Krupa is a good-looking, clean-cut type of fellow in spite of the wild life they say he leads. Ed was impressed with the saxophone player. He said no one ever explained to him about harmony when he was a kid playing alto-sax, so he couldn’t understand why he was not supposed to play the melody.

      “They’d tell me to go boop-boop every now and then, only I never went boop-boop in the right places. Used to drive the conductor crazy trying to figure out who was out of sync.”

March 25, 1955

     Minxi is in an interesting condition‑‑at least all the dogs from here to Quincy seem to think so. I got home from the market to find seven of them in the house. They were leaping and slithering after Minxi, my ladylike mother was lunging after the dogs, and the children were bringing up the rear with shouts of glee or distress, depending on how they looked at it. Vaughan did her best to help by standing by the front door and saying Shoo!

     Every time one of the dogs was collared and shoved out the door, two more would squirm their way in. We were getting desperate when Teddy, who knows more about the facts of life than I gave him credit for, made the brilliant move of collaring Minxi and shoving her out. The pack stampeded out the door in pursuit, each one giving a farewell salute to the new upholstery to show what they thought of our hospitality.

     Timmy, the cause of it all, said he hadn't meant to let the dogs in; he was only trying to let Minxi out.

August 27, 1955, Provincetown to Cohasset

     Fair but windy. Played tennis at Tennis and Yacht Club from 10:00 to 11:30. Ed won 7-5, 6-4, but I didn’t make it easy for him. According to him, all my best shots are off the handle, on the tape, held in by the wind, helped over by the wind, etc.

     Talked Ed into buying me some Lasagna for lunch at the Towne House. Have always wanted to try it; between us we finished one order. Decided since small-craft warnings were up, we’d better scoot for home.

     Left at 2:00. Extremely rough and windy, waves breaking over the flying bridge and us. Steady sail helped prevent rolling.

September 2, 1955, Cohasset to Cuttyhunk

     Marion said: “I’ll bet Wes and I are going to have more fun on this trip than we’ve ever had--and we’ve had a lot of fun.” 

     That’s what’s great about the Marshes; they’re so enthusiastic about cruising. We left Cohasset at 2:10 p.m., two hours behind schedule. (The Big Boston Business Typhoon had to catch up on things at the office after a two-day trip to Detroit.) Our ultimate destination is Martha’s Vineyard, but we decided to make a stop along the way at Cuttyhunk.

     At 8:40, we are approaching Cuttyhunk. It’s a beautiful night, the moon is full, but Marion and I are not, with the dinner hour so late. We are also thirsty, but after toying with the idea of stirring up some Martinis in the cocktail saucepan, we have decided to be strong and wait for the boys.

     Marion just read aloud an interesting paragraph from the U.S. Coast Pilot: “Vessels bound for Cuttyhunk Harbor generally approach from Buzzard’s Bay. The principal dangers are marked by buoys. Strangers should not enter except in the daytime with clear weather.” Luckily, the Marshes and the Malleys are not strangers.

     At 9:20, we dropped the anchor at Cuttyhunk. Moonlight is simmering on the water and onions are shimmering in the frying pan--I’m so hungry I can’t think straight.

     Everyone had Martinis except Ed, who had a sudden attack of rectitude and stuck to Tom Collinses. It was pretty late when I finally plunked down the baked-in-foil potatoes and sliced meatloaf in tomato sauce. It was even later when I was getting into my flannel nightshirt under the impression that I was going to retire.

     “Ahoy there!” called a voice.

     There was some conversation back and forth which I couldn’t hear because I was busy praying Ed wouldn’t get it into his head to invite the visitors aboard.

     “Hey, Wes,” Ed called from the galley, “invite them aboard for a drink!”

     Marion came below to see what I was doing. I was resignedly putting on lipstick. She made a lot of uncomplimentary remarks about my nightshirt and said she would not allow me to appear in public wearing “that thing.” To satisfy her, I put on my raincoat on over my totally modest nightshirt and made my entrance.

     After a couple of hours Marion got to that swaggering stage where she talks out of the side of her mouth like a gun moll. She whispered loud enough for anyone to hear, “Hey, Barbara, do you want me to get rid of these characters?”

     The way she said “get rid of” sounded like she was going to coat them with cement and shove them overboard. I told her to control herself a little longer; maybe they’d leave under their own power. This they did at about 1:30, with noisy farewells and their bottles.

September 3, 1955, Cuttyhunk

     The secret phrase was “Breakfast at dawn,” which no one remembered except Marion because she made it up this morning. It wasn’t exactly dawn, it was 8:30, but it was like dawn. Ed, Wes, and I had a swim while Marion used up four days’ supply of water in the shower.     

     Breakfast consisted of pre-cooked sausages and scrambled eggs country style (stir them once, then let them shift for themselves). I found some notes I had recorded last night to make sure I wouldn’t omit anything from the Log. One of the notes said simply and starkly “brine.” We were hilarious last night about the business of the brine, but now it's a bore. Wes was trying to dig out an olive and to expedite matters, dumped the brine into the nearest jug. The jug was full of Martinis. They were so salty it seemed likely we would go out of our heads and jump overboard if we drank too many of them. Ed made a fresh supply.

     Ed also made a few notes. They are undecipherable.

     We spent six hours cruising around looking for swordfish. Wes spotted a rusty can, a keg, a tree stump. We saw three sharks and three sharks saw us. Ed, then Marion and Wes, claimed on separate occasions to have seen a large fish leap out of the water and fall back in a shower of spray. If I sound skeptical, it’s because I’ve seen too many large seagulls leap out of the water in my day.

     Had highballs, went ashore at seven to find a place for dinner. Our Cruising Guide recommended three hotel dining rooms: the Bosworth House, the Poplars, and the Avalon Club. On the dock we ran into our friends of last night; Dottie said she thought we wouldn’t care for the Poplars’ atmosphere. The Bosworth House was the next nearest place, but we found they served only their guests. We walked along the shore road, accompanied by an army of mosquitoes, until at last we reached the Avalon Club. We were delighted to see an unusual bar made of a dory cut in half, not so much because it was unusual but because it was a bar. The owner, an attractive blonde, confessed they had no liquor license and guests were supposed to bring their own. But, she added, she could “give” us a drink. You could hear the quotation marks when she said it.  Had three broiled lobsters, and guess who had steak? Everything was superb.

September 4, 1955, Cuttyhunk to Edgartown

     Spent most of the day looking for fish. Our only satisfaction: of the dozens of other sports-fishermen prowling around, none of them seemed to be doing any better. Ed said if it remained calm we would go to Edgartown Harbor instead of returning to Cuttyhunk.

     Edgartown is where Ed and Alden originally picked up the Happy Days. I have always wanted to pay a visit, chiefly because of Ed’s description of the cherrystone clams you can slurp up standing on the dock.

     The fishing shack where you buy the cherrystones was closed, so we went to a cafe and had two orders apiece with our cocktails. Decided the menu looked appealing, stayed on for dinner. I called home to find out how Kathie made out yesterday at the English riding event at Hatherly Country Club. Some of her Cohasset friends have been snooty about Kathie’s fondness for Western riding, remarking disdainfully that anyone can win ribbons that way, but it takes real talent to be an expert English rider.

     She decided to take some lessons on the QT (“Heels down, toes out, hands together--how am I going to remember all that nonsense!”) and find out how she would do in competition. She won $9.00, a bridle, and three ribbons.

     At the time I telephoned there was a jitterbug party going on, so I got a polite brush-off with “Anything else, Mom? I’ve got to go now.”

     After dinner Ed and I went for a walk and tried to get “lost.” Found a romantic spot on a moonlit beach, but hardly had we said “Alone at last!” when we heard familiar voices coming our way. That old bloodhound Wes had tracked us down.

September 5, 1955, Edgartown to Cohasset

     A beautiful, warm Labor Day, but strong southeast winds had sprung up, so the captain got itchy to head for home. When we stopped for gas, Marion and I walked the half-mile to the village to stock up on magazines, newspapers, books--also two jackknives Marion had promised the Little Kids. Speaking of the Little Kids, Ed promises we will take them to Provincetown sometime soon.

     Got to canal around 1:00 p.m., left it shortly after two, put up steady sail, as wind was now hitting us broadside.  Had lunch of corned beef sandwiches with Bermuda onion during calm period in canal.      “How can I diet!” Ed complained for the record. 

September 9, 1955, Cohasset to Provincetown

     Big treat for the Little Kids: their first overnight trip on the Happy Days. Left dock and ten dollars worth of charts (How Ed cussed about that!) at 5:20. As we passed Minot’s Light, the captain slowed down to haul the dinghy into the cockpit because it was proving too rough to tow it.

     “Are we in Provincetown already?” Timmy asked.

     Passed out the Dramamine, but Timmy nevertheless looked wan when we finally dropped the anchor at 8:45. For dinner I pan-broiled a couple of whopping tenderloins with onions, plus baked potatoes, and asparagus--a feast for everyone except poor Tim, who still felt queasy.

September 10, 1955, Provincetown

     We had planned to bring Grandpa and Tina out fishing for the day, but the weather fouled us up. So rough and windy, it was all we could do to get ashore in the dinghy. Met folks at town landing at 9:15, joined them while they had breakfast at the Coffee Shop, decided to spend day at Orleans. On the way, Grandpa took several side tours, including the dunes at Truro where Ed demonstrated his fitness by racing Vonnie and Timmy up the steepest dune and winning. Tina and I demonstrated our good sense by sitting on a rock below.

     Stopped for lunch outside Orleans, much to Ed’s disapproval. “Eating is just a silly habit,” he said. Grandpa and Vonnie ordered steamed clams, Tina the Club Hamburger, fried clam roll for Tim, and a half pint of fried clams for me.

     “I’ll just have a chocolate frappe,” Ed said. Then he poached on all our plates until there was nothing left but salt and pepper--his way of going without lunch. Timmy didn’t like the fried clams, they had black stuff in them. What he meant to order was steamed clams.

     The folks dropped Ed and me at the local tennis court for an hour. Meanwhile the grandparents bought kites for the children, and we spent the rest of the afternoon trying to launch them in Grandpa's yard overlooking Pleasant Bay. Vonnie’s was the first to stay aloft, but Timmy’s had a tendency to Kamikaze north, south, east and west. By the time Ed got the right amount of bow and length of string, Tim and Vonnie had wandered off to the frog pond, leaving Grandpa and Daddy playing with the kites.

     The children returned covered with mud. I gave them a good scrubbing in the second-floor tub (the first time they’ve been really clean all summer) and took a bath myself. We all drove back to Provincetown, planning to change into our good clothes on the boat and have dinner ashore. It was still choppy in the harbor, so we decided the children would have to eat in their dirty clothes rather than risk the trip in the dinghy. Ed and I chugged away from the town landing but hadn’t gone far when I decided I’d just as soon eat in my dirty clothes, too. He brought me back to the dock.

     I had a small adventure while Ed returned to the Happy Days to change. I was standing on the edge of the dock with Vonnie and Timmy when a young man looked over at me and said, “May I ask you a personal question?  I figured he was going to say, “Can those two great big children possibly be yours?” but he just wanted to know if I wasn’t freezing to death.

     I gave him a cold stare, suddenly remembering the newspaper account of an escaped maniac pushing a girl off a cliff, and edged away from him. He grabbed my arm and mumbled something about going someplace where it was warm. Then the young man’s friend came along, said "Let's go, Harry,"  and the pair departed, leaving me with a True Story for the Log.

     We had a fine dinner at the Towne House. Timmy, true to form, longed for everything on the table except what he had ordered. In fact, Grandpa became so discouraged because the children acted like children, I heard him mutter to himself, “Well, they’re well-adjusted, anyway.”

     This reminded me of my old nursemaid, Catherine Minton, who commented about Vonnie: “My, what an energetic child! Energy enough to tear the house down!” I related this memory to the family.

     “Why did she say that?” Vonnie asked. “All the old ladies I know are cuckoo!” Then she looked at Tina and patting her hand, said, “but you’re not cuckoo, Tina.”

     “Gee, thanks,” said Tina.

     There was a bowling alley across from the Towne House and Timmy talked us into going in. Grandpa and I preferred to watch while the others bowled. Vonnie finally got a strike, which started what Vonnie called an argument between her father and me. Actually, it was only a discussion, and the reason I raised my voice was because Ed was talking so loudly. I thought he had failed to give her enough score, and he said I ought to realize he knew something about keeping score after all the years he had been bowling. To settle it, we called over the manager, but these men always stick together.

     We walked down to the dock to see if the wind had died down. It was wilder than ever, so we accepted Grandpa and Tina’s invitation to spend the night in Orleans. Ed offered to drive. When we reached a certain stretch in the road, Grandpa warned him to take it easy; there was a police trap in operation.

     “I think it’s too late,” said Ed. “A car’s been trailing us for half a mile now.”

     We all looked straight ahead because if it was a police car, we wouldn’t want the officer to think we had guilty consciences by turning around to look. Before I could stop her, Vonnie stuck her head out the window, and immediately the siren sounded.

     “Well, I was hot!” Vonnie protested.

     Ed got a ticket, being charged with driving 50 in a 40-mile zone and 60 in a 45-mile zone. When we stopped at the drug store to buy toothbrushes, a couple approached and asked if we’d been stopped by the police. The man said Ed was not speeding, it was picayune of the officer to stop him, and he was willing to testify in court to that effect. This was kind of him, but Ed didn’t want to put him to that much trouble.

September 11, 1955, Provincetown to Cohasset

     Ed clobbered me at tennis this morning. Then we read the Sunday papers with Grandpa and Tina while the children collected some crickets, an inchworm, and a frog. The 12:20 weather forecast indicated that a storm was slowly heading north from Cape Hatteras, but we could count on fair weather for a few hours. It looked as if we’d better take advantage of this before we were marooned in Orleans with the folks. Not that we weren’t welcome. Grandpa kept saying, “Hurry up kids, we’d better get going!” only because he was afraid he’d get too attached to us.

     Vonnie was unhappy on the drive to Provincetown because Timmy had a frog and all she had was an inchworm.

     The harbor had flattened out enough so that the four of us were able to pile into the dinghy. I was taking movies of Grandpa and Tina waving goodbye when Ed snapped the starting cord of the outboard and knocked the camera out of my hand. It just missed going over the side, landing instead on Vonnie’s knee, which we all deemed fortunate except Vonnie.  Gave children their supper en route, arrived Cohasset 6 p.m.

THEY WERE VERY GOOD CHILDREN.

HIS RESCUERS ARE READY TO FACE LIONS WITH THORNS. (2)

Sept. 12, 1953
Cohasset to Stellwagen Ledge
     Took thirteen boys and girls, including Kathie and Teddy, out on a shark-fishing expedition in our new Matthews. Wind strong, sea rough, but nevertheless shark sighted by Gaynor Studds, caught on rod and reel by Bob Francis.
     Half the crowd became seasick on the way home. Bob Francis said, “Think of the people who wouldn’t give anything to be with us right now.”
     Caroline Harding asked a friend to fetch her lunch.
     “Where is it, in the galley?”
     “No, it’s in the kitchen
Sept. 13, 1953 Cohasset to Scituate Harbor, Time 11:00, Wind 35mph, Bar.29
     Arrived Scituate Harbor with Pinkhams. Had lunch, drinks, played bridge, napped. Weather very rough, wind from SSE. Returned to Cohasset. Had big boat warming celebration for the Happy Days.
WHAT A PARTY! WHO FELL OVERBOARD?
P.S. (by first mate): Who got locked in the head for an hour and a half? What two people walked home because they couldn’t find their car keys? Who started out in gray flannel trousers and ended up in gray flannel shorts? And whatever became of Sally?
[August 1991]
     At age seventy-nine, I can answer only two of these questions. It was Dottie Remick who got locked in the head. It was Captain Malley who fell overboard while giving upside-down instructions to Dottie through the porthole.
    July 3, 1954, Cohasset to Onset
     Left Cohasset at 5 a.m., arrived Onset 10 a.m. Had lunch, big fight, got gas, and reconciled. The fight was about whether to stay in Onset, as I wanted, or to proceed to Nantucket, as the Captain wanted.
     In Onset we met a couple named Bob and Juan Seth who were moored near us and invited us aboard. They live in Needham but stay in Onset weekends, living on their boat. We found we had lots in common: Matthews boats, horse-crazy daughters, and a fondness for escaping our responsibilities whenever we can. Bob is a commercial airline pilot. Ed said he intends to get his flying license some day. Over my prostrate body, I said.
     We discussed our arrangements for childcare when we are cruising. The Seths have a maid and a governess and three children about the same ages as our four. We told them about our Kathryn Kilpinen, who helps my mother and Vaughan—my childhood caretaker—cope with our youngsters: Kathie, fourteen, Ted, twelve, Vonnie, nine, and Timmy seven. We described them as lively offspring. Especially Timmy.
     The Seths said they were attending a clambake tomorrow at the Independence Yacht Club and Bob wangled last-minute tickets for us.
July 4, 1954
     We invited the Seths for a couple of drinks aboard the Happy Days and arrived at the yacht club an hour late. There was still plenty of food, baked in a pit in the old-fashioned way: lobsters, clams, corn, sweet potato, hot dogs, and watermelon for those who had room left. The Seths wouldn’t let us pay for our tickets or even buy them a beer.
     Went back to Seths’ boat (Jac-Lyn), chatted and drank for hours. Then Juan produced some hamburgers and we called it a day.
July 5, 1954, Onset to Cohasset
     Headed for home, stopping at the east end of the canal to fish for a while.
July 10, 1954, Cohasset to Osterville
     Left with Jill and Bob Whitcomb at 9:15 a.m. Had lobster sandwiches en route, were warned by the U.S. army engineers that we were going too fast through the Canal. Stopped at Onset for gas. On way to Osterville, sighted wreck of 65-foot cruiser on rocks near Woods Hole; later learned it belonged to Marshall Field, THE Marshall Field, who had escaped safely with family and crew.
     Due to a slight miscalculation, we chugged into Cotuit and looked unavailingly for Ray Remick, who had promised to meet us at Osterville. A Cotuit native set us straight and we were on our way out when we were met by Remicks, Walkers, Bob O’Keefe, Keith Staples, and others in a Chris Craft. The remarks made concerning our sense of direction were not flattering.
     Had cocktails at beautiful new home of the O’Keefes, (where Ray and Dottie were spending the weekend), decorated in both senses of the word by Bob’s pretty platinum-blond wife, Juan. Had dinner at Rofmar’s. Were driven to dock by tall, dark bachelor, Keith Staples (Juan’s cousin), who kept us laughing with his droll monologues and no-handies system of driving. He had a rum bottle in one hand and kept gesticulating with the other, managing the steering wheel with his knees.
     Had a number of guests aboard for cocktails after dinner. The Walkers, whose family has a house near the O’Keefes joined us, bringing with them a strange couple. Then they went home, leaving us with the strange couple, who stayed until 3:45.
July 11, 1954, Osterville to Osterville
     Arose at 9:30, played a lethargic game of tennis with the Walkers at the Oyster Harbors Club, a swanky joint with courts on the beach, cool breezes blowing, and even a small orchestra playing nearby. Had a number of guests for lunch: Remicks, O’Keefes, and a friend of O’Keefes--Ellen Toner who knows the Louis Watsons of Cohasset Hardware Store fame.
     Bob O’Keefe and Juan took us all for a cruise in their boat, Juan II (pun intended).. The Remicks and Keith Staples joined us aboard the Happy Days for a charcoal-broiled steak dinner.
July 12, 1954, Osterville to Onset
     Proceeded toward Onset, trolled for a while, caught our usual quota of fish--none. On to Onset, cocktails, and charcoal-broiled lamb chops. Went ashore to see the see the sights of the big city. Had drinks in an exotic beer joint thronged with two old ladies watching television.
July 13, 1954, Onset to Provincetown.
     Today was supposed to be the last day of our cruise with the Whitcombs. We decided to go home via Provincetown, where a school of tuna were allegedly waiting to be canned. We ignored the small craft warning flag at the east end of the Canal and proceeded merrily to Provincetown. It was a grand ride with the wind behind us, but when we turned toward home, tuna fishless, alarming things began to happen.
     I was down in the galley making sandwiches when the frying pan sailed by my head and crashed into the sink. The bottles in the icebox clashed together. A number of articles normally belonging in the saloon came bounding down the gangway. We hastened to secure everything valuable, especially Jill who is doubly valuable at the moment.
     Captain Malley conferred with Mate Whitcomb and decided it would be wise to turn back to PTown and spend the night there. This is the first time we ever turned back because of bad weather. Bob was supposed to be at work tomorrow for sure--had several important appointments--but he said, “What difference will it make fifty years from now?” an attitude we all regarded as admirable. [Still admirable fifty-seven years later -- bbm 9-23-11, happily blogging]
Bob cheered us by opening some quahogs we purchased at Onset. The trick, he says, is not to scare them. If you scare them, they clam up.
July 14, 1954, Provincetown to Cohasset
     Weather much improved today. Did a little fishing outside Provincetown before we headed for home. Caught four bluefish but no sign of tuna. Left PT around 12:30, sighted Lawson’s Tower at 2:15.
     This cruise has been perfect. The Whitcombs were wonderful company--all three of them. Jill was a great sport, diving overboard at all hours of the day and night. When the baby arrives six weeks hence, its middle name should be Neptune.
July 24, 1954, Cohasset to Provincetown
     Left Cohasset at 8:45 with Kathie and Teddy, arrived PTown around 11:15. Beautiful, unusually clear day, could see everything but fish. Finally sighted several schools of what may have been bluefish or even tuna. We like to think they were tuna.
     Trolled awhile, then anchored in PTown Harbor at 4:30. Prepared tenderloin steak, potato salad, and fresh tomatoes. Ted cut into his steak a little too energetically, and his dinner slid into his lap.
     “Why do these things always happen to me?” he complained.
      Decided the only way to catch any fish was to get up very early tomorrow morning and catch `em napping.
July 25, 1954, Provincetown to Cohasset
     We all got up very early this morning, went to the head, and returned to bed. Finally arose for good at 8:30. I prepared juice and cereal for the rest of the family, then crisp-fried a little mackerel Ted caught a couple of days ago. No one was interested in it when it lay stone cold dead in the ice box; but the minute I sat down with fork poised over the steaming fish, they all wagged their tails and begged for a sample. I wound up with little more than the backbone.
     It was a damp, glowering sort of day, no sign of fish. Nothing to do but eat again. For lunch we had cheeseburgers, the serving of which is a complicated procedure in my family. They are all damn particular about their condiments. Teddy insists on ketchup, no relish; Kathie can't abide ketchup but likes mustard with plenty of relish; Ed ordered ketchup with just a little relish. Me? I settled for a couple of mistakes..

JACK WITH CLOTHES ON AND EDGAR HILL

     On our way home early in the afternoon, we stopped and looked for sharks out by the draggers. They weren't there. Arrived Cohasset 2:30.
July 31, 1954, Cohasset to Onset
     I still don’t believe it. Here we are, halfway to Onset with prone-to-be seasick Jack Barnard and cruise-shy Sally Brewer. Also on board are Jack’s wife Connie and Sally’s husband Whitey. Already a couple of exciting things have occurred, the most exciting being when I barged in on Jack when he was changing into his bathing trunks. My, what a fine looking young man he is. Great legs. Then Sally lost her hat and we didn’t go back for it and the captain lost his and we did. A man in a speedboat kindly retrieved it, tossed it over, missed, retrieved it again, this time succeeded in returning it. This is the biggest fishing event we have had all summer.
     Met Seths in Canal on way out to meet us. Arrived Onset 3:30, had swim among the jellyfish, dove for scallops and an escaped beer mug. The boys took turns wearing Ed’s skin-diving helmet, which made their faces look mashed, as if they’d pulled nylon stockings over their heads.
     The Seths joined us for Happy Hour, made even happier by Sally’s false-teeth joke. I wish I could remember it. Then we all set out for Rofmer’s, and with Marsha Seth’s guidance, soon got lost. Finally arrived at 8:00 and dinner was served promptly at 12:00. In the interim we sang quite a number of songs and drank quite a number of cocktails. Someone said something very funny which we all agreed to remember for the Log and perhaps someday we will, along with the false-teeth joke.
     Had a nightcap aboard Happy Days with the Seths. After they left, Connie, Jack, and Whitey had a swim in their birthday suits. Sally, Ed, and I peeked through the portholes to make sure they were behaving themselves.
August 1, 1954, Onset to Cohasset
     Had breakfast at yacht club snack bar. Spent most of morning trying to decide what to do, when, and where. The weather being unsettled, we decided to head for home. Stopped at Scituate Harbor so Sally could be “seen.” What was the point in going on a cruise if you couldn’t make people envious? To our surprise, whom did we run into but young Teddy Malley and Robby McGoodwin. They had outboard-motored the dinghy all the way from Cohasset to Scituate Harbor and had a fine haul of fish hanging over the side. It's humbling when a dinghy out performs a 40-foot Matthews.
Aug.4, 1954, Cohasset to Draggers
     Sue and Wally Hogan, Alden and Florence Pinkham, and Kathie left Cohasset at 10:00 a.m. in search of SHARK! Sighted beach ball and captured same with dip-net. Kathie first to see dragger. Alden scooped up some dead fish discarded by the dragger to use as bait, and these turned out to be our catch for the day. Cold boiled lobsters made an excellent lunch. We had a small flurry of activity at the beginning of our meal when a shark snapped up half our bait.
     Prepared to head for Cohasset, but one engine was balky. Captain Malley tinkered with it until he got it to sputtering irritably. One of the outriggers suddenly crashed down with a rumble and a roar, giving us all a start. On the way home Wally was reading “Of Whales and Men” but soon switched to our copy of “Sextra Special” because it was more educational, he said.
August 7, 1954, Cohasset to Menemsha
     Ed and I left Cohasset at 9:30, destination Menemsha, where we were meeting Ann and Ball Walker. Arrived 4:45, the trip taking much longer than we expected. Small, tricky harbor, had to do a lot of maneuvering to find an anchorage. Hastened to buy three dozen Little Necks from Poole’s Fish Market. Saw the Walkers waving to us from shore, so Ed went in to collect them while I showered and changed.     
     Heard Ed yelling for Ball—a seagull had snatched at a piece of bait lying on the deck of a cruiser tied to the dock. As the bait was still attached to a hook, the seagull couldn’t have been unhappier. It took Ed, Ball, and the owner of the boat to free him, although he wasn't as cooperative as Aesop’s lion with the thorn in his foot. The gull took off and hasn’t been seen since. His rescuers are now ready to face lions with thorns.
     With the Walkers aboard, the first item on the agenda was Happy Hour. Ann had been drinking Martinis all afternoon, and Martinis, she said, always made her thirsty. This condition remedied, we started the charcoal broiler, and Ball taught me how to open Little Necks.
August 8, 1954, Menemsha to Cohasset
     Up at 6:30, got breakfast while Ed worked on troublesome engine. Went out to No Man’s Land and after hours of fruitless and fishless trolling, a fin was sighted by Ball. Ed rushed to get the harpoon ready for the first heave “because of being more experienced,” and I got the skillet ready for fried swordfish. As we crept up on the fin, it flapped its wings and flew away.
     On our way home, I suddenly recalled it was Ted’s twelfth birthday. Called to congratulate him at Grandpa Malley’s, where he is spending the weekend.
August 15, 1954, Cohasset to Cohasset
     Kathie and friends Priscilla Lincoln, Wendy Walton, Roy McDonald, and Don Damon out for SHARK.  Weather lumpy but no one interested in taking a pill until Wendy got seasick; then we had a hasty run on the Dramamine.  Caught one very small shark on rod and reel.
August 18, 1954, Cohasset to Cohasset
     Today—Wednesday—Ed is stealing another mid-week holiday, and we have with us the Marshes and the Townsends. Caught one teen-age shark on rod and reel. After lunch I went below for a nap, and it is reported that the following incident took place:
     Marion suddenly began to sputter and point frantically at a spot near the boat. “Wh-wh-WHALE! S-S-SEAL!” she shouted.
     “Hmm?” Ed and Wes responded lackadaisically.“Where?”
     Then they spotted the alleged beast, which I understand was twice as long as the boat from tail to horns. A great deal of stopping and starting of engines and stomping around on the deck then took place—not conducive to napping. I gave up and emerged to see what all the excitement was about. There was nothing in sight but waves. I think they made the whole thing up to make me jealous.
     Discovered the answer to a mystery. This morning, at home, I came upon Kathryn and Marion, plotting in the kitchen.
     “What are you two whispering about?” I asked.
     “Oh, I’m just singing to myself, Mrs Malley,” said Kathryn. “Tra-la-la.”

BACK: ED, EDGAR HILL, ALDEN PINKHAM, JOE BOWEN
FRONT: BBM, NANCY BOWEN, FLORENCE PINKHAM, MARG HILL

     I later learned she was passing some candles to Marion for the cake she’d brought. (Yesterday was  my 33rd birthday.)
August 20, 1954, Cohasset to Provincetown
     Bowens, Pinkhams, and Malleys got under way at 6:30 p.m. Nan brought a thermos jug of steaming meatballs and spaghetti. This, plus French bread and Florence’s tossed salad was a delightful climax to Happy Hour.
     The girls surprised me with a birthday cake, apologizing because it was a little late. I said it was my fault for being three days premature.
     Provincetown at night looked like the Fourth of July. The sea was flat, the air balmy. Ed, Alden, Nan and I had a swim, and Florence said the phosphorescence in the water turned us into animated sparklers.
August 21, 1954, Provincetown
     Before we left Cohasset last evening, we appropriated a dozen smelts Ted had been catching at the  dock. They made a tasty breakfast. Joe Bowen said he liked any kind of fish except smelt, then helped himself to more than his share.
     We actually saw some tuna today, a good many of them. Not only that, but several were caught by neighboring cruisers. Alden suddenly called that he’d hooked something, and we all clustered around to watch him haul in a black rubber glove. Not discouraged, he kept trolling but never did catch the mate.
     At last we had a genuine thrill when Ed saw a huge black fin idling through the water. He got the harpoon ready for this tuna, which must have weighed about 600 pounds. Imagine our excitement when he gave a heave and it was accurate; Ed modestly said the fish was so enormous he couldn’t miss.
     Joe and Alden had the tuna within twenty feet of the boat, and I was dangling from the ladder with camera poised for this historic occasion when we lost him.
     After a fine steak dinner, went ashore to see the sights of Provincetown. Had nightcaps in several dives, then somehow the Pinkhams and Bowens lost the Malleys. They later informed us they marched through town shouting, “Calling Captain Malley, calling the Happy Days, over and out, we’re not receiving you very well, do you read us, Captain Malley?”
     We have added Provincetown to our list of Towns We’ll Never Dare Visit Again.
The Home Front
September 2, 1954
     On August 31st, Hurricane Carol hit New England. Cohasset Harbor didn’t suffer too much, and all we lost was our outriggers. But Onset, like many other harbors including Scituate, was hard hit. The Seths found nothing left of the Jac-Lyn but the icebox, the steering wheel, and one fishing rod. What can we say to comfort them? We don’t know any other couple who got more enjoyment out of their boat.
Famous Last Words by Robert E. Seth:
Marsha—“Are you going to put an extra line on the boat?”
Bob—“Oh no, we’re not going to get that storm.”
September 18, 1954, Cohasset
     Cold, windy, and rough. Seths, Thaxters, and Malleys ventured out a little beyond Minot’s, decided it wasn’t worth it, returned to Cohasset Harbor where we had lunch and exchanged confidences. We learned that Bob Seth has a weakness for poker on Friday afternoons, Ed Malley has a weakness for too many Martinis on weekends, and Blake Thaxter is crazy about peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches -- has several trunks full of them according to Jayne.
     It being Jayne’s birthday, Marion and I decided we would give her boxes inside boxes to open, the last one containing a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich. Blake ate her birthday present.

A HUG FROM BLAKE, ED'S BEST BUDDY TO MY OCCASIONAL
DESPAIR

     As I reread the Logs, I had an epiphany:  Ed and I were the Scott
and Zelda Fitzgerald of our era. That was probably when I began losing my hair.
    I was not suited for the role of Zelda, being an insomniac and a party pooper after 2:00 a.m. But with my husband infatuated with the Thaxters, what choice did I have?
    Blake and Jayne gleefully named our crowd “The Hard Core.” Our live-it-up friends were the best thing that ever happened to Ed’s social life and the worst to happen to mine. It wasn't easy pretending to be having as much fun as everyone else.

TIMMY SAID HE WOULDN'T COME OUT UNTIL GRANDPA APOLOGIZED (3).

February 12, 1956
Fort Lauderdale, Florida

                           

     We are enjoying our vacation with Ed’s dad and stepmother—although Tina and I occasionally have Trouble in the Kitchen. She doesn’t read instructions, she does things backwards, but her meals are out of this world. One night I insisted on getting dinner by myself—I wanted to try the Seven-Heat Economy Cooker that came with our stove—and burned the potatoes. Tina and Ed kept assuring me they were tastier that way, (“just like campfire potatoes,” said Tina), but somewhat deaf Grandpa, unaware that I had taken over the cooking, wanted to know what the hell happened to the potatoes.
     Tina keeps putting the table butter in the refrigerator. I keep switching it to the cupboard because I dislike mutilating my toast when I spread it. Yesterday I left the butter dish on the hot stove and it runneth over. I also cremated the toast, which wouldn’t have happened if Tina hadn’t confused me by changing the toaster’s dial. Fortunately, the folks weren’t up yet. It took me half an hour to eliminate all traces of disaster, but it was worth it. Never let it be said that Ed is dieting in self-defense.
     Ed and his dad don’t see eye to eye on things, either. In fact, if one discovers he’s agreeing with the other, he switches sides. The trouble is, they’re both bossy. Or to put it another way, they’re both leaders. (That’s the way Ed puts it.) Grandpa has a habit of treating Ed as if he were still his little boy instead of a grown man who has a license and hangovers—the stubborn kid just won’t mind.
     “When’re ya going to get a haircut, for crying out loud!” yells Grandpa.
     “Haircut? How’m I gonna be able to wear a ponytail if I get a haircut!” yells Ed.
     The sale-priced washing machine arrived from Sears, Roebuck yesterday. The four of us spent an hour standing around in the kitchen arguing over how to run it. Tina had one like it once, so she thought she knew everything.
     “But Tina,” I said, “it says in the book not to put the clothes in until the tub is full of water.”
     “Oh, never mind the book!” she says. (She has the same attitude about everything else, including the pressure cooker. “Tina, the book says when it hisses like that, there’s something wrong.” “Oh, never mind the book,” she says.)
     The washing machine has a wonderful invention attached to it called a wringer. You push a button and the dirty water pumps out of the tub and into the sink. You feed the clothes through the wringer, keeping in mind its propensity to bite the hand that feeds it. Then you go out in the yard, where the sun is shining and a breeze is blowing, and you dreamily hang up the clothes, feeling like a pioneer woman.
     After you’ve hung them up, you take them down again because you remember you forgot to rinse them. Never mind, it will be fun matching wits with the wringer again.
February 26, 1956
Cohasset
     This morning I could feel a bad mood coming on. As my dear ones will testify, when I get in a bad mood I should be put in a padded cell for the duration. Recently, a more practical solution turned up in the form of some little pills recommended by Ed’s company doctor. He claimed they were helpful in relieving tension.
     Ed brought home a handful last month, and when my nerves began to jangle, I started taking two a day. It may have been the power of suggestion, but they seemed to work. I became so gentle and patient with my children, they asked me what was the matter. My attitude toward Ed was one of such loving understanding, an outsider wouldn’t have believed we were married. I faced the usual daily emergencies with good humor.  To show his appreciation, Ed gave me a corsage of camellias on Valentine’s Day. Instead of wanting to know what he’d been up to now, I thanked him. There was no getting around it, I was much nicer than I really am.
     But now I lay in bed thinking black thoughts and refusing to resort to the Disposition Pills. Maybe they were habit-forming. It would be a terrible thing if I couldn’t be agreeable without taking a pill first.
     All I needed was a little sleep.
     I envied Ed the way he could sleep. The way he could sleep when I couldn’t was grounds for divorce. I remembered my mother telling me that Dad sensed it when she had insomnia, no matter how careful she was not to disturb him. “What’s the matter, honey bun? I can hear you thinking,” he would say sympathetically.
     When I have insomnia I could use a little husbandly sympathy myself. To make it easy for him, I didn’t even try to be quiet.
     “Ho-hum,” I said last night when the town clock struck 2:00. I upheaved my blankets and rolled over with a thump, hitting my head on the bookcase headboard. The door rattled along its track like the Toonerville trolley. Not a sound from Ed.
     “Ouch!” I said lonesomely.
     There was a soft snore from the bed next to mine, followed by a breezy sigh. He must be dreaming it’s his birthday and he’s blowing out the candles, I thought. Snore, puff, snore , puff, snore, puff.
     I turned on the light and shone it on Ed’s face to see if he was just pretending. Snore, puff. I read a few more chapters of Marjorie Morningstar. I reached the point where Marjorie was on the brink of an exciting career and losing her virginity. She was twenty-one. At twenty-one, where had I been? Out in the laundry, washing diapers for his children. What had my life been since then? More children and more diapers, and anyone who calls that an exciting career is a man.
     I dropped Marjorie Morningstar on the floor and switched out the light. My exciting career was dreaming about girls. Sigh, wolf whistle, sigh, wolf whistle. I stabbed him in the back with my forefinger.
     “Humph, flumph, hunh? Wassa matter, cancha sleep?”
     “Aren’t you the perceptive one! I haven’t closed an eye for hours, if you’re really interested.”
     “Z Z Z Z.”

     I look forward to sleeping late Sunday morning while the children get ready for Sunday School. This morning I wearily focused one eye on the clock and tried to make out the time without waking up. I heard Kathryn call from the foot of the stairs that it was after 8:30 and breakfast was nearly ready. If Vonnie would remember to rouse Teddy from his ivory tower on the third floor, I could go back to sleep.
     The harrowing thing is, sometimes she remembers and sometimes she doesn’t. Remembering is only half the battle. Ted is like his father; he can sleep through anything, especially the hour before Sunday school. On Saturdays he’s up and dressed with no prodding; basketball practice starts at nine.
     I dragged myself from bed and called up to the third floor. “Teddy, are you up?”
     “Yeh,” came the sleepy answer.
     “Well, come down and get dressed right away or you’ll be late for Sunday school. Don’t forget to make your bed.”
     I closed the windows and crawled back into bed. I waited for the sound of bare feet pounding down the stairs. Ten minutes later I got up and called him again.
     “Yah, yah, I’m coming. You want me to make my bed, don’t you?”
     “Well, not from scratch, Teddy.”
     Back to bed. Bare feet pounded down the stairs and into Timmy’s room, where the boys share a closet.
     As time went by, I knew I’d better check on their progress. I rapped on the door and looked in. Timmy, in his underpants, was in the midst of a flying tackle.
     I blew my top. “Okay, you two, if you’re not ready to go downstairs in five minutes—teeth brushed, beds made, hair combed, faces washed—you’re both going to bed early tonight.”
     “Don’t we have to get dressed?” Timmy asked.
     “I mean it, now! I’m sick and tired of going through this same nonsense week after week, two big boys like you, what are you, babies? Well, if you’re babies, you can go to bed early like babies. From now on, either you kids are ready for breakfast at nine o’clock every Sunday or you got to bed early. Is that clear?”
     As I stomped out of the room Teddy mumbled something and Timmy said loyally, “She is not!”
     “I’m ready, Mummy,” Vonnie called virtuously from the bathroom, where she was polishing her shoes.
     “Oh, goody for you!” said Teddy.
     “Vonnie!” I scolded. “That’s not the right polish, look at the mess you’re making, what are you doing with Daddy’s polish?”
     “I like to open the can.”
     “Honestly, Vonnie, what a mess. You’ve got little bits of polish all over the floor. You’re stepping on it! No, don’t use the good towel! Put the can away and use the shoe polish in the bottle and don’t spill it. Besides, why are you wearing your school shoes instead of your patent leathers?”
     “Because my patent leathers don’t need polishing,” Vonnie said with patient eleven-year-old logic.
     “Vonnie, some rainy day you can polish all the shoes in the house. Now go put on your patent leathers, Kathryn is calling you for breakfast.”
     “Hey, Mummy, I can’t find any socks,” Timmy said.
     “There must be some in the laundry room. Take your shoes and go downstairs before your breakfast gets cold.”
     “I’m having cold cereal,” said Timmy, always ready for an argument.
     “Get going!”
     Ed was awake when I returned to our room. “Honestly, those kids of yours are going to drive me out of my mind!” I said, glaring at him.
     “Why don’t you take a tranquilizer?”
     “Take a pill? It’s not me! It’s those kids! They’re irresponsible, inconsiderate, lazy, careless—“
     “Children.”
     I snatched open a bureau drawer and the handle fell off. “You see?”
     “Take a pill,” said Ed.
     Vonnie came in, carrying a pad of paper.
     “What now, Vonnie,” I sighed.
     “I want to show you the picture I drew of you. I think it’s the best picture I ever drew.”
     “Not now, go down and have your breakfast.”
     “It’ll only take a minute,” she said, leafing through the pages. “Here it is—oh no, that’s not it, I’ll find it in a minute.”
     “For heaven’s sake, Vonnie!”
     “Oh, here it is. It’s a picture of you. Isn’t it good?”
     “Very good. Now run along.”
     She gave me a hug and ran downstairs. I looked at the picture again. Under it she had printed: “My mother is a beautiful picture to me.”
     I put down the picture and went to the bathroom medicine cabinet. I took two tranquilizers.
     Breakfast might have been pleasant if I’d taken the pills sooner. I got our breakfast ready while Ed drove the children to Sunday school and picked up the papers. When he walked in, he threw his coat down on one of the dining room chairs.
     He does this every night of the week. When I’m not in a bad mood, my thought process is as follows: “The poor, tired boy. He works so hard at making a living for his family, he’s too exhausted to hang up his coat. What a privilege it is for me to hang it in the closet for him!” I put the coat away with a smile of understanding. (I know I’m sincere about this because I don’t wait for him to come downstairs and see how understanding I’m being.)
     When I’m in a bad mood, there’s nothing that irritates me more than this habit of throwing his coat on a chair. “For Pete’s sake,” I say to myself, “how am I supposed to train the children to be neat if their own father doesn’t set them a good example! Suppose we all threw our coats on a chair, wouldn’t the house look lovely. I’ll bet it takes him longer to walk into the dining room and drop his coat than it would to open the closet door and hang it up."
     This morning, while ostentatiously transferring Ed’s coat to the closet, I expressed these thoughts aloud. Ed looked surprised and promised to set a good example hereafter.
     Then there was the way he ate his grapefruit. Usually I don’t notice the way he eats his grapefruit because I’m busy tackling mine. But today I watched and listened with an air of distaste. Couldn’t he take a spoonful without that silly gasp? He went after it as if someone were going to steal it from him. After slurping up the last section, he squeezed the grapefruit over the bowl, which he raised to his lips, gulping the juice with the gusto of a parched water buffalo.
     “If you could see yourself!” I exploded. “Would you eat grapefruit that way if you were having breakfast with Marilyn Munroe?”
     Ed looked thoughtful. “No,” he said. “I’d have her feed it to me.”

     This afternoon when I found smears of liquid shoe polish on the bathroom rug, I summoned Vonnie.
     “Look what you’ve done now!” I said. “Didn’t I warn you not to spill it? No more polishing shoes for you until you learn not to be so sloppy.”
     “I didn’t spill it.”
     I asked Timmy and Teddy if they had been using the polish.
     “Not me,” said Ted.
     “Me either,” said Timmy.
     “Well, Vonnie? This rug didn’t get smeared by itself.”
     “I didn’t spill any, but—well—maybe it came off the bottom of my shoes.”
     “The bottom of your shoes?”
     “Yes,” she said, twisting one leg around the other. “I polished the bottoms.”
     Who but Vonnie would be inspired to polish the soles of her shoes? Wasn’t it Vonnie who chewed gum until her jaw got stuck and she had to go to the doctor? Who sealed her lips with Scotch tape and then asked her father for a kiss? And at the tense point in the movie when the villainess dove from the float to recover the knife from her victim’s back, wasn’t it Vonnie who exclaimed: “She’s a good diver!”
     “You’re a character, Vonnie,” I said. Then I remembered something. I told her I loved the picture she drew of me, and I was going to have it framed.
June 29, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor
     Left Cohasset 6:45 p.m., on our way to Scituate to join the Pinkhams, They came aboard around 8:30, suggested we go ashore for dinner. The icebox being full of cold chicken and ham, I talked them into dining aboard on paper plates. Ed and I had the chicken and ham, the Pinkhams the paper plates. Ed, Flo and I read magazines until 10:30 while Alden slept like a non-insomniac.
June 30, 1956, Scituate Harbor to Onset
     All set to head for Syspican along with Seabird II and several other Scituate boats--the first leg of a two-week cruise, which unfortunately we can be part of only this weekend. (Ed has to fly to Detroit on Monday.) I would really like to go on this cruise, as I know I could count on Alden to provide plentiful material for the Log.
     He didn’t let me down this morning. Called to us that something was wrong with one of his engines. “Ed, go tie up at the dock and take the launch out and see if you can figure out what’s wrong,” Alden called.
     “You’ve got to have some breakfast first, “ I said.
     While Ed tied up to the dock, I hurried below and rustled up a meal of strawberry milk and stale coffeecake.
     “Okay dear, here you are,” I said a minute later, only to find I was talking to myself. The Captain had departed without so much as a see you later, alligator.  He diagnosed Alden’s trouble as a carburetor plugged with dirt and phoned for Doug Morash’s assistance. The real problem, Doug found out, was a broken spring in the distributor. Six hours behind schedule, Seabird II and Happy Days left Scituate.
     Emerged from west end of canal after a somewhat choppy trip to find weather definitely rough. After pounding into it for a few minutes, consulted with Seabird I1 about turning into Onset instead of trying to make Syspican. Alden was for it, so shortly afterward we dropped the hook in Onset Harbor within hailing distance of each other. Alden, Ed, and I had a swim followed by highballs and Delmonico steaks (provided by Pinkhams' guests, Ernie and Arlene Gavet) aboard Seabird II. In case Alden ever reads this Log, he is an excellent chef, although it wasn't easy dealing with his charcoal-blackened rolls.
July 1, 1956, Onset to Cohasset
     Alden, Florence, and guests set out for Cuttyhunk at 8:30 a.m., anxious to get across the bay before the weather worsened. Ed and I went ashore for breakfast and Sunday papers, were not surprised to see Seabird II scooting back into Onset an hour later. Small craft warnings were up, according to the weather report we had just heard. Florence said the sea was wilder than yesterday afternoon, when we abandoned the plan to go to Syspican.
     Ed and I left Onset for Cohasset at noon. Passed Alden fishing in channel, waved goodbye. After we left east end of canal, winds very strong. Blew ferociously the last hour. Found our mooring occupied by Hydron, one of whose gas tanks had burst and our mooring was the closest they could put her in a hurry. Were guided to another mooring by Cliff Dixon, aided competently by volunteer Timmy.
July 3, 1956, Cohasset to Nantasket and back
     Impromptu decision to treat the kids to Nantasket fireworks display. Brought Kathryn Kilpinen along, left harbor around 11:00 p.m., drew alongside fireworks tug off Nantasket shortly before midnight. Finding way on moonless night was no easy chore for the Skipper. Communicated with tug to find out if we were in their way, had it pointed out that hot ashes were liable to fall on us. A minute later, the first rockets began shooting skyward, and as warned, the Happy Days made a splendid target. Ed turned on the motors and we retreated to a discreet distance—although the final spectacle gave us the sensation that the sky was splintering to pieces directly on top of us. I missed most of this spectacle because my fingers kept obstructing my vision.
     Made hot soup for everyone; couldn’t fill Tim up. (“I’m eating you out of house and yacht, Mommy,” said my ten-year-old)
July 7, 1956, Cohasset to Gloucester
     The plan was to leave Cohasset yesterday at 4:00 p.m. but the weather being both foggy and windy, Captain Malley vetoed said plan in favor of leaving this morning. The Brewers and Barnards arrived at the Yacht Club very much on time—highly irregular, even say inconsiderate, making us appear to be later than we were. We all took a Dramamine except Whitey, who stuffily insisted it didn’t look very rough to him, and anyway he had a cast-iron stomach.
     In spite of the pill, I began to feel seasick as soon as we passed Minot’s Light. What particularly nauseated me was that Sally and Connie were not. In an attempt to be sympathetic, Connie described to me a rough trip she once had on a Polish steamship whose unfortunate passengers were subjected to hearty Polish fare such as—well, I should have stopped her at that point. The Borsch and sour cream sounded so offensive to my churning innards that I barely controlled an urge to smother Connie in semi-digested cornflakes. Jack, up on the flying bridge with Ed, kept throwing up over the side but denied he was seasick. Felt fine, he said.
     As for Whitey, the man with the cast-iron stomach, he confessed to losing quite a bit of shrapnel and wanly allowed that next time he would join us in the pill-taking ceremony.
     Connie brought nine pairs of shoes, which should see her nicely through the weekend. It would see a centipede nicely through the weekend.
     The Brewers’ friend Bill Brown picked us up at Eastern Point Yacht Club and chauffeured us to his home for highballs before the Club’s buffet luncheon. After lunch—chop suey, corned beef, veal, ham, tuna salad, coleslaw, tomatoes, lemon sherbet—we girls took the launch out to the Happy Days and snoozed in the sun in our bathing suits while the boys went off to inspect the Browns’ new boat.
     Couldn’t inspect Kirkfield without taking it out for a spin. Eventually Bill tied up alongside the Happy Days, which gave the girls a chance to inspect the new boat—a 36-foot cabin cruiser made by Sample.
     Changed into dress-up clothes.  Connie’s was sensational, but she had a couple of big problems—finally covered them up with a little nosegay, went ashore to cocktail party at Browns. When the party boiled down to a movable number, we took off for the Lobster House. Jane spent the dinner hour discussing politics with Jack and ministering to his sprained wrist.  This involved much holding of hands, and if I were Connie, I’d be plenty jealous. In fact, I was plenty jealous anyway. [ I was smitten with Jack Barnard for years. `Twas a lovely flirtation I’m glad I had, in view of future developments on the marital front. bbm 10-27-00.]
     Harbor very rough, so Ed taxied us to the Happy Days in small groups, managing to deliver every one of us in prime—and dry--condition. No bloopers at all so far this week, much to Log-keeper's  regret.
July 8, 1956, Gloucester
     Arose at nine-ish this morning after a great deal of prodding by Whitey, who woke up with a two-by-four chip on his shoulder. Talk about your Simon Legrees.  Sally and I finally managed to rustle up breakfast, but I don’t recall Whitey expressing a whit of gratitude.
     Played tennis for a couple of hours on the Browns’ neighbors’ court, back to Browns for liquid refreshment, back to the Happy Days for a squabble over how to cook the steaks. (Somebody failed to bring charcoal.) Menu: Fried steak (“Ugh,” said Connie, who then licked her platter clean and Jack Spratt’s, too), succotash, potato salad, sliced tomatoes, chocolate cake. It was Connie’s idea to get our main meal safely under our belts, leaving us free to entertain expected visitors.
     First to arrive was Nat Loud, accompanied by her two well-behaved children, John and Ann Adele. Soon afterward Jack Loud joined us, then the Browns. Little Ann Adele stood at my elbow while I fixed a snack for her and her brother and told me she loved our kitchen.
     “It is nice, isn’t it?” I said. “But after this, dear, you must remember that on a boat you never call a kitchen a kitchen, you call it a head.”
     Jack Barnard overheard this conversation and fell up the gangway in his haste to repeat it to our guests. And I thought lawyers were discreet.
     Around nine o’clock, Jane asked the Brewers if they’d like to sleep ashore. Before she finished her sentence, Sally and Whitey had grabbed their toothbrushes and scrambled into the dinghy. (You can divide our friends into two groups: those who enjoy roughing it and Sally and Whitey.)
     “Never mind, Connie,” I said—Connie thought the Brewers might have at least feigned reluctance to leave us—“ We can play bridge and have lots and lots of fun and hope they both have nightmares in their comfortable beds.”
July 9, 1956, Gloucester to Cohasset
     The Barnards and the Malleys played bridge until 1 a.m.  Poured rain during the night, drizzle and fog this morning. Had planned to leave for Cohasset today (Monday), but it looks as though we are fog-bound. Ed communicated with his office, saying he might not get back till Wednesday or Thursday. He relayed a similar message to Jack’s office while Jack was in at the dock getting rid of the Brewers and picking up the rubbish. I mean, getting rid of the rubbish and picking up the Brewers.
3:00 p.m. After listening to the weather report at 12:20, the six of us had a conference and decided to make tracks for Cohasset. The trip home was not nearly as rough as the trip over. Weather here in Cohasset is “go-juss” as Sally would say.
Friday the 13th of July, 1956, Cohasset to Provincetown
     Our planned trip to Provincetown with Vonnie and Timmy was made doubtful by weather. Suddenly at 8:00 p.m., just after dinner, Ed made up his mind to go, figuring that with Loran and all the other gadgets at his service, he wasn’t taking too much risk.
     Left Cohasset at nine, after hasty scramble to throw clothes for the four of us in a suitcase and a few provisions in our canvas bag. All was well until we reached the tide rip off Provincetown. Meanwhile the wind had come up and it was raining intermittently.
     It took us more than an hour and a half of tortuous bumps and grinds to make our way to the Flagship’s white light that signifies a left turn into Provincetown harbor. The children were patient and good, but poor Tim was ashen under his tan and said his stomach felt upside-down and inside-out. As we swung toward the harbor, Ed turned both engines down to dead low, anxious to avoid colliding with other boats in the dark. One of the engines conked out, and Ed went down to investigate, leaving me alone on the flying bridge, in charge of the Avoid Collisions detail. It was drizzling and very dark out, except for occasional flashes of lightning. Then the other engine conked out. There was no choice but to throw over the anchor while Ed fussed over the engines at 1:30 a.m. After he got them going again, we poked our way cautiously into the harbor and eventually anchored close to a large black sloop.
     The wind grew progressively more violent until it seemed as if it must surely be of hurricane velocity. The boat pitched about like a toy, and Ed and I were unable to sleep, being busy trying to avoid being flung from our bunks. The children were so exhausted they slept through most of the gale. We caged Vonnie in the upper bunk, using a screen devised by the former owners so their baby wouldn’t bounce out. At 4:30 a.m. even Ed was almost convinced that we were in the midst of a hurricane and called the Boston Marine Operator for a report on the weather. They claimed 25-30 mph winds, but later we learned there were gusts up to 56 mph.
Saturday, July 14, 1956, Provincetown
     Called Tina and Grandpa on ship-to-shore phone at 9:30. “We’ll pick you up in an hour,” said Tina. Ed and Vonnie had a swim, then Ed took us ashore--two trips because it was still rough out. He laboriously pulled the dinghy up on what used to be the Public Landing, chained the outboard motor to boat and dock. A fisherman yelled down to him that he couldn’t park the dinghy there for long, it was now a private dock.
     “That’s a helluva place to leave it anyway, when the tide comes in, it’ll be smashed to pieces.”
     “You’re right,” Ed said amiably. (He had pushed the dinghy half under the dock, and when the tide rose, it would have been squashed.) Ed moved over to the new Public Landing nearby.
     Meanwhile the fisherman changed his tune and walked into town with us, chatting in the friendliest of manners. Said he’d been coming to Provincetown for 30-odd years and this was by far the worst summer he’d ever experienced.
     Went to a restaurant for breakfast, had just ordered when Vonnie spied Tina and Grandpa driving by. The kids hurtled out of the restaurant in hot pursuit of Ed’s folks, who parked their car and joined us. After breakfast, drove to Orleans. Ed and I had a nap while the kids went shopping with Tina and came back with all sorts of loot--a plastic raft, a sailboat (guaranteed to sail), and a wind-up speedboat. Best of all, a haircut for Timmy, who was beginning to look like Hedy LaMarr.
     Had a swim in that warm Cape ocean. Vonnie pushed me around on the plastic raft, Tim’s sailboat capsized a couple of times (“Hey, Tina, take this back to the store, it’s guaranteed!”), Ed bailed out Grandpa’s boat. The kids went off to explore the pond while the rest of us had highballs. Tina had three enormous T-bone steaks for the six of us--first time I’ve ever seen Ed give up instead of gnawing the bone down to the bone.
     Grandpa organized a game of Crazy Eights. First, he got eliminated, then Tim, then Ed, leaving the smarter sex to fight to the finish. I promptly was bagged and in the next hand, Tina went out first, making her the Grand Winner of ninety cents.
Sunday, July 15, 1956, Provincetown to Cohasset
     Good night’s sleep in Orleans. Lovely warm morning. Children had conned grandparents into letting them stay on until Monday, so on our way to PTown, we dropped Tina and the kids at Nauset Light Beach. Told Grandpa not to wait around to see us off, we might take a swim first, but nevertheless we could see him stationed at the end of the dock right up to the moment we finally steamed toward the mouth of the harbor. We took our swim, put beer on ice, left around 1 p.m. Arrived Cohasset 4:45, broke out the beer. [June 6, 2013 -- I am unable to make sense of the above paragraph.]
Saturday, July 28, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor
     Left at 10:10 for a day’s sail with Vonnie, Timmy and Margo Whitcomb. Saw pilot Ray Remick fly over the Cohasset intersection at 11:35. Didn’t go so far as to buzz us with Northeast’s aircraft. Cruised down toward North River, saw Pinkhams and friends aboard Seabird, tried to communicate via ship-to-ship phone, discovered we were not transmitting. Had a game of Scrabble with magnetic set donated by Barnards. Dropped anchor in Cohasset at 4:15.
Wednesday, August 1, 1956, Cohasset to Onset
     The Thaxters were already aboard when we arrived at the Yacht Club fifteen minutes late. For a minute they had us worried--they had asked if it would be all right to bring Debbie along as far Onset where her grandparents would pick her up--but they hadn’t said a word about adding Jody and baby sitter Anne to the passenger list. I half expected to see their dog Panda and their five cats come bounding out of the stateroom. However, when Ed started up the engines, Jayne handed Jody over to Anne. We all stood around waving bye-bye except Jody, who was torn between smiling and waving or kicking and screaming.
     Jayne had brought along a dozen comic books for Debbie to turn to in case the thrill of her first real ocean voyage were to pall. The thrill palled so quickly the kid had her nose in a comic book before we left the dock.
     “Debbie, look at Minot’s Light, Debbie, see the big steamship, Debbie, there’s the Cape Cod Canal!” To which Debbie replied dutifully, “Oh boy,” then it was back to Mighty Mouse.
     Arrived Onset around 8:30 p.m. Debbie said goodbye and thank you for the boat ride, gathered up her comic books and started ashore with Blake in the dinghy. Blake got the outboard going without any trouble, then yelled to Ed, “How do you shut this thing off?” It’s lucky he thought to ask, or he and Debbie might have putted up over the dock and down Main Street until he ran out of gas.
     Blake returned to the boat to pick Jayne up so she could say hello and goodbye to her aunt and uncle who were with Debbie’s grandparents. By the time the four of us sat down for Happy Hour, it was 9:30. We put our feet up on the new hassock Jayne contributed to the Happy Days and waited hungrily for our charcoal broiled steaks. Half a Happy-Hour later, Ed said, “Drake, do you want another blink?”  Clearly they'd both had enough, but Drake clickly said yes.
     After dinner Blake made Jayne a G and G (gin and grape juice). Then we all went to bed and at 5:15, Ed and Blake got up. The idea was, we’d get an early start before the wind came up, thus assuring ourselves of a comfortable cruise across Nantucket Sound. As soon as we got into the Sound, the boat began to plunge and roll as gusts up to 30 mph kicked up the sea.
     After an hour of alternately floating between the two bunks and being slammed back on the mattress, dodging flying toothpaste, soap, and the spray leaking from bulkhead and portholes, I decided to check on my guest to make sure she was equally miserable. If conditions were different in her cabin, she was going to have to move over. Blake’s porthole being open, his bunk was drenched. Jayne was in the upper bunk, as miserable as I. We debated whether to resort to Hari-Kari or to take Dramamine, and since we were fresh out of Hari-Kari equipment, chose the latter course. Getting dressed was impossible, so I curled up in my wet bunk and spent another hour dodging spray and debris. Jayne managed to get dressed, then catching sight of her white face in the mirror, stretched out on the divan in the saloon. “Rock ‘n roll” is a term we’d rather not hear in the near future.
     We got into Nantucket around 10:00, stocked up on gas and water, were informed by the dock attendant that we were lucky to have made it, it was really rough outside. Breakfast cheered us--bacon, scrambled eggs, coffee roll.
     Went ashore to look the situation over--Jayne, Blake, and I laden with cameras, racquets, balls, towels, bathing suits, etc., while Captain Malley regally led the way, unburdened. The Captain registered at the desk, ascertained that we could play tennis for free on one of the six courts connected to the Yacht Club, announced that in his opinion we should explore the town, take a swim, then play tennis. In my opinion, his opinion was impractical and ill-considered, so I said, Listen fella, you’re ashore now and here’s the program: we play tennis now. It might rain or a meteor might damage the courts or we might lose our tennis racquets in the excitement of exploring Nantucket.
     “Aye-aye, sir,” said Ed, snapping to attention.
     “At ease,” I said.
     After the tennis, we started our explorations. The Nantucket Yacht Club has one of the finest set-ups we have ever. Besides being physically attractive with its landscaping and terraces adjoining a building typical of Nantucket (silver-gray weathered shingles), the Yacht Club offers numerous facilities to its guests: indoor badminton, ping pong, snack bar, real bar, weekly dining and dancing and tennis all day, any day.
     So far we have but one complaint about Nantucket: the young man who runs the launch service. When Ed asked him why he couldn’t drop anchor close by the Yacht Club, he whined, “Because you can’t, you just can’t!”
     When the launch came to take us ashore, Ed said, “Okay everybody, quick like a bunny, hop in,” and leaped in himself to help hold the launch.
     “Never mind hopping in, hang on to the boat!” the young man snarled. It’s a good thing for him he’s not a policeman or Assistant District Attorney Thaxter would have had his badge.
     We hired a car and toured the island. By this time we were so tired we were only half-conscious. Blake and I kept dozing off, but stumbled after the others whenever we were called upon to admire this view from the bluff or that view of a windmill.
     The original plan had been to go ashore for dinner, but we decided to postpone this treat until tomorrow when we’d have more energy. We picked up a few groceries and had hamburg and ravioli aboard the boat. Folded at 9:30 p.m.
Friday, August 3, 1956, Nantucket
     Ed and I had an early swim, then banged on Thaxters’ porthole to wake those slug-a-beds. They joined us in the water, then we rustled up breakfast, gathered up our paraphernalia and went ashore on the launch. After playing tennis for a couple of hours, we set out for the beach, a walk of fifteen minutes from the Yacht Club. As we trudged along, a bus went by us (“.15 to beach”), and we resolved to squander sixty cents on a ride home when the day was over.
     The Jetties bathhouse was the cleanest, best-run public bathhouse we have ever encountered. The Family Locker arrangement featured two roomy cubicles side by side, one for the Thaxters, one for the Malleys. We had frappes and hamburgers and hot dogs at the Snack Bar, swam, lazed around for the rest of the afternoon.
     The bus dropped us at the corner near the Yacht Club where the Mad Hatters Restaurant and Cocktail Lounge was fortuitously located. We ventured in for a drink but decided against eating there later, since it was not on Ed’s Diner’s Club list. Stopped at the Yacht Club for cocktails and to enjoy Harry Marchard’s orchestra. Back to the boat for more cocktails while we dressed for dinner.
     Chose the Ropewalk, the only restaurant that was a member of the Diner’s Club, and were pleased with the service and the fare—although Jayne was the only one smart enough to order the Roast Beef Special. Chances are we’ll return Sunday night and order four Roast Beef Specials.
     Before catching launch to the Happy Days, had cordials at Yacht Club bar. Blake’s was a very very very dry Martini. A nightcap aboard the boat. We celebrated POPBN (Pick on poor Blake night) and everyone went to bed mad. Blake said he was going to keep drinking, but when nobody gave him an argument, he hopped into the sack and passed out before the rest of us had finished brushing our teeth.
Saturday, August 4, 1956, Nantucket
     Another gorgeous day.. We had lunch at the Yacht Club, caught the bus to the beach. Another relaxing afternoon, our only regret being that it’s almost over.
     This evening the four of us set out for the Boat House, recommended by Charlie Watson, who knows the piano player. By some mysterious process of elimination, only two of us entered the portals. Jayne was either lost or hiding and Blake was either lost or looking for her. Optimistically, Ed asked for a table for four. Pessimistically, we ordered dinner for two. We had an excellent meal, marred only by Ed’s aggravating concern for Jayne.
     “Nobody worried about me the time I walked home from the Thaxters’ at dawn,” I reminded him.
     To which Ed replied, “Poor Jayne!”
     Maybe Jayne had something at that, I decided. On the way back to the Yacht Club I got lost. I fell behind Ed and peeked around the corner of a building, watching him stride out of sight. Then I stood there hugging myself, imagining his consternation when he discovered he was alone. After a long time I spotted him retracing his tracks. Without a word being exchanged, such as “Oh, thank God, darling, don’t ever worry me like that again,” we filed Indian style back to the yacht club. The launch took us out to the Happy Days where we turned in, not without the accusation from Ed that I was pretty callous about the Thaxters.
     When the launch dropped them off, I was there to greet them. We regaled each other with the evening’s events. Suddenly we thought of poor Ed down there sleeping, missing all the fun. We marched down and started tickling him, but all he said was “Go away.” Finding this a refreshing change from “Poor Jayne,” I crawled into my upper bunk and went to sleep.
Sunday, August 5, 1956, Nantucket
     Another perfect day. We played tennis, then Thaxters and I went to Jettie’s Beach while Ed did some chores on the boat. He told us he would probably join us around 2:00, and at 2:00, just as we were wondering where he was, there he was. Ed spent the afternoon constructing a gigantic triangle made of shells.
     “If my father could see me now!” he said, having just talked to his father on the phone. Grandpa was not pleased to hear Ed was not returning to work until Tuesday morning. Blake took pictures of Ed and his Vitally Important Shell Project, declaring: “This is my annuity.”
     Had four delicious Roast Beef Specials at the Ropewalk, then walked a few blocks to the wharf where the Boathouse Restaurant is located, with the idea of ordering cordials (three drambuies and one Martini for Ed, very very very dry) and introducing ourselves to the piano player. Eddie O’Hearn, his name was, and he well remembered Cohasset's Charlie Watson and his annual party for musicians. He played “If I Loved You” for us, after which we hastily departed as it was getting near the 10 p.m. launch service deadline. One startling fact came to light as we sipped our cordials: the Thaxters are as fond of Chinese food as we are and we never realized it.
     “I’m flaspergabbered!” Ed said cordially.
     Had another round of cordials at the Yacht Club bar, finding ourselves with minutes to spare before the launch left on its last trip. When Ed made a remark about Terry and the Pilots, and Blake said his stomach felt taunt, it was plain to see they were speaking the same language.
Monday, August 6, 1956, Nantucket.
     Ed got up at 6:20 to listen to the weather report, learned that the wind was 15-20 mph, no small craft warnings. We all took a pill and were under way by 7:00. After taking great care to make everything secure, it was almost a letdown to get out on the open ocean and enjoy comfortable sailing and another sunny day.
     One of the engines conked out when we were halfway home, leaving the Captain depressed. He has had more trouble with those two new engines than he ever did with the old ones. “If I have to be towed in . . . “ he muttered. But the one engine held on and we steamed by Minot’s Light at 5:00 p.m.
Sunday, August 17, 1956, Cohasset
     The PT hex continues to vex. It seemed like a jolly idea to cruise over to Provincetown with the Remicks last night after the golf club dance. Ed and I left for the yacht club at 11:00, Ray and Dottie having announced their intention to follow us at midnight. Ray had taken a nap during the day, so I suggested to Ed that we should get some rest before we took off.
     I can say with authority that a good place to get some rest is not on a boat tied up to the Cohasset Yacht Club float on a mid-summer Friday night. We heard the Heaths and the Merrills disembarking with hilarity from Sherbie Merrill’s boat. No sooner had they gone than a couple came down on the dock and had an intimate conversation in voices that were just hushed enough so that we couldn’t quite hear what they were saying. Very frustrating. Then the couple saw a car drive up to the club and hastily leaped into the water.
     “Now remember, we’ve been swimming for half an hour,” the girl reminded her companion. Their friends came down to the dock, the couple vowed they’d been swimming for half an hour, and it took all my will power to keep from yelling through the porthole: “They are big fibbers!”
     It was after 2 a.m. when Cinderella Remick and her Prince tiptoed aboard. Dottie promptly hit the sack and Ray joined Ed at the topside controls. Ed started the engines, and since the controls were in reverse, we almost ran aground.
     Neither Dottie nor I got any sleep during the five hours it took to reach Provincetown. Both of us were brooding about the Andrea Doria and half expected to collide with another boat any minute. At one point we must have nudged a lobster pot -- in my nervous state it seemed the whole boat shuddered. I sat bolt upright, smacking my head on the ceiling.
     Another thing that made it impossible to sleep was the vibration of the engines. I felt like a human drill. If I hadn’t kept my feet tucked under me, I would have bored a hole right through the boat and sunk it.
Saturday, August 18, 1956, Provincetown
     After our arrival at 7:30 a.m., I kept waiting for Ed and Ray to go to bed like sensible people. By 8:30 I realized I was being naive and got up. Ray was in the galley, wanting to prove to Dottie how simple it was to fix a meal aboard a boat. He prepared breakfast, taking only a minute or two over an hour. At 10:30 a.m. we all went to bed like sensible people.
     At 1:15 Ed called Grandpa and Tina, arranged to meet them at The Town Landing at 6:00 p.m.
     Remicks and Malleys went ashore, half swamping the dinghy in the process, to Dottie’s alarm. There seemed to be no suitable place to leave the dinghy, so Ed asked permission of the owner of a private landing to tie up, offering a couple of dollars.
     “It won’t cost you,” the fellow said, but Ed stuffed the bills into his benefactor’s back pocket. We walked to the Towne House and made a reservation for dinner this evening. Poked along the narrow street, bought fried clams, ice cream, and other snacks because three of us are on diets and can’t eat lunch.
     “Dottie is the only person I know,” Ray says, “who ate so many Ayds, she gained weight.” This comment made while he wolfed down two cheeseburgers and an order of French fries.
     Took a tour of PTown’s Historical Museum. Dottie and I were so exhausted that every time we saw an antique chair that looked as if it would bear weight, we sat.  It was like musical chairs with no music.
     On our way back to the Happy Days, met Florence Pinkham’s son Warren and her daughter-in-law Vi Reed rowing ashore.
     Dottie and I had quick naps before Happy Hour. Ed picked up Grandpa and Tina in the dinghy, Pinkhams and Reeds rowed over from Seabird II. With ten of us in the saloon, there wasn’t much room for dancing or even an elbow. Ray needs half an acre, as you would know if you have ever seen him hoisting a drink.
     The wind had come up (what else could we expect in Provincetown?), and getting us ashore in the choppy sea presented a problem. Someone had the brilliant idea--in all modesty I can’t mention her name--of pulling up the anchor and dropping us at the dock directly from the Happy Days. This worked out well, since Ed was able to talk another private dock owner into letting him tie up while we had dinner.
Sunday, August 19, 1956, Provincetown to Cohasset
     The boat pitched and tossed all night. We arose at the crack of 9:30 and I made a bargain with Ray. I would prepare breakfast if he would finish writing up the Log for August 17th. I just discovered that he got as far as “Barbara and Ed were sleeping deeply” and couldn’t read his subsequent handwriting. Perhaps it described the party that should have been thrown for me on my 35th birthday.
     A strange combination of high winds and fog made it appear that we might be weather-bound for some time to come. Ray called Northeast Crew Scheduling and told Pete not to count on him to fly tomorrow.
     At 12:20 weather report predicted gusts up to 40 mph, small craft warnings to be displayed until early evening, showers likely during the afternoon.
     Went ashore, Stopped at Sorcerer’s Apprentice to look at their hand-made jewelry and pottery. Dottie bought a pair of seashell earrings that open to reveal a sea monster bearing an uncanny resemblance to Ray.
     The wind had gone down and it was almost flat calm when we reached the dock at 3:30. “We’re leaving!” Ed and Ray decided, and before the Pinkhams could say, “Hey, wait for us,” we were off.
     Fastest trip back ever. Less than three hours. Ray claims his navigating expertise is responsible for our record time and hopes I will make that clear in the Log.
Saturday, August 25, 1956, Cohasset to Provincetown
     Ed had to work this morning. Got home around 3:00 and we made a spur-of-the-moment decision to run over to Provincetown. Tossed clothes, magazines, books into a suitcase, milk, orange juice, lemons in a paper bag, kissed the kids goodbye, and were on our way by 3:40. Pleasant trip across until we reached Race Point and tide-rips where we hit rough going. We’re getting philosophical about Provincetown, so we didn’t let it bother us as the boat bucked wildly and tried to throw us overboard.
     After a hot shower and a couple of highballs we felt revived enough to face the trip ashore for dinner at the Towne House. We bounced over to the Town Landing in the dinghy, not without shipping a splash of water every now and then. After dinner we purchased a bottle of Drambuie and returned to the Happy Days.
     We played Rummy for a while, and I was comfortably ahead when Ed said, “I don’t think much of this game, let’s play Hearts.” After I won four games out of five, he didn’t think much of that game either, how about a few hands of poker? At 1:30 a.m. we called it a draw.
Sunday, August 26, 1956, Provincetown to Cohasset
     Had breakfast ashore, met Grandpa and Tina at dock at 10:00. Took them out for a day’s sail, no sign of fish. Dropped them off at 2:30, headed for home.
Sunday, September 2, 1956, Cohasset to Barnstable
     Labor Day weekend has been up to now bitterly disappointing -- all because of that foulest of sea-going weather conditions, FOG. Friday morning we could barely see “Big-Big” from the house, let alone Minot’s Light. Saturday afternoon Ed was puttering around on the boat when who should come rowing toward him out of the fog but Bill Brown. Bill and Jane were tied up at the dock behind Hugo’s, having made a successful run from Gloucester to Cohasset during a spell when the vapors thinned out. We spent the evening with the Browns, Brewers, and Thaxters, ending up at our house for cordials.
     This morning the visibility was still very poor, and Logan Airport reported that the fog would be “up and down” during the day. Maybe we could sneak across to Barnstable when it was “up.”
     We were rowing out to the Happy Days around 9:00 a.m. when who should come out of the fog yet again but Bill Brown, who has this disconcerting habit of putting in an appearance when you least expect him. (Like waving at you from the picture window of your house in Fort Lauderdale.) [Most of these events trigger not a glimmer of recollection. How did Bill get into the house? Had we gone out and left the door unlocked? Who is Bill Brown, anyway?]
     Ed followed Bill out beyond Minot’s and we found ourselves in the Never-Never Land of Fog. Fog hovered over us and pressed around us and we were alone in a heavily shrouded silence. We wandered slowly along like lost souls, and out of the mist occasionally drifted other lost souls—a sailboat soundlessly appearing and disappearing; three fishermen in a rowboat, doomed to drift and fish through all Eternity; Bill Brown yelling “Soupy out here, isn’t it!” and ruining my reverie.
     To go or not to go, that was the question. Was it going to get better or was it going to get worse?
I favored taking a chance, privately thinking we might be lucky enough to collide with another boat, giving me fresh material for the Log and possibly Yachting magazine. But Cautious Conrad decided to head back.
     We were on our way in when the fog seemed to lift a bit. Ed was literally going around in circles, trying to make up his mind whether to go ashore and drive to Barnstable (where his folks had been expecting us for lo these last five days) or to wait a while longer for improved visibility.
     “Oh come on, let’s go!” I said. By this time the fog was so dissipated, we could practically see Barnstable, so Cautious Conrad clenched his jaw, straightened his cap, and we were on our way.
     Arrived 2:30, Grandpa and Tina on hand to greet us. New slips for visiting yachts offered a safe, inexpensive haven for the Happy Days, tempting us to return more often. If only Provincetown had similar facilities.
Monday, September 3,1956, Barnstable to Cohasset.
      Enjoyed our day and a half visit with Ed’s folks. Last night before dinner Ed and I had a swim in Pleasant Bay to wake us up and sharpen our appetites. Wonderful steak dinner followed by wonderful bed.
     Ed and I got up around nine, had a swim, then breakfasted with Grandpa and Tina. They entertained us with stories of Terrible Timmy: the time he wanted a pair of rubber boots to wear down to the pond and called Grandpa an old skinflint for not surrendering one of his best pairs; the time he and his grandfather had another conflict of some kind and Tim retired to his room, sending Vonnie down with the message that he wouldn’t come out until Grandpa apologized.
     “Goddamit, I should say not!” Grandpa bellowed, and a few minutes later Timmy came meekly down the stairs with no further talk of apologies. We all agreed he was the brassiest (spelled with two t’s in the middle) lad we had ever seen but that he would go far.
     “How soon?” his father wondered.
     Piled into the jeep and took a run over to Nauset Beach. Ed was dismayed by his father’s manner of driving and volunteered a running stream of advice and reproofs from the backseat. “Take it easy, what a cowboy, watch out for those kids, slow down,” etc.
     He sounded exactly like his father two summers ago when Ed was driving the jeep, but neither of the men would believe this.
     “Whose side are you on?” Grandpa demanded, and I told him, “I’m agin both of you!”
     Ed had a swim in the icy surf, I snoozed in the hot sun. Back to the house for early cocktails and dinner. Left Barnstable Harbor 6:45. Beautiful evening, flat sea, no problems until we passed Minot’s light and couldn’t find Whitehead. Whitehead’s beacon wasn’t working, it turned out, but Ed finally spotted its shape in the dark and we tied up to the dock at 10:45.
Friday, September 7, 1956, Cohasset to Provincetown
     The Marshes drove into the driveway at 4:00 p.m. “Why are you all dressed up?” Vonnie asked Marion.
     “I came right from school; Wes wouldn’t let me change,” Marion said. She had gone to a meeting after school, and when the lady in charge concluded by asking if anyone had any questions, no one uttered a sound. No one dared with Marion’s bullwhip over their heads.
     “Kiss, kiss!” cried the kids. “Peeppeeppeep,” squeaked our pet seagull, flying up on the hood of the Marshes car and splattering it. “Goobye, goobye, goobye,” Ed said, roaring out of the driveway.
     We were on our way at 4:20, arrived three hours and twenty minutes later as the last red glow of the sun faded behind the Provincetown tower and surrounded the skyline. I missed most of the sunset, having gone below for a nap. Marion didn’t turn on the lights, she was so absorbed in the view. The water was flat calm, a condition we never expected to see in Provincetown.
     After Happy Hour and dinner, went ashore for cordials at the Ace of Spades. The people there all looked disappointingly normal—season’s over, I guess--except for one girl who was with a character that could have been either male or female, and also a man accompanied by a cat. Leave it to Marion to strike up a friendship with the cat. She found it waiting in line outside the Ladies’ Room, picked it up, brought it over to our table where we nervously admired it (the beast’s owner was watching us with a possessive glint in his eye).
     The young couple at the table next to ours was so close to us, you’d have thought they were our bosom buddies. Leave it to Marion, in five minutes they were. She learned they were from Philadelphia, had three children, two boys and a girl, and were spending the week in Provincetown --their names, Janet and John DeMoll.
     A lady strolled from table to table handing out cards that read in French: “Paint your portrait in ten minutes. $1.50.” She had yellow hair and glasses, wore a black beret on the side of her head, and was dressed in a voluminous garment apparently cut from a Mexican blanket and reaching not quite to her knees. The DeMolls told us she got amazing likenesses in her ten-minute portraits, but none of us felt like putting her to the test.
     The DeMolls announced they were making the Atlantic House their next port of call, so as soon as we finished our second round of drinks, we followed them. The bar was jammed with men and I wondered if Marion and I would be allowed to enter; then I spotted Janet and her husband leaning against the wall, sipping their drinks. We didn’t stay long as there was no place to sit except on the floor, and there you got stepped on.
     Our next stop was our old favorite, the Towne House. Shortly after we arrived, the female impersonator went into his act, wearing various wigs as he played the piano and sang comical songs. We all enjoyed his routine except Wes, who was busy trying to make time with the hostess.
     A couple of middle-aged ladies got up and did a dance.  Leave it to Marion to plunk herself down in the booth with their husbands, only we were never able to convince her the men were married. One man told her confidentially that the other fellow was a lesbian. Mr. Lesbian claimed to be a waiter at the Ritz-Carlton and urged Marion to stop in and see him next time she was in Boston.
     At 1:30 we had to drag Marion away from the table—literally. She kept breaking away, trying to run back to her buddies, whose wives had gone home mad earlier in the evening.
     We invited our new friends to come out for a nightcap on the Happy Days. At first the DeMmolls demurred, but they accompanied us to the dock and after a little more coaxing, accepted our invitation.
     At 3:30 a.m., Janet was saying, “We really ought to go.” We then invited them to spend what was left of the night with us, but they preferred to go on their way. Ed climbed over the side of the Happy Days cockpit and stepped into what he thought was the middle of the dinghy. It was the gunwale, and if he had deliberately set out to sink the craft, he couldn’t have done a better job.He sat there laughing like a baby in a bathtub as he descended into the sea. Judging by the bubbles that came up after the waters closed over his head, I think he must have been still laughing.
     The dinghy disappeared completely, but Ed eventually rose to the surface, full of chuckles and salt water. “Edward Malley,” I said crossly, “you better find that dinghy right now. How are the DeMolls going to get ashore?” Ed made a few half-hearted surface dives but was unable to locate the dinghy.
     After Ed hauled himself aboard, I suggested we pull up the anchor and take the DeMolls to the dock in the Happy Days. Wes vetoed the idea and on second thought I could see his point. A man who could swamp a dinghy without half trying could hardly be expected to maneuver a 40-foot boat at 3:00 a.m.
     I gave the DeMolls a blanket and we tried to convert the couch in the saloon into a double bed. It  refused to be brainwashed—a couch it was, a couch it would remain. At last we beat it into a semblance of a double bed, although it looked more like a book that had been left open and rained on.
Saturday, September 8, 1956, Provincetown
     “As I was saying,” Janet DeMoll said wearily this morning, “we really ought to go.”
     Marion and I, very much in each other’s way in the galley, at length put scrambled eggs and bacon on the table. We breakfasted and reviewed the events of the night before. This morning John had retrieved the dinghy with the boat-hook, having spotted it floating under the surface, conveniently within reach. I didn’t hear the Captain berating himself, as he had berated me on a similar occasion, “You swamped the dinghy? Oh, my outboard motor, it’ll be ruined!”
     We invited the DeMolls to go tuna fishing with us, but strange to say, they seemed eager to quit our presence. Dropped them at the dock, went out looking for tuna, but it was rough and we were tired. Returned to the harbor at 1:00 and slept the afternoon away.
      Went ashore after Happy Hour, had dinner at the Towne House. The hostess remembered us but
nevertheless let us in. Wes gave her a cigarette lighter he had picked up the night before because it was exactly like his. The hostess said it belonged to one of the ladies who went home early last night after Marion moved in on her escort. We asked her if Marion’s friend was really a waiter at the Ritz Carlton. “Oh no, he’s a millionaire.”
     Ed lost his wallet some time during the dinghy-sinking episode. He had a vague felling he may have tucked it away “in some safe place” when he changed into dry clothes, but since we have torn the boat apart in a fruitless effort to find it, I’m afraid it’s at the bottom of the sea. Not much money in it, but it contains all his charge cards, license, girls’ telephone numbers, etc.
     After dinner we all piled into the dinghy and headed cheerily for the Happy Days. Suddenly Wes shouted, “Hey Ed, slow down, whoaa!” The bow of the dinghy had dipped into the sea and scooped up several gallons of water. But we made it all right, with Ed rowing because the outboard conked out. Still no self-reproaches from the dinghy swamper.
Sunday, September 9, 1956, Provincetown
     The local fishermen made an awful racket starting before sunrise. Marion, Wes, and I got up around seven and had breakfast, but Ed didn’t put in an appearance for another hour, mumbling something about the crack of dawn.
     He asked the Boston Marine Operator for a repeat of the 6:20 forecast. It didn’t sound good --increasingly high winds from the northeast. “We’d better get going,” the fellows decided.
     Left around nine, had been going a little over half an hour when one engine quit. It was far too rough to keep heading out under the circumstances, so Wes turned the boat back toward Provincetown while Ed labored over the dead engine. Surrounded by screw drivers, pliers, wrenches, old and new spark plugs, he tinkered and cussed. Even with the switch off, he kept getting shocks. A box full of lures fell into the engine room and spilled, adding colorfully to its plebeian decor.
Saturday, September 15, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor and back
     Just Ed and I on a day-trip, looking for tuna. Chilly out, a bit rough. No tuna. Bemoaned the briefness of summer, now nearly gone.
[And now, all of a sudden, forty-four more summers are gone. bbm Oct. 28, 2000]
[Make that fifty-six. bbm June 6, 2013] [fifty-seven bbm 6-14-2014]  fifty-eight, bbm June 8, 2015]
[fifty-nine, bbm June 23, 2016]