Within 24 hours of the “incident,” I was on my death bed. I woke up with a temperature of 104, chills, diarrhea  and vomiting. I had experienced nothing like it and was convinced I had  the Bubonic Plague or some variation of it.  When the symptoms worsened in the next 24 hours, I made a call to our doctor. We had not been in Washington very long and did not know the guy very well. He was not much older than me and seemed smart but also arrogant and detached.

As was the customary practice at his office, his secretary said he was busy and could not be bothered. I told her it was an emergency and that if I did not hear from him within an hour I was filing a malpractice lawsuit. My  phone rang five minutes later.

I told him about my symptoms and the sailing incident including swimming around in the effluent of the Blue Plains Sewage Treatment Plant.

“Hold it right there! Right there. What kind of boat do you have?”

“A 505. Why?”

“No kidding, that is one hell of a boat, huh? Some say the fastest racing dinghy ever designed. You capsized  a 505?”

Then he proceeded to ask me a number of technical questions: how long  had I been sailing, how long I had owned the 505, how competitive the boat was, how often I had raced it, exactly where, under what circumstances the boat capsized,  why it was so hard to get her back on her feet, and lastly what it “felt like” swimming in front of the Blue Plains Sewerage Treatment Plant.

“But what does this have to do with what is wrong with me? I feel like I’m dying.”

“What it has to do with it is that I am a Flying Scott owner myself. I keep my boat at the Washington Sailing Marina. I think now  I am going to move it to the Chesapeake Bay. Hell, this could have happened to me!”

That was pretty much it. When I protested that maybe I should go to the emergency room, he said two things. First, my illness could be “just one of those vicious bugs going around” and  two, it could be  “hepatitis or maybe something more exotic.”  In the case of the first diagnosis, the virus would run its course in a day or two. In the case of the second diagnosis, there really wasn’t much of a cure anyway. Best advice: stay home and rest in bed. He thanked me for the heads up about swimming in the Potomac  River and was going to call for a new slip on the Chesapeake Bay as soon as he hung up.

In two days I was back on my feet.

My first duty was to let McDonald and Fletch know about the incident. My co owner had been on the boat a total of two and one half hours. I also told Fletcher of the incident, which prompted a very embarrassed look and an offer to refund us up to 25% the purchase price of $1,200. My solution was to sell the boat.

McDonald protested. His heart’s desire was to learn how to sail and he was certain the boat could be put back in shape though he had not seen it since the capsize. In a couple of days he poked his head in my office, saying that he had been doing a lot of research and that there was a sailing store in Alexandria called In Harm’s Way, which specialized in small sailboats and had a reputation for being able to fix anything. I agreed to take it to them first before making a decision to sell the 505.

I called In Harm’s Way and talked to the owner, who was very upbeat. Yes, they specialized in small sailboats, there was nothing they could not fix, and that they would be “honored” to fix a 505. My spirits lifted again.

I drove to the Old Dominion Yacht Basin, put the trailer on the car and then drove to the Washington Sailing Marina where I found what was left of the 505, piled up in a heap, over which was placed a hand written sign, “Fire Hazard. Remove immediately.” I managed to pull the hull up on the trailer and headed for In Harm’s Way. It was the first time I had smiled in several days.

The owner had been expecting me. He was especially excited by chance to work on a 505, which he had  never  done before. Beaming with excitement, we both walked out to the parking lot where the boat was. However, as soon as he took one look at the 505, his expression suddenly changed to a puzzled frown. He walked around the boat several times, running his fingers across the hull, examining the shredded mainsail and giving everything a careful once over, not saying a word to me.  This went on for about ten minutes when he motioned me with his head to follow him inside. Like getting a diagnosis from a doctor when important tests are in, I held my breath.

The owner went behind the counter and still without saying a word , pulled out a roll of  Scotch Tape and an ice pick. He then opened his wallet and pulled out a one dollar bill. “I’m giving all this to you,” he said glumly. I want you to use the Scotch Tape to attach the one dollar bill to the hull. Use the ice pick to punch as many holes in the hull as you can, and sink this mother in the Potomac River.”

“You mean it can’t be fixed?”

“Not by me, it is hopeless.”

This reduced the alternative to one: sell the boat. But I still had mixed emotions. I thought of what it was like skimming across the water at what seemed like breakneck speeds.  This could only be described as one of life’s few moments of transcendence. On the other hand, the image of bobbing in the Potomac for hours was not appealing, and who knew what would have been in store for us next? Maybe what was so appealing about sailing was that it was a microcosm of life itself—moments of pure delight followed by being dunked in the water.

I reluctantly moved the boat back to its resting place at the Old Dominion Yacht Basin. I returned to work the next day and gave McDonald the bad news. Sadly, he authorized me to sell the boat.

I wrote the following  ad to be placed in the Washington Post the next weekend:

“Sailboat for Sale. Your ticket to freedom. 505. Perhaps the world’s fastest racing dinghy. Needs some work. $1,000 or best offer.”

Included in the ad was my telephone number.

By  eight o’clock my phone was ringing constantly. Most people asked  the same kind of questions the doctor had asked–how old the boat was, its racing history, how “competitive” it was. Almost everyone  seemed to know a lot about 505s. There were at least a dozen calls, and I informed each caller that there was a lot of interest in the boat and it was strictly first come, first served. If you wanted the boat, had better act fast.  Around 10 o’clock there was a pause in the phone calls; then  a little after lunch they started up again. The calls I  received at that time were from the same people that I had talked to  earlier. The first one set the tone for the others which followed, “You are a liar and a fraud. You wasted my morning by encouraging me to take a look at this piece of shit. It is not even a boat. It is a pile of trash.” Two people threatened to “turn me in.” I was fearful that one of the next calls would come from the police.  I concluded that perhaps I had gone a little too far in my ad. In any event beginning around three, I answered all calls with “Hello, I am sorry and I apologize.” That did not go very far with most people, but at last by five o’clock it was over. There were no more calls and only one offer– $50.

I then proceeded to put the whole thing out of my mind. Fletcher wrote us a check for $300, and there was not much more I could do. Besides, I had better get back to work if I wanted to keep my job. One week passed, then another. Then in the third week after the incident, I got a call from a guy who said he was a graduate student in DC,  was looking through old newspapers and wondered if the Five-0  had been sold. The true racing enthusiasts did not say Five-0-Five, just Five-0. He obviously knew what a 505 was. I told him not to bother, he would just waste a day looking at it and call me back and give me a piece of his mind. Better just to forget the whole thing.

“Look,” I confessed, “The boat is terrific when it is sailing and nothing breaks down. We go faster than anyone, and it is euphoria. But when racing against other 505s it could  not possibly be competitive. It is a piece of junk, actually. Everyone who has looked at it refers to it as a piece of shit. It has been raced to death. It has holes in the hull. The tiller broke off once.  The mainsail is shredded into a thousand pieces when the marine police backed over it trying to pull me out of the cesspool in front of the Blue Plains Sewerage Treatment Plant. The guy at In Harm’s Way told me to sink it. Everybody who has gone out thereto look at the boat is mad at me….”   As I went through the litany, I was almost to the point of tears, having bottled up the frustration for so long.

Then there was a pause, and for a moment I felt terribly embarrassed that I had unloaded  all this on a  poor, unsuspecting graduate student.

Then he responded, “Sounds like exactly what I am looking for!”

Certainly I must have misunderstood him. “What you are looking for? You’ve got to be putting me on!”

He replied that he built surf boards as a hobby and was looking for a challenge.

“Merciful God in Heaven, “ I muttered.  We agreed that  he and his girl friend would come over to my house and we would go together to see the boat. In less than an hour a tall, thin, healthy looking, outdoors type with a big shock of brown hair  appeared at my front door with his beautiful blond girl friend. I guessed they were in their mid twenties. Their car followed mine out to the marina. Having been disappointed so many times, I remained skeptical and tried not to get my hopes up.

When we got to the marina, he inspected the pile of junk, excused himself with his girl friend so they could talk candidly about the situation, and a moment later returned smiling.

“Worse shape than I thought. But how does $300 sound?”

“Sold!” I shouted, ready to embrace him and his girl friend. He pulled out a check book, gave me a sheepish grin, hooked up the beaten-up trailer to his car, and they were off. I stood there speechless for several moments. I never saw the 505 again.

****

There was not much discussion about the 505 from that point on. I had immediately started looking for another sailboat and purchased a used Wayfarer, a 16 foot sailboat in excellent shape, which was both a family daysailer and a racing boat. We kept the boat—which we named “Mother Courage” – for over 15 years on the Chesapeake Bay where we  were part of an active sailing and racing fleet. Life was good.

One year passed, then another and another. When Andrew,  who was four at the time of the incident,  was seven and interested in learning how to ice skate, I took him to an ice skating store near the University of Maryland. A tall young man, probably around thirty, fitted my son’s skates and looked at me in a funny way. He looked vaguely familiar. Suddenly he looked up at me and stared me straight in the eye.

“505,” he said, “505!”

“What do you mean, 505?”

“505. You were the guy who sold me the 505 way back in 1974!”

My  immediate reaction was to apologize, “Hey, I am sorry, I gave you a forewarning. I told you the boat was a piece of junk. I am sorry, I apologize. Please don’t hold it against me.”

“Hold it against you? I worked on the boat for the next nine or ten months , completely rebuilt her and sold her the next spring for $1,200. One of the best investments–and the most fun–I have ever had. I hear now she is real competitive.”

Having destroyed  all the remaining evidence of alcoholic beverages, we were nearing the takeout area of the Washington Sailing Marina. Instead of a ramp where you backed down a trailer to take the boat out, this marina had a crane which hoisted the boat out of the water onto a waiting trailer. I had been there before and knew how it worked but was not sure it would work without a trailer to put the boat on, since my trailer was presumably still at the Old Dominion Yacht Basin.

The Fourth of July is one of the biggest days in the year in Washington for parties and picnics. The highlight of the day’s festivities are the fireworks, which start at dark, usually around 9:15. There are two preferred places for the masses to watch the fireworks. One is on the mall. The other is the Washington Sailing Marina because it is directly across the Potomac River from the fireworks, and there is no prohibition against drinking. People gather there by the thousands. Most people are with families, and there are lots of kids squirming around and running wild.

By the time we slogged into the takeout area it was nearing nine pm. Kids were restless. Mothers and fathers were milling around chatting and drinking, passing the time before the fireworks started. Everyone was looking for some distraction to kill time before the main event. Then along comes a police pulling the hull of a submerged sailboat. Bingo! Show time.

I could not believe my eyes. Gathered around the ramp area were hundreds—possibly thousands—of people, many of whom were boaters who had observed my ordeal at some point during the afternoon. People were pointing and gawking. I wanted to crawl into a hole. I had already been humiliated enough, but this was too much. So I quickly conceived a face-saving plan whereby I would crouch down so no one could see me and then as we tied up to the dock at the lift area, quietly slip off the boat and move to the back of the enormous crowd. Since it was twilight nobody could see very well anyway,  I could pretend I was just another curious onlooker.

The plan worked perfectly. The police were focused on getting the boat to the crane and did not notice as I quietly stepped ashore and disappeared into the crowd.

When I heard what people were saying, I knew I had made the right decision. “Stupid idiot,” “crazy fool,” “crappy boat,” “nut case,” “where is the owner?” were phrases being repeated by the crowd, which now seemed to me to resemble a mob. I joined the conversation as an anonymous participant, nodding my head in agreement and concurring that I had no idea how anybody could be so stupid as to spend four hours swimming in the polluted Potomac or have a boat that was so pathetic looking in its current state. “Poor guy,” I remarked, “probably had no idea what he was getting into.”

Then all of a sudden, the police sounded an air horn and the crowd suddenly became hushed. The cop with the mustache used a megaphone and shouted, “Owner, owner, where is the owner?”

Everyone started looking around. Where could the owner be? What was he doing? I shrugged my shoulders and looked around with everyone else. Then came the next blast of the horn and the announcement from the police, “There you are in the back! I see you! You can’t hide!”

I looked behind me for the owner, but, alas, there was no one. All eyes turned on me.

“Oh,” I said meekly, “ I guess that must be me.” and started walking through the crowd to the takeout area. Everyone instinctively moved away like what Moses must have experienced when parting the Red Sea. I saw stares of disbelief, some bordering on horror. Several people hissed, ”Oh my God, there he is!” or “Don’t touch me” or “Don’t get near me,” or “For God’s sake don’t get any water on me.” Others had more compassionate looks, but everyone was curious and cautious.

I remembered a popular horror film when I was growing up in Nashville called “The Creature From The Black Lagoon.” This  terrible slimy, human-like creature emerged from a swamp and terrorized people. At that moment I felt very much like the Creature From the Black Lagoon and for a brief moment considered hissing and swiping my hand like a cornered cat but quickly decided against it. I had no choice but  to take my medicine.

“OK owner,” barked the skinny cop, “In the water and attach the sling around the hull and do it now.!” People started chattering again. “He’s not going to go in there again, is he?” someone commented.

“Oh yes he is, “ said the cop.

All eyes were on me again. I thought that at this moment this might be the most famous—perhaps infamous is a better word– I would ever be. Hundreds of people were staring at me in awe and disbelief; for the first time in my life I was the center of attention of a vast and attentive audience. And I was an instant celebrity though, of course, without a name other than “Owner”. I decided to give them what they wanted, smiled briefly, took a bow and did a swan dive. When my head popped up again, people applauded. The fireworks would be nothing compared to this.

With some difficulty I managed to get the two slings around the boat. One of the cops worked the crane and up came the hull of the 505. As the boat freed itself from the slime of the Potomac River, it resembled a shower head. Water was pouring out of the boat from tiny pin head leaks, mainly around the fittings between the hull and the deck. People were pointing and gasping. When the boat got about 15 feet out of the water, I noticed that one of the wires which attached the mast to the boat was still secure and attached to something below the surface. Suddenly up came the mast, the boom and the sails, all pretty much in tack except for the shredded mainsail. This time there was thunderous applause and wild cheers. It looked like all the parts had been saved after all. I wasn’t sure whether I should be happy or sad, but both cops patted me on the back and congratulated me. The crane deposited the boat in a pile on the ground.

The ordeal was over.

I located Embry and Naomi, our four-year-old son and our friends. They had saved me some fried chicken and beer. I did not have time to tell them most of the details since the fireworks were starting; and decided that unless I wanted to be ostracized I would not say much about the Blue Plains Treatment Plant. Most of the time during the fireworks I just sulked. I  could not put out of my mind the question of what to do next.

And in some respects the what-to-do-next challenge would turn out to be the toughest.

While I have to admit that I was depressed for a few days following the Pohick Bay fiasco, I soon got over it and told myself that this could have happened to anyone. I fixed the broken tiller with several applications of epoxy, and the boat was in sailable condition once more. By the Fourth of July I was eager to  give sailing another chance on the 505. And this Fourth of July, 1974, was something special. Usually in Washington this time of year the weather is hot, humid and miserable, but not this day. The temperature was in the upper seventies, the humidity was low, and the skies cloudless. The weather report called for breezes in the 10-15 knot range. It could not have been better.

At breakfast I broached to Embry the idea of a sail. She agreed somewhat reluctantly, persuaded by the beautiful weather and my solemn pledge never, never to scream at her again. We would make another big day out of it. We invited Naomi, our friend from planning school, to join us since she was a sailing enthusiast, and made arrangements with two other couples to meet us around five o’clock at the Washington Sailing Marina after picking up our four-year-old son and his baby sitter. There we  would picnic and watch the fireworks after we finished sailing. By noon all the details had been worked out.  Embry, Naomi and I headed to the Old Dominion Yacht Basin.

By 2:00 pm the 505 was in the water. The Potomac was alive with white sails scooting along in fresh breezes with tiny white caps everywhere. The normal grey color of the Potomac actually appeared almost blue. Several regattas were in progress with boats jockeying for position at the starting line and bright colorful spinnakers bellowing down wind. Big cabin cruisers were motoring around with lots of people laughing and drinking beer. It was one of the prettiest sights I had ever seen. And it did not take long for us to realize that we were in fact the fastest sailboat on the water, hands down. I had rigged up the trapeze, and Naomi  strapped it to her body allowing her to hang out over the side to keep the boat flat as we planned and reached speeds of 12-15 knots, just like it said in all the books. Since Embry was now almost seven months pregnant, she could not jump from side to side very easily as we came about, but she managed ok. I could tell that other sailors were green with envy  as we skimmed past them.

After three hours of pure  sailing delight,  it was time to come in. Everything had been perfect. No equipment failures, no mishaps, no close calls. All we had to do was get the boat back to the marina and onto the trailer. How hard could that be? I managed to steer the 505 perfectly into the takeout ramp area and gave the order to Naomi to drop the main. Nothing happened. When the wind is blowing at close to 15 knots, if you do not drop the mainsail  at the right time, the wind takes over; and  the boat starts to sail again. Naomi was furiously tugging and trying to get the mainsail to budge, managing  to get it down about a third of the way before it stuck again. The wind caught the loose sail  and pushed us well beyond the takeout ramp and into a large piling about a hundred yards downwind  from where we wanted to be. We grabbed the piling and held on tight. Naomi tugged some more, and the main finally came down; but  without a mainsail we could not sail the boat back, and the wind was too strong to make any headway paddling against the fresh breeze. We were stuck.

What to do?

Well, the situation was actually not all that challenging. We were only about a hundred yards from where we wanted to end up. There were all kinds of boats in the water. All we needed to do was to flag down one of the boats and get a short tow. So we started frantically waiving. A bunch of motor boats passed by, but oddly not a one of them stopped. After about a half hour of this futile effort, I came up with another idea. Naomi, who was quite agile, would shimmy up the piling and walk over to the marina where several motor boats were docked with plenty of people on board partying. Her goal was to persuade one of them to come and throw us a line for a short tow to the ramp. Once they learned that a pregnant woman was on board, surely they would take pity. Naomi jumped right on it, scaled the piling and was off.

We waited fifteen minutes, then another fifteen and were wondering why it was taking so long for Naomi to find someone to tow us when suddenly we observed an extraordinarily large party boat leaving the marina and heading straight toward us. To describe this craft as the size of an aircraft carrier is an exaggeration. But compared to our tiny, agile racing dinghy, this image  came to mind. I was sure this could not have been our rescue boat. It was a behemoth. The three story craft— it had the look of a small house on a barge—was packed with 15 or 20 jubilant partiers, mostly middle aged people with fat bellies and skinny legs. The name painted  on the side of the boat was “Big Tub.” Loud rock and roll music was blaring from the deck, and empty beer cans were being tossed with abandon  into the water. As the enormous boat approached us, the middle age partiers  moved  to the bow area and started pointing at us. I saw Naomi at the front of the group. A guy who was apparently the skipper nudged his way through the crowd. He was bald and quite fat and was  wearing Bermuda shorts, sunglasses and a garish, flowery sport shirt with the top three buttons unbuttoned to expose a hairy chest and gold chain. He was smoking a cigar, had a drink in his hand and toasted us when  he got close.

“Got a problem, captain?” he bellowed over the loud engine and rock and roll music. “No problem. We’ll pull you in. And don’t worry, we have plenty of power!”

I could not believe that this monstrosity was all that Naomi could come up with. But at least she had found someone. How could a boat this  gigantic pull a tiny boat like ours without dumping us?  But what were our options? I couldn’t tell him to buzz off.

A burly guy with a crew cut, who looked like a drill sergeant and who was wearing a yellow  tee shirt saying “Go for it!” tossed us a line. The line was something like the docking line used for ocean liners. At least two inches in diameter, it could not attach to anything on the 505. I would have to hold it with one hand while holding the mast with the other.

“Real slow,” I hollered over the sound of the motor and the music. “Go real slow. Going slow is the key.” I must have shouted the word “slow” a half dozen times.

“Slow, yeah, slow,” answered the guy in the yellow tee shirt. The captain had disappeared, presumably to take the wheel.

I  wrapped my feet around the mast allowing me to hold the line with both hands.

The drill sergeant shouted back to the captain. “He’s got it Ralph, letter go!”

I have never been to Cape Kennedy to watch the blast off of a space rocket,  but I have seen these images on TV like probably everyone else in the US  and know what it sounds like when the announcer goes “5-4-3-2-1, lift off”. There is a huge roar, and then seconds later the rocket gracefully and slowly starts to lift. The roar that came from Big Tub struck me as equivalent to that of a space rocket. But I did not have time to reflect upon that because within one second, I felt  my arms  being pulled out of their sockets, and the 505 was belly up with  cushions, Styrofoam cooler, beer cans and food floating on the surface. I had dropped the line, and Embry and I found ourselves bobbing in the filthy waters of the Potomac. Fortunately we had on life preservers.

The roar stopped and Big Tub turned around. The captain reappeared and sheepishly hollered, “Captain, was that too fast?”

“Yes but It’s ok,” I replied, “The boat is self righting. We can try again, but this time, slow, real slow.”

The partiers were now reassembled on the bow. Naomi was pointing at Embry. No one was laughing any more; and one woman whom  I assumed to be the captain’s wife, yelled, “Your wife, your wife! Is she pregnant? “

Embry nodded. Someone threw her a life line and pulled her to Big Tub’s stern where there was a ladder. Embry scampered up the ladder and immediately was surrounded by anxious women. I could tell she was saying  something like, “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Remembering Fletcher’s words, I was confident that I could right the boat by grabbing and then standing on the centerboard. The problem was that every time I grabbed the centerboard the boat did right itself but then rolled over and capsized again. After three unsuccessful attempts, I noticed that the hull by this time was completely submerged. On the third try the mast lodged in the mud. This effort must have taken at least twenty minutes, and the captain and his partying friends had had enough.

“Gotta save the pregnant woman!” he yelled as the boat’s motor started to roar. “Just stay put. I’m calling the Coast Guard.” And he was off.

So it was just me and the 505 with the mast wedged in the mud on the bottom of one of the country’s most polluted rivers. I was able to pull myself up to sit on the overturned hull and watched solemnly as boats started to head up the river for their picnics.

It actually was not more than fifteen minutes before help arrived. All at once from three different directions. The first boat to get to me was a 20 foot Boston Whaler with “Virginia Marine Police” painted on its side.  Seconds behind it  was a larger boat with a cabin with “US Coast Guard” on its transom. And a minute or two behind that was another Boston Whaler labeled “DC Marine Police.” I was in good hands.

The Virginia Police were the first to give it a try. Each boat had a couple of officers on board. The Coast Guard and the DC Police stood their ground, observing the action with great interest. The Virginia Police tossed me a line, which I was able to secure to the hull; and on the third attempt  there was a  thump and a cracking sound and the 505 suddenly came free. The officers in the other two boats applauded. For some odd reason just as they had freed the mast, the Virginia Police pulled in their line and roared off. All I heard was “Emergency. We’ll be back.”

The US Coast Guard moved in next. “Those Virginia police don’t know jackshit, “ one of the officers remarked.  Since the mast was now free, the 505 was drifting, being pushed by  the wind and current at what seemed to me to be a remarkable speed for a submerged boat. Within a few minutes and several failed efforts to get the boat to keep from capsizing, we found ourselves in the middle of the channel. Boats were passing by us in all directions. People were pointing.

Observing  that keeping the boat from capsizing was not working, the Coast Guard  pulled the 505 along side and inserted a huge suction tube into the submerged cockpit. If the hull had been above water, this approach might have worked; but the fact that the entire hull was now about six inches under water and sinking, the Coast Guard was merely sucking water from the Potomac River and pumping it back into the Potomac River.  After it became apparent that this effort was going nowhere, they revved up their engine and took off. “Emergency. Back later,” sounded remarkably similar to the Virginia explanation.

That left me and the DC Police except that the DC Police had by now disappeared.

It is important to say a word about the timing involved in all this. Our mainsail got stuck when we came in around 5:00 PM. Big Tub arrived at 5:30 and departed around 6:00. The three rescue boats converged around 6:15. I looked at my watch. It was now almost 7:00.  I had been abandoned by my rescuers and was drifting directly toward the Blue Plains Sewerage Treatment Plant.

It is also important that you understand what being in the effluent of the Blue Plains Treatment Plant meant in 1974. The Potomac River was not the most polluted river in the United States in 1974. After all, the Cuyahoga  River in Cleveland had caught on fire only a few years before. But the Potomac was certainly near the top of the list. And one of the reasons for its filth and pollution was the decrepit condition of the infamous Blue Plains Treatment  Plant. Plans were in the works to upgrade the facility, but funding was not in place yet; and every week or so a horror story would appear in the Metro Section of the Washington Post describing in detail various attributes of what might be described as an open cesspool. I was terrified.

By this time naturally the 505 had turtled again; and I was now in the water, holding on tight. When the 505 and I were drifting in the middle of the channel, it seemed boats went out of their way to zoom over and take a look at the pitiful sight of a guy holding on to the hull of a submerged sailboat drifting directly into harm’s way. At least a dozen or so volunteered to call the Coast Guard. As the 505 and I got closer to  the death trap, no one came near. I looked at my watch. It was now just almost 8:00 o’clock. In an hour it would be twilight and at 9:15 the fireworks would start. I had already been in the water, off and on, for over two hours . Had this happened in the spring or fall, I surely would have perished from hypothermia. This time it would probably be from the Bubonic Plague. I wondered exactly what kind of “emergencies” had caused the Virginia Police and Coast Guard to zoom off.

Then suddenly appearing from nowhere was the Boston Whaler with the DC Marine Police sign on it. My spirits lifted. I was a bit skeptical that the DC Police could do what no one else had been able to do, but by this time I was desperate and only wanted to get out of the slime and muck.

“Dumb ass Virginia Police and Coast Guard ,” one of the officers,  a tall thin guy, mumbled as they yanked me on board. “Watch out for crissake! Don’t get any water on me!”

“Ok, owner,” said the other officer, a youngish looking guy with a lot of black hair and a mustache, “Let’s see your boat registration and driver’s license.”

“In the drink,” I muttered, lying.

“OK, I can understand that, now we are gonna tow this pathetic excuse for a boat .”

I protested that it would be futile, but they proceeded anyway. We  went through the same routine that the others had tried. I would right the boat. It would capsize, and then I would right it again. I lost count of the number of times that this routine occurred, and after awhile the officers had had enough. The officers got particularly upset when  the Whaler backed over the sail, which immediately became caught in its propeller. I had to go underwater and cut it lose with a knife. Then as could have been predicted, the boat’s mast lodged in the mud again. I recalled Albert Camus and the “Myth of Sisyphus”.

When the mast got stuck, they yanked me on board, again admonishing not to get them wet. The two guys were speechless for a couple of minutes trying to figure out what to do next. By this time it was near 8:30 and starting to get dark.

The guy with the mustache barked, “Owner, this is bullshit. I want you back in the water right now, and I want you to unhook everything that is holding the mast on. Get rid of it and the sails and everything else. It is getting dark and we are heading back now. But for God’s sake don’t make a splash! Don’t get any water on us!”

I jumped in, trying not to make a splash and unhooked all the shackles that held the wires that secured the mast to the boat. It took awhile, but finally I was convinced they were all free. This meant that the police would be pulling only the hull—no mast, boom or sails, which would remain on the floor of the Potomac River forever.  The amazing thing is that by this time we had drifted past the Blue Plains Sewage Treatment Plant so far up the river on a strong incoming tide and southerly breeze that we were very close to the Washington Sailing  Marina and picnic area where we were supposed to meet our friends for a picnic. I had assumed that after Embry had been rescued by Big Tub she and Naomi  had driven the car and met our friends there pretty much on time.

After getting rid of the mast, boom and sails and was back in the boat, I slumped into a  deck chair, totally exhausted.

“Hey, owner,” asked the skinny officer, “You drink?”

“Yeah,” I sadly responded, wondering what this question had to do with the 505.

“Thank God,” he said, “Terry, bring out what we got left.”

The officer with the big mustache opened a small door next to the steering wheel and pulled out a Styrofoam cooler  with a six pack of beer and numerous white, round, plastic holders which were remnants of  other six packs, which I presumed had already been consumed.

“Fourth of July, owner.” said the guy with the mustache, winking sheepishly.

The officers proceeded to guzzle two beers each, then took an ice pick and riddled the empty cans with holes and tossed them overboard.

“Fourth of July, owner.”

I managed to finish my beer and began to realize how lucky I had been. If the DC Police had not returned,  it would have soon been dark and I would still be drifting. There is no telling where I would have ended up. While I was sorry to lose the mast, boom and the sails, I had been saved; and by this time, frankly  I was glad to have an excuse for not risking my life again on the 505.

Since we were approaching the landing area at the Washington Sailing Marina—where presumably Naomi and Embry now were—we had to get rid of all the evidence, and the officers punched holes in my empty beer can and the one remaining, unopened can.

“Tragedy,” said the skinny one. “Throwing away a full can of beer.”

“Fourth of July, owner. Fourth of July,” said the guy with the mustache.

But if I had known what was going to happen next, I surely would have guzzled the last remaining beer.

There was  a small platoon of rangers at the shore assisting people putting their  boats in the water, and several state police as well, checking boat registrations.  A  burly, state highway patrolman angled  over to me chewing a cigar  out of the side of his mouth.  He was weighted down with so much gear that it seemed any smaller man would have been unable to walk.

“Thanks, I said, smiling, “But I think we are doing fine. We don’t need any help.”

“All right.” he sighed in an I-hate-to-do-this-to-you tone.

“Let’s see your boat trailer inspection sticker.”

“Boat trailer what?”

“Boat trailer inspection sticker.”

I instinctively pulled out my wallet.

“It’s not in your wallet;  if you’ve got one, it is supposed to be on your trailer .  In Virginia every year you’ve got to have your boat trailer  inspected.”

“Jesus,” I said and began feverishly examining the trailer for a sticker .

“Here it is,” proclaimed Embry, from the other side of the trailer where she had been searching for a sticker. “But I am not sure it is current.”

“Wonderful,” the cop muttered as he examined the sticker. “This trailer hasn’t been inspected for over 10 years.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a writing pad. “Let’s see your certificate of ownership and boat registration.”

“My what?”

“Good God, man, you don’t have these either? “ Looking at me in disbelief, he put his pad back in his pocket and scratched his head, then slowly walked around the trailer and boat, scrutinizing every detail. When he got to the rear of the trailer, he picked up the frayed, unattached wires to the tail light, then looked me straight in the eye  and  shook his head again. I was thinking, 10 years, maybe 20 years in the slammer, thousands of dollars in fines. He did not say a word for what seemed like an eternity. The mist had now turned into a steady drizzle and our small children were huddled under a small tree, shivering. Beat up car, beat up trailer, boat that had been described by everyone familiar with it as a piece of shit, children who could have come out of a Dickens’ novel. Not a pretty sight.

I held my breath.

“Okay, I am clearing you,” he sighed. “This time. Damn, it is Father’s Day, for God’s sake, right? You’ve got a picnic, kids. Hell, it is raining. Just get the boat in the water as fast as you can and then move the trailer way out of the way so no one can see it; and when you get back from sailing, make a quick escape.” Then he paused for a moment and managed a smile, “Have a good Father’s Day.” Then he paused again and his tone became serious, “But do not ever, ever, come back here with that boat and that trailer in this condition!”

Thank God for Father’s Day.

Now off for the big sail. This would be the second time that I would sail the 505, possibly the world’s fastest sailing dinghy, and the first time with Embry. There was good wind, and the rain was not much more than a drizzle. We could handle this. It would be our first opportunity to see what it was like to skim the surface, planning at 12 knots. Embry and I would sail first. Then I would take our friends. We quickly got the boat rigged, moved the trailer to a remote location, and we were off. Euphoria. Just like the pictures. The 505 was incredibly responsive, quickly reaching hull speed and then exceeding it when we started to plane on the gusts. All the hoopla about the 505 was right. No other boat on the water could touch us. After 30 minutes or so, Embry asked if she could try her hand at steering. Good sign, I thought, she is catching the bug. We completed the difficult task of changing drivers; and under Embry’s steady hand the boat continued to perform at miraculous down wind speeds.

Within minutes, however, the wind started to freshen and to change directions so that instead of flying downwind we suddenly were  struggling to keep the boat on her feet as we slogged up wind. The chop was now over two feet and splashing into the cockpit. Whitecaps were everywhere. Every time we got a gust, I had to release the mainsail in order to avoid a capsize,  and the euphoria quickly turned into apprehension and then outright fear. To try to change drivers would risk capsizing.

Then all of a sudden we lost control of the boat as the boat began to lurch and weave. “Hold the tiller steady,” I shouted over the sound of the wind. I looked around and saw Embry lying on the floor of the cockpit with the end of a broken tiller in her hand. We then rounded up directly into the wind, had no control over the boat and were being pushed down wind at faster and faster speeds.

“What did you do to the tiller?” I screamed. “ It is broken off.”

Embry had a stunned, horrified look on her face.

I leapt over her and tried to grab the tiller, careful to try to keep the tipsy boat from capsizing. There was nothing left, only a stub. I released  the lines that controlled the sails and grabbed the canoe paddle that we had in case the wind died. As the boat turned slowly back downwind, using  the canoe paddle  as a rudder, I  was able to guide the boat in the direction (now downwind) where we had started. It was an incredible stroke of luck. Had the opposite happened—the wind changing directions so that we would be forced to go  up wind in order to return to the launching area–we would have been doomed and would have ended up on the opposite shore of the Potomac well over a mile away; or worse yet, we would have capsized.

We reached the launching area in about fifteen minutes, exhausted, relieved, and completely soaked, not so much from the constant drizzle but from the spray of the waves. When I examined the broken tiller, I realized it was completely rotten. Embry did not say a word as we got out of the boat. When we finally loaded the 505 onto the trailer, she turned to me and whispered, “Don’t you ever yell like that to me again, ever.” Our friends never got to sail. It was too wet to have a picnic, and our drenched children were miserable. That  was it for our first sail together. Not a good start but a harbinger of what was to follow.

I told McDonald that I realized his sailing limitations and that I would teach him all that I knew, albeit at that time that was not a great deal. Eventually we might even race the boat together.  He confided that he felt nervous about going into something like this alone.  We instantly agreed to put down $50 each to hold the boat.  Pending an inspection, the boat would be ours.

“Not while you are pregnant.  But who knows, after the baby comes?”

McDonald and I went to see the boat the following weekend. It was parked on a trailer at the Old Dominion Yacht Basin in Alexandria, across the Potomac River from downtown Washington.  On the way out in McDonald’s old Chevy convertible, he remarked, “You know, I’ve always wanted to own a sailboat and to be a member of a yacht club….”

As we entered, on our left a large wooden motor boat about thirty feet long was lying on its side on the ground.      Most of the paint had come off the hull, which also sported a large gaping hole.  Next to that depressing site were several smaller boats, all sailboats lying on the ground, neglected, with flaking paint, rusty winches and rotten wood.    On our right was a huge pile of debris which consisted of broken masts, pieces of hulls and cabins, Styrofoam, boat trailers and various other items, unidentifiable because of the layers of rust.  The pile had obviously been around for some time because clumps of grass and a tiny tree had grown up through the holes in the mess.

On the ground were layers of refuse– paper, more Styrofoam, cigarette butts, smashed beer cans, rusty old license tags, pop tops,  bottle caps and  the squashed carcasses of several dead rats.

“Is this a yacht club?” asked McDonald in a puzzled tone.  Are you sure  this is the right place? “

I desperately looked around for what would be Fletcher’s boat–a low sleek design, white (or brownish gray) hull, a trapeze.

“ Do you think that one is it?” asked McDonald pointing to a small boat nestled between two large decaying motor boats. The boat was on a brown rusty trailer and had  a gray hull.

I am sure that my first startled impression of the five-o-five was influenced by the unsightly surroundings.  Also, it was an overcast, drizzly day.  I paused for a minute to recapture in my mind the exhilarating image of the photographs in the book. As we cautiously approached the boat and as I concentrated more and more on remembering the photographs, I could tell that this was in fact the famous five-o-five.  The long sleek design had the look of speed and high performance. And the boat seemed to be basically okay.  The hull was a little stained with dirt and grime. The ropes were a little frayed and very tangled.  The rudder and tiller were peeling, but compared to the other boats next to it, the boat was in decent shape.  Nothing was wrong with it that a little love and sweat couldn’t cure.

“Yep,”   I said smiling and patting the boat side, “a racing machine, a real racing machine.”

McDonald stood silently , his mouth slightly open and a puzzled look on his face.

The deal was done.  Upon receiving our $1,200 in cash, Fletcher graciously agreed to give us an introductory sail the following weekend.   All week long at work, McDonald and I darted in and out of each other’s office to share our anticipation of the first big sail.

On our way to the Y for our daily run, I took the opportunity to give McDonald basic lessons in the art of sailing.  I carefully explained what most of the parts of the boat were, that “port” was left and “starboard” right and so on.   He confessed that he had checked a number of sailing books out of the library himself and that he already knew all of that.  He was really interested simply in learning how to sail.

Saturday was the big day.  It was a chilly Saturday but clear and not too breezy. Fletcher met us at the marina  with a large bright blue sail bag. We had arrived a little early and were watching an old man scrape paint off the hull of a huge wooden cruiser when Fletcher arrived in a jovial mood.

He described the various parts of the boat to us as if we did not already know them, and then pulled the sail out of the bag. As we hoisted the sail up the mast, we noticed the insignia “505″ had come loose and was fluttering from the head of the sail, attached to the sail by only a tiny thread.

“That looks tacky,” McDonald whispered to me.

As we hauled the boat on its trailer down to the ramp, we passed by an old shack which in many respects resembled the prototypical sea shanty.  Piles of junk were stacked beside the front door between an ice dispenser and a Coke machine.   The word “office” was over the door, but the weathered sign had come loose and was hanging down so that you had to duck to avoid getting a nail in the head.

“Before we take the boat out, I want you guys to meet the owner of the marina and let her know that you’ll continue keeping the boat here.”

As we ducked and entered the house we found ourselves in a tiny dark room with three other people huddled around a kerosene stove.  One was an old woman who was hard to make out in the dim light but who appeared rather scraggly.  Another was an old man with a beard, smoking a pipe and wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap.  The third appeared much younger than the other two–a fairly plain looking man in his thirties. The three of them were passing around a bottle.

“Miss Evans,” Fletcher said to the old woman. “I want you to meet the new owners of my boat. Mr. McDonald and Mr. Howell.”

There was a moment’s pause during which time Miss Evans gave us a careful once-over.

Then she burst into a smile. A twinkle in her eye appeared; and she exclaimed. “ Well, goddamn, you finally sold that piece of shit,  did you?”

The other two men offered us a swig of rum and invited us to share the warmth of the kerosene stove.

Fletcher explained that we couldn’t stay to chat, to which the old lady said to us. “Well, we don’t have no rules here.   Just pay up in cash by the fifth of the month and don’t complain.   This place ain’t no goddamn yacht club, but it’s the best deal in town!”

McDonald whispered in my ear, “Got that right.”

At last we were ready to put the boat in the water.  There was a narrow ramp into the Potomac River on each side of which was a steep wall of black, gooey wooden pilings.

“Okay.” said Fletcher. “Now one of you guys wade out into the water to help guide the boat when we let her off the trailer.”

“In that water?” exclaimed McDonald. “Yuk.”

I glanced down at the water.  Floating on the surface were beer cans, Styrofoam cups, cigarette butts. twigs and debris–all of which were seemingly glued together in a large pool of green muck and slime.

“No, sir, not me! I’m not going in that cesspool.” complained McDonald.  ”I’ll never come out alive.”

“Me either.” I chimed in.

“Jesus.” smiled Fletcher. “you guys want to sail or don’t you?”  Fletcher thrust the end of the trailer toward me and waded into the water.

“See,” he exclaimed, “no big deal.”

I gently released the rope holding the boat to the trailer and watched the graceful craft slip gently into the water.

“Okay,” hop in.” shouted Fletcher. “We’re ready to go!”

In retrospect  I must admit that the first sail could have been much worse.  There was no wind. Not a breath.  Normally this would not be something to be thankful for, but in our case it was clearly a blessing.  A capsize on that chilly spring day in the Potomac River would have meant the end.  Fletcher admitted that he had not actually sailed the boat himself much. He could not help us out as to which lines went where. There was an unbelievable tangle of ropes, all of which Fletcher explained had always been tangled and apparently had no effect on the sailing of the boat.  He presumed they were for the spinnaker, which he had never used.

As we sat in the calm Potomac River drifting gently with the tide, the only minor problem that we observed was that the boat was gradually filling up with water.

“ Good God!”  cried McDonald. “We’re sinking!”

“ We’re not sinking,” replied Fletcher calmly.

“The hell you say!” McDonald exclaimed.  “There is an inch of water in this boat and it’s getting deeper all the time!”

Desperately I looked around for the problem.  It did not take long to find it. At the back end of the boat–the boat’s “transom”   as Fletcher had corrected me earlier–there were two small doors or flaps, each about the size of a dollar bill. The flaps were supposed to be sealed shut and secured by an elastic cord connected to the boat’s center board. Obviously something wasn’t working because you could see water oozing in through the tiny cracks around the flaps.

“0h,”   commented Fletcher, “ Don’t worry about that. That’s the self bailer.   It’s there to let the water out fast when you capsize and want to get on the go again.  It lets the water flow right out the stern.  Neat idea. huh?”

“Neat idea, my ass.” said McDonald.  ”That water  is not going out; it ‘s coming in; and what’s more if it keeps up, we’re gonna sink.”   Before he finished the last sentence, I observed that the water was already up above the soles of my shoes.

“Don’t  worry.” said Fletcher.  ”The only reason the water is coming in is because there is no wind.  If we were moving, there wouldn’t be this problem.  Second, this boat will not sink.  It ‘s got permanent foam flotation, and you can capsize her and still come right up.  All you have to do is stand on the centerboard. She ‘ ll pop right up and because of the self bailers, no sweat. You ‘re off and flying again.  The water goes right out.”

The second part was reassuring.  Rather than argue anymore about the problem, we agreed to paddle into shore.  In all we had drifted about 50 yards.  So ended our first sail.

When we got back to shore Fletcher quickly departed, leaving us the sails.  His departing words were “Now she’s  all yours. Good luck!”

McDonald and I looked at each other with the what-do-we-do-next look when we noticed a young man in his early twenties observing us.   He had long hair and a ruddy, healthy look.

“So he finally sold the junk heap, did he?” he asked.

McDonald gave me one of his sick  looks.

“Well, if you ‘ re gonna be competitive,  you’ve got some work to do.  Come over here.”

We shrugged our shoulders and followed him, stepping around two beat-up boats and over a pile of broken trailer parts. “You  guys want to see something beautiful? I mean really beautiful, take a look at this.”

He stopped beside a boat which had a canvas cover on it, paused briefly to enhance the suspense and then with one dramatic sweep yanked the cover off, revealing a boat the approximate size and shape of ours.  At that point any similarity ended.  His boat had a mahogany deck that glistened with layers of varnish.  ”Now this is a five-o-five,” he said.  ”I love her.  She is gorgeous, beautiful and, man, one hell of a board racer.”

The boat’s name inscribed on the transom of the sleek, black hull, “Hot Dog.”

“What the hell is all that stuff?” asked McDonald pointing to blocks, shackles, lines, more lines, gadgets and so on.  The ropes were painted different colors. The stainless steel fittings sparkled, and everything was neat and orderly.

“It looks like the inside of a goddamn space rocket,” observed McDonald.

“This is what sailing is all about, man!  Sailing is racing. And winning in racing is gear. Hardware. Let me tell you. My boat is nothing compared to most of the other five-O s. If you think ‘Hot Dog’ is hot stuff, wait till you see some of the other five-0 s. Board boats. You can’t beat  ‘em. Glass. Glass board boats.Five-0 s. Fastest goddamn racing  machine on earth.”

“What is he talking about?  I didn’t understand a word he said,” McDonald commented as the young fellow disappeared behind his VW bus, then returned with two enormous tool boxes.

“Now,  If you’ll excuse me,”  he said,  I’ve got some work to do.”

He began tinkering around with fittings.  I peered into the tool box, which  must have contained several hundred parts–screws, shackles, bolts,and various other items.

“Is all that just for your boat?”

“Are you kidding?  This is only half the stuff I need.  The other box is for the boat, too, and I’ve got more stuff at home. These five Os are beautiful, but to keep ‘em tuned you’ve got to do a lot of work.  Besides, on these boats, you never know what will happen.”

I could see McDonald’s ears prick up.

“ 0h yeah?” he said with worried look.

“ All that just for a boat this size?  Oh yeah?”

I was beginning to wonder just what we had gotten ourselves into.  I was soon to find out.

The next series of stories are about my love affair with sailing. I am not sure why I got hooked, but I did, beginning in the late 1960s when my brother-in-law and I went in together to buy a Sunfish to sail on the lake where my in-laws had a vacation home, not far from Davidson, North Carolina. At the time I was a graduate student at the planning school at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill; and Embry and I spent most weekends at the lake house on Lake Norman where  by trial and error I taught myself how to sail. We called the boat “the green Sunfish,” and some 45 years later she is still ours. Some of my most pleasant memories come from sailing the green Sunfish on Lake Norman. A  twelve foot, one person boat, a Sunfish is the perfect boat for learning how to sail.

I think my initial interest was inspired by my father who always had wanted to own a sailboat and sail it on Old Hickory Lake  near our home in Nashville. For one reason or another that never happened, but there was a seed planted. In some respects I suppose I have been living out my father’s dream.

When we moved to Washington in the early 1970s, I decided to buy a boat  for sailing on the Potomac River and Chesapeake Bay, and that is the subject of the first story, Five-O-Five. Since that first experience I have owned  a number of boats, starting with a sixteen foot daysailer called a Wayfarer. We named that boat “Mother Courage” and sailed her  for some sixteen years,  day sailing and racing on the Chesapeake Bay, pulling the boat behind our car to other parts of the bay for cruising and camping, and all the way to Lake Huron,  where we competed in four national championships. In the 1980s we sold “Mother Courage” and purchased an Alberg 30 from the same guy that sold me the Five-O-Five. Despite the ill fated start with the Five-O-Five, Fletch became—and still remains—one of my best friends. We named the Alberg 30 “Amazing Grace”. While I raced “Amazing Grace,” on Wednesday evenings and on  occasional  weekends in  regattas, she was mainly a cruising boat. Embry and I recently counted the number of different places we have anchored overnight in the Chesapeake Bay and came up with some 77 different anchorages, the vast majority on “Amazing Grace”.  We kept her until 2004 when we bought a boat more suited to racing, a J 30 with a bright blue hull, which we named “Carolina Blue.”  While we still cruise some, racing has occupied more of my time (Embry joins me occasionally but prefers cruising); and I race in about 25 races a season, winning trophies every now and then and usually being in the hunt. Add to that cruising on chartered boats in other parts of the world—the Caribbean, the Adriatic, the Mediterranean , the Bahamas, the San Juan Islands and Tahiti—and it starts to add up to a lot of sailing over a 45 year period.

Over that period of time, you get a lot of stories. These are the best.

Does anyone disagree that there are really serious problems in the world? That people are suffering?  That  we should do all we can to help those who suffer? Well, I believe this, and I refuse to turn my back on the suffering of humanity.

Nothing illustrates this better than an experience which occurred in the 1980s in our neighborhood in Washington when a homeless family appeared one cold Saint Patrick’s Day, shivering, in front of our local drugstore.  Embry saw them first; and when I got home, she handed me a stack of blankets and directed me to see what I could do to help.  She had already given them scarves and mittens but had concluded it was not enough.  It was around nine o’clock in the evening, and the wind chill had to have been in the twenties.

I walked over to the drugstore, which was only a few minute’s walk from our house, where in the dark shadows  I  saw a young couple and three small children  huddled next to the entrance of the drug store. People were walking past them, not making eye contact. It is true that you never know what to do in situations like this. Should you give money to a beggar or not? What good does it really do? But they were not even begging, just sitting on the sidewalk, freezing. Well, I had these blankets, and I had to admit that the family was a pretty pitiful sight. So what do you say? What do you do?

I handed them the blankets and asked where they were planning to spend the night. The husband, probably around thirty, answered with a thick Spanish accent, “Church, señor.” Thank God, I thought. The idea of them freezing was bad enough, but the thought of them ending up in our house was out of the question. We all have limits. But somehow I suspected he was not really telling the truth. I just couldn’t abandon them to the elements, but I surely could not invite them to spend the cold night in our house. So I came up with a brilliant compromise. They would have to be on their own for this night, but gong forward I could help. What they  needed was money, right? I could give them money,  but  that would be condescending and not long lasting. What they really needed was employment. I thought for a moment.  Our house always needed work. Maybe the guy could do a little painting. When I asked if he could paint, he nodded enthusiastically yes, and we agreed to a plan. He would come by the next day, a Saturday, return the blankets, and I would pay him to do a little painting. I suggested he come by around mid morning and gave him our address. I smiled as I returned home and reported the successful outcome to Embry.

At exactly six am the next day, we were awakened by a loud banging on the front door. I had no idea who could be knocking on our door so early on a Saturday, stumbled out of bed and inched my way down the stairs trying to see who it might be. It was the homeless  family. In the dawn I was able to get a better look at them. The guy was short and stocky and had a big mustache, and his wife had dark hair and was rather pretty. She had the features of a native American and was quite pregnant. The three little ones in tow looked to me  like they were about  four, two and a few months  old.  No one  was dressed for the cold temperatures.

“Here to paint,  señor!”

“Well, yes, but it is a bit early…”

I was right. They really did not have a place to stay that night and ended up spending the night on the street. The guy’s name was José, and his wife was named Rosa. Rosa said that her husband was from El Salvador and that she was part Sioux and part Seminole and grew up in New Mexico. And they were very appreciative for the gloves, scarves, and blankets, which she said  probably saved their lives. She went on to say that they had found a place they could rent for $250 a month but that  they were flat broke.  José was hard to understand  with his thick accent, but  Rosa usually translated from broken English to understandable English. Oddly, she would repeat  what I said in English, not  Spanish.

Okay, I thought, we at least have a baseline number to work with. If I could give  a painting  job to José   for $250, that would solve the housing problem. There was still an issue of food, but at least they would have a roof over their heads,  and it would be a start. So I proposed  that he paint our master bedroom for $250 and that I would even advance him the money so that he could secure the apartment that day.  And I also agreed to buy all the painting supplies. I had recent estimates for painting the room, and the $250 I negotiated with  him was about the right number. Pretty fair deal—we would get a room painted,  and his family would get shelter and a start on the road to employment. Was this a crafty move or what?

Day One started off extraordinarily well. Andrew, our seventeen-year-old son, and his thirteen-year-old sister, Jessica, were a bit puzzled to find a ragtag family in our living room when they came down for breakfast but seemed to understand what was going on and why we were doing this. I took José to the hardware store  where we got all the supplies; and he enthusiastically started to paint the bedroom while his wife watched the children, who by now were running, crawling  or toddling around the house terrifying our dog and cat. Shortly after lunch everyone disappeared, presumably to put down the $250 on the apartment.

By six o’clock they had not returned, and I naturally assumed they were warmly tucked away in their new apartment. In fact I was feeling so good about the situation, I offered to treat  my family to pizza at one of our neighborhood restaurants. As the four of us munched away, I used the occasion as a teaching moment. I had always tried to be a role model for our children, to set an example. I pointed out how I was empowering this poor, homeless family and not just giving them a handout, how actions like this could change the world and how proud they should be to have a father who really got it, who understood how to make a positive impact in the world.

I noticed some skeptical, puzzled looks but got generally approving nods.

On the way back home, as I turned into our driveway, I  almost ran into the back of a car with the motor running,  parked in our driveway. On the back window was a sticker which said “Dartmouth College.” I figured the car belonged to a friend of  our neighbors’ teenage children,  who were always blocking the shared driveway. After muttering a few curse words, I got out of my car and walked over to the parked  car blocking the driveway.  As I got closer I could see that two people were in the front seat , and several smaller bodies were squirming around in the back. it was José !  What was he doing with this car? Why was he in our driveway?

“Oh just parking, señor,” he cheerfully replied. His children were crying and whimpering  in the back seat.

“But where did you get the car?”

His wife translated his broken English, “He says he bought it today. Good value. $250 down.”

Well, so much for the nice, cozy apartment. But where were they going to sleep tonight? His wife said that they were going to sleep in the car but added that it was bitter cold and that she was afraid the children would get sick.

Okay, back to square one.

In the course of history many decisions have been made that upon historical reflection and hindsight were strategic errors. They were decisions that set a course of action which would ultimately result in tragic failure. Napoleon’s  foray into Russia in the winter of 1812, resulting in his ultimate demise, comes to mind. The Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor may be another. The bogus weapons of mass destruction in Iraq another. The decision I was about to make falls into this category.

I took a deep breath and asked timidly, “Well, why don’t you just stay here for the night?” My family had remained in our car and were observing the action with great interest.

José protested unconvincingly that sleeping in the car was fine. His wife pleaded for him to let them come in; and before I could walk back to my car to fill everyone in on what was going on, the entire family was on our front porch, shivering and anxious to get in. “God bless, God bless,” said Rosa several times. The die was cast.

This happened on the evening of Day One. There are two things you need to know. First, Embry was leaving on Sunday, the very next day, for a business trip to California and taking Jessica with her and would not return for several  days. Second, my parents were arriving the day after Embry and Jessica  were to return to spend the week before Easter with us as was their custom. They had non refundable plane tickets. My parents were wonderful, tolerant people; but they were also of the older generation. To cohabitate with a homeless family would have sent them to an early grave. But on that cold Saturday evening, all that seemed  in the distant future.

I escorted the homeless family to our basement where we had a spare guest bedroom.

That was the end of Day One. On  Day Two,  Sunday afternoon,  I took Embry and Jessica to the airport. We talked about the situation at length in the car. That morning Rosa had confided to Jessica that she was terrified of her husband, that he beat her constantly, and that she was trying to find a way to escape. Jessica considered giving her all her savings from odd jobs. Both Embry and Jessica were very supportive and understanding of my situation. But they both were headed to sunny California. Their last words of encouragement were that they were sure I would be able to work it all out. I grimly headed back to the house.

The  bedroom in the basement—which was also  where my parents usually stayed–was where the homeless family  slept; but when I got home, it was quite obvious that they had the run of the house. The living room was a wreck, and the house had the smell of a  zoo with soiled pampers  rolled up in virtually every available wastebasket .  Andrew had disappeared as had our dog and cat. I concluded that my  best  hope for  survival was to avoid the house as much as possible. I went directly to the bedroom, slammed the door and collapsed in bed. I could not help noticing that only a very small portion of one wall had been painted and that no progress had been made since Day One.

The next day I got up as early as possible, walked the dog, who had come out of hiding, and left a note that I hoped  José would finish the work that day. If the house was a wreck on Day Two, on the morning of Day Three it was  in shambles. Having a bowl of cereal—the only food I could find in the house–I bumped into Andrew , who was getting ready to leave for school.

“Dad,” he said cheerfully. “I think what you are doing is really good and I support it. When you get it all worked out , let me know. Until then I am moving in with Bronson.”

Okay, I could understand that. So now it was just me,  José and his family. Day Three was not getting off to a good start. I tore up the note and rewrote it saying that the job had to get done now –or else!  I returned home in the evening of Day Three around nine, anxious to see what work had been done to the master bedroom.  The homeless family did not seem to be around, and there was a note scribbled on a typewriter sheet taped to the bedroom door. “Dad, I don’t think you want to go in here. Love, Andrew.” He must have had to come back to pick up something.

With a trembling hand I slowly opened the door. The room looked like it had been hit by a tornado.  José had taken all my clothes out of the closet and thrown them on the bed; and in painting the room, he had splattered paint everywhere—on the bed, on the rug, on the floor, and most unfortunate, on all my clothes. He had poured the paint into a pan in order to use a roller, and an animal had walked across the pan leaving small paw prints everywhere. This was actually a positive sign that our cat still alive since I had no idea where she was  hiding. Well, I had to admit —  José had gotten the message, he was painting the room. I guessed he was about half finished. I slept in Andrew’s room in the attic where  to my relief I found both pets, cowering in the corner.

So on the morning of Day Four I admitted that I had a problem. The first step in any recovery program  is to fess up, to realize your shortcomings, to take action. I also was aware that on or about Day Ten, my parents would arrive. Should the homeless family still be ensconced in the Howell house at that time, it would be a Nuclear Event, as in nuclear bomb. The clock was ticketing.

I conferred with several of my colleagues at work. After all, I was a consultant in developing affordable housing. We should know about this stuff, right? Everyone suggested that I should get them into a homeless shelter. The problem was that at that time there were few options for homeless families in the District of Columbia, only for homeless single people. With some calls I did determine that there was one shelter for homeless families called the Pitts. It was located in a decent neighborhood not too far from our house, and I decided to drive over and give it a look. The name was derived from its former use, “The Pitts Hotel,” and it was described as something of a stop gap measure, not in the best of shape. That was putting it mildly. The building was rundown and decrepit—paint  coming off the sides, a couple of broken windows, trash everywhere, graffiti. It might as well have been in Calcutta.

But at that time It looked like a splendid option to me.

So when I got home, I was pleased to find José , though he did not appear to be doing any painting, and the room remained half painted in its chaotic condition. His wife told me he had been looking for work all day so he  could rent an apartment.

“José,” I replied, “Have you ever considered living in a homeless shelter? I understand that many are quite nice. In fact there is a very nice one very near here, the Pitts.”

“No Pitts, man, no shelter. Shelter no good.”

I encouraged him to be open minded and told him I was making a call to the Pitts to see if they have any room.  A pleasant enough person answered the phone and replied that they did have room for homeless families. I explained that I had a family temporarily living with me and would like to bring them over to take a look at the place.

“Well, don’t waste your time,” she exclaimed, “We are not taking the Chavez family. They are disruptive, and we have already evicted them twice. They are banned from the premises forever.”

“Wait a minute, I didn’t  say who they were. In fact  I don’t even know what their last name is.”

“The guy, is he a Mexican with a mustache and short?”

He was from El Salvador,  but he was short and had a mustache.

“Wife, some kind of Indian, pregnant?”

“Well, yes.”

“Three tiny kids?”

“Now hold on one minute. “ I turned to José. “José, what is your last name?”

“Chavez.”

After choking, I managed to whimper  that  it did seem to be the Chavez family after all. She told me not to feel too bad since I was something like the third or fourth family who had tried to bring them in. “Where do you live, Georgetown?”  I told her Cleveland Park.

“That figures, “she said, “But Georgetown is their favorite.”

When I asked her how I could get them out of my house, she said except for the Pitts,  there were no shelters for homeless families with vacancies in DC; and if there were, they would not take the Chavez family. They were black listed. Maybe I should try one of the neighboring  counties where the family was not known.

I thanked her for her time and immediately called Fairfax County, explaining that I had a very nice, temporarily homeless family staying with me and wondered if they had space available. Absolutely, she said, Fairfax County had a brand new facility, state of the art, and there was plenty of room. It seemed most of the homeless families were in DC, and Fairfax County was looking for business. Thank God, I thought, at last a break. I told her I would bring them by in about an hour. All she needed was a little information starting with my address. When I told her I lived on Macomb Street, she paused for a moment and said that it did not sound like a Fairfax County address. I told her it was in DC.

“Sorry, we only take homeless Fairfax County families. You must take them  to a DC shelter. You will find that policy applies everywhere.” I explained my desperate situation, to which she volunteered, “Well, you can bring them across the bridge and then dump them. Then call 911 and high tail it back to DC. They will probably end up here that way.”

Somehow that did not seem like a viable option.

And that is how Day Four ended. Work on the room continued to be at a standstill.

The next day, Day Five, when I briefed my colleagues at the office on the latest events, someone gave me the name of a good landlord-tenant lawyer, whom I called immediately. I explained the situation and asked him what my options were. The key issue, he said, is whether I actually invited them into my house. Well, yes, I told him that it was very cold and I did  invite them in.

“Bottom line, sir, they now own your house. We have the strongest tenant-favored laws in the nation; and if you invite someone  in, they stay until they are ready to leave. Even if the law were in your favor, it would take six months to get  a judge to rule on it, and he would probably  rule against you. They are now yours, baby.”

I am not sure whether I had ever experienced a panic attack before, but what I was feeling  was something between a heart attack and a nervous breakdown. I considered calling 911.

That was pretty much the end of Day Five. I returned home around nine, avoided the Chavez family, fed the pets in the attic, walked the dog and collapsed in Andrew’s  bed, hoping I would wake up the next day to find that all this was just a bizarre nightmare.

On Day Six, I awoke somewhat refreshed but with the somber realization that I had only  four days to get them out of the house by whatever means necessary. I took off from work. My sole objective was to make this happen, recognizing that I had virtually nothing left in my arsenal. I had no option but to throw myself at their feet and beg for mercy.

Around ten am  José wandered upstairs with a paint brush in hand. This was a good sign. When I asked him if he thought he would be able to finish, he said he was stopping work because he had not been paid. Not been paid? I had advanced him $250! True, he admitted, but he had worked more hours and needed more money to finish. Besides he said he had to earn more money to afford an apartment. I presumed the  one I had advanced him the $250 to rent.  Enraged, I regained my self control and told him I would pay him $12 an hour to finish up, no questions asked, just finish up and get out of the house.

Hearing that, he  screamed, “$12 an hour? You no good sheet! You are a no good sheet! $18 an hour they pay in California!”

Rosa was watching and translating, “He says you are a no good shit.”

“I heard what he  said, Rosa,” I shouted, no longer able to maintain self control.

“Okay, forget the hourly rate. Let’s discuss how much money  it will take for you to finish up the room and clean up everything.”

José calmed down and did some calculations in his head. After a long pause he  said it would be $1,500.

This time it was my turn to lose it. I exploded. “This is a complete outrage! I got an estimate a month ago to paint the room from a professional painter and it was $250. I have already paid you $250 and what do I have? The room is only half painted. Paint is everywhere—on the rugs, the floor, my clothes are ruined. You have eaten me out of house and home. Soiled pampers are in every corner of the house. The house is a complete wreck. My dog and cat are hiding in terror. My wife has left me. My daughter has left me. My son has left me. And even if I had $1,500 in the bank to give you, which I do not have, I wouldn’t give it to you. You have destroyed my life….” I was  sobbing before I finished.

I am not sure how much he could understand, but he turned his back and charged down the stairs. Rosa commented that I had hurt his feelings. She followed after him. I sat at the top of the stairs, alone, with my head in my hands, feeling a little better that I had gotten it off my chest, though as a practical matter I knew I was still in deep trouble. The Nuclear Event was now in a three day countdown mode.

A few minutes later, he trudged up the stairs with Rosa. “Okay, señor, $1,000.”

“Do you swear, do you swear on a Bible and on your mother’s grave…” I  had no idea why I said this , but it sounded like it  might mean something to him. “Do you swear on your mother’s grave that you will finish and clean up everything and be out of this  house by Sunday at the latest? Do you swear?”

He nodded, yes.

Though still skeptical  I managed to  breathe a  sigh of relief. At last, maybe  we were getting somewhere. I reluctantly agreed to advance half the cash up front.

On Day Seven  José was nowhere  to be seen. Rosa said he was trying to find someone to help him. I felt another panic attack coming on. Nuclear Event minus two days.

On Day Eight the miracle occurred.   José showed up early in the morning with a  somewhat bedraggled friend who actually knew how to paint. In three hours the painting was finished, and in another two hours everything was more or less cleaned up. My clothes were not salvageable, but  I figured it was a small price to pay for liberation.  By five pm  they were out of the house –all of them. De facto proof of a kind and merciful God active in the affairs of humankind.

At 5:15 pm the animals timidly descended the attic stairs and reclaimed the living room.  At six Andrew returned, and at   five the next day I picked up Embry and Jessica at Dulles  Airport. We had been in regular contact during the ordeal, and they were astonished that the house appeared to be in fairly reasonable shape. The next day, as planned, I picked up my parents from  National Airport. On the way home, my mother casually asked if there was any news and how everyone was doing.

“Oh fine,” I replied, “and we got  our master bedroom painted. It looks pretty good.”

***

It would be asking too much to report  that  we never saw the Chavez family again. In a couple of weeks, they were on our front porch again, asking for work. Jessica saw them first and rushed down  downstairs. I saw Andrew headed for me with presumed orders to tackle me if necessary. Jessica managed to steer them away, thanking them for their hard work but saying that we did not need any more painting  again–ever. Of course, that did not stop them from trying; but after several more rejections by the children, they finally gave up.

A few weeks later I noticed a family begging outside the Metro station near my office downtown; and as I got closer, recognized the Chavez family. I  made an abrupt U turn and headed for another station. Over the course of the next couple of months I must have seen them five or six times huddled at one corner or another. I always headed for  opposite side of the street or turned around. I had no idea where they were living or how they were surviving.

Then toward the end of that period, a feature article appeared in the Style section of the Washington Post, with the title, “What Will Become of the Chavez family?” It was written by a child abuse advocate and came down pretty hard on  José and Rosa, demanding that the government take the children away from their irresponsible parents. Embry called the writer and told her they had spent a week living with us and had not stolen anything and  in their own way  were trying to be good parents.  She pointed out there were mental health and communication issues involved. Of course, Embry was in California during most of the week,  but I had to admit, it could have been a lot worse. And in their own way, they did seem to be trying. It was clear to me that their interpretation of what was happening was very different from mine. And when the final deal was cut, they kept their side of the bargain.

But the writer had a point. What would become of the Chavez family and to their children? I never saw them again after the article came out and  am sure that whatever happened was not good. Think about what it must be like to get your start in life in such a family situation. Those children—and there still  are  a whole lot like them in our country—were dealt a pretty poor hand. Their parents as children probably were dealt  something similar.

Our country has  come a long way since the early 1980s by providing  more shelters and supportive services for the homeless.  For a number of years I have served on the board of  a nonprofit organization which builds and operates transitional housing for homeless families in Washington. That organization is making a  difference. Some lives have changed dramatically. I have spent virtually my entire career in the development of affordable housing.  A drop in the bucket, you might say, but better than building nuclear weapons.  Overall our country is doing a lot better in addressing the issues of homelessness though, of course, there is  still a long way to go.

Yet when at times I think about that cold St. Patrick’s Day in the early 1980s,  I still wonder whatever happened to the Chavez family.

Let’s get the facts straight from the outset: I am against nuclear war. In fact, I have always been against nuclear war. I am no Johnny-come-lately.

That is the reason when I got a call in the mid 80s, before the Cold War was over, I responded the way I did. The call came from a guy who worked for one of the housing clients I was serving at the time (another reason to take the call seriously). The call went something like this:

“Joe, great to talk to you and hear your voice. I am calling to see how you feel about nuclear war.”

“Well, actually, I am against it.”

“You know, I thought that you would feel this way and are one of us. I am part of a small but growing group whose sole purpose is to prevent nuclear war. We would be honored if you would consider joining us.”

He went on to say that his group–“Searching For Peace Everywhere”– would be meeting next week and that both I and my wife were invited. In fact it was really important that she come along as well, provided, of course, that she too was against nuclear war. I told him that we had not discussed the topic lately, but I was pretty sure that she also was “one of us.”  The meeting would be more like a reception, and there would be plenty of food and a chance to get to know others in the group. Most of the people would be new people, just like us.

It turned out that we could not make it  that meeting, but he came back with a bunch of other dates and one of them worked. Boy, I thought, these guys meet a lot. They must be really dedicated. He then gave me very explicit directions to get to the site  of the meeting, which would start at seven and that we should not be late. With some reluctance and skepticism, Embry agreed to join me, and we headed off to the meeting in plenty of time to get there by seven. In fact the meeting was in our neighborhood, less than a mile away.

For a couple of blocks we drove up Connecticut Avenue—the main drag—took a right  and went down a steep hill, toward the direction of Rock Creek Park.  His directions were very explicit that we should make a left turn on the gravel road just before the bottom of the hill. Gravel road in the middle of Washington? I certainly could not remember seeing any gravel road at that spot, which I passed all the time; but sure enough as we approached the bottom of the hill, there was a small, practically hidden, gravel  road. We made the turn.

The road lead directly into Rock Creek Park. But for all we knew we could have been in a primeval forest. It was now twilight, and the huge trees cast shadows across our path as our car lurched forward up a  hill. “Where on earth are we going?” asked Embry. “It seems like we are in the wilderness.” I had to agree. There was an eerie feeling about the whole place, almost like we were characters in a Harry Potter movie. We drove along for what seemed  like hours but actually was probably more like ten minutes when the road suddenly turned sharply down a hill where we could see a meadow in the dim light.

We emerged from the dark forest onto the meadow and saw before us a giant, stone  mansion, four storey’s high with turrets, surrounded by luxuriant gardens. Were we in England, surely it would have been one of the estates of the Royal Family. We approached  the house from the back where there was a parking lot full of cars, many of them late model BMWs and Mercedes. Beside the parking area was a large swimming pool and fountain. Could we possibly be in the right place? My friend said nothing about meeting in a castle. Parking our beat up car beside a sparkling Cadillac, we wandered around to the front of the house. I checked the address with my instructions. We were in the right place. A huge plaque beside the front door read simply “Grey Stone.”

The front door was open and we timidly walked into a completely empty, grand hallway with twenty or thirty foot ceilings and medieval tapestries on the wall and huge portraits of people who looked like they were dukes or counts. The dark wood floor was adorned with oriental rugs, and in the middle was a huge table with trays of cheese, various kinds of fruit, cookies,  Perrier water and cokes. But not a soul was present. We looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

Suddenly out of nowhere a thin,  white-haired woman, probably in her seventies, appeared. “You must be the Howells,” she said, smiling and extending a hand. “Welcome to Grey Stone.”

I apologized that we must be early since no one else was here. “Oh no,” she replied you are right on time. The others will be here shortly. Have some cheese and fruit.”

As we munched away, the room slowly began to fill up. People—mostly in their 30s or 40s and dressed  “business casual”—seemed to emerge out of nowhere just like our hostess. Within fifteen minutes the room was practically full with at least forty or fifty guests, all chatting away. This went on for at least forty-five minutes during which time we were never alone. I had never been with a friendlier group. One by one, almost every person in the room had come over, extended a hand and said something to the effect, “You must be the Howells, I’ve heard so much about you, a true honor to meet you.” My spirits brightened immediately. Having emerged from the dark, primeval forest into a warm atmosphere of friendship and camaraderie was a welcomed relief and was just the kind of group I had always wanted  to belong to. And they were all against nuclear war. What more could you ask for? I glanced at Embry, who was chatting quietly with one of her many new friends and admirers. She gave me one of her skeptical looks. But before I could think about it, I felt a pat on my back, “Joe Howell, right? How great to have you here….” How could all these people know about me?  It was the best reception I had ever attended. Nothing else came close.

Just as I was beginning to wonder when the meeting was actually going to start, someone jingled a bell. It was our hostess. Suddenly the room became stone silent, and all eyes turned to her.

“I want to welcome you all to my home,” she said, “and I am so happy to have you here, most of you for the first time. I hope you are having a grand time and getting to meet each other. But it is now time for business, and we should move to the parlor.”

The “parlor” was another huge room but not as vast as the grand hall. The room had a nine or ten foot ceiling ,was beautifully decorated with antiques and what I presumed were priceless art works on the wall, some of them modern. As we gathered around a huge fireplace with the portrait of a baron above it, our hostess moved to the center of the room.

She started off by saying, “How many of you attended the lecture last week on ‘endophormorphic resonance’?” Almost everyone raised their hand. I had no idea what she was talking about or even if I heard her correctly; but from the conversation that followed I gathered it was the concept that ideas and thoughts can sort of float around the planet, which explains why two people separated by thousands of miles can come up with the same idea at more or less the same time. Think of inventing the wheel or using fire for cooking. In any event it was apparent that this crowd of anti nuclear activists was really into endophormorphic resonance.

At last the time came to focus on nuclear war, the prime reason we were there and the common bond that brought us together. It was somewhat odd, I thought, that at the reception not one person said a word to us about nuclear war. But now the time had come to confront it head on. I was ready.

Our elderly hostess was replaced by a thirty-something man with a crop of black hair. He described the mission of the group known as Searching  for Peace Everywhere: to eliminate the threat of nuclear war. When asked how many in the group were against nuclear war, everyone raised their hand but no one with more vigor than me. The next exercise was to go around the room and for everyone to stand up and say two things—first, what they really thought about nuclear war and second what they are going to do to stop in by giving generous donations to Searching For Peace Everywhere.

Well, you have never heard such moving speeches. Even Billy Graham would have been impressed. It was like an old fashioned revival. People poured out their soul as to why they did not think nuclear war was a good idea and then pledged lots of money. Several  pledged several thousand dollars each, somebody else 10% of all future profits in his hair styling business. Some were more modest but promised every penny they could come up with. People were reaching deep.

Of the forty plus attendees I was probably around the thirty-fifth to speak. Embry was seated ahead of me in the speaking  order but refused to say a word. Most of the speeches had been followed by applause. In some cases people were embracing. I could have sworn I saw some people crying. When Embry refused to stand up and spill her soul, there was a quiet, uneasy  murmur from the group.

My turn finally came. I stood up, beaming. “I too am against nuclear war,” I said proudly, “and I have been against it for some time.” Wild applause from the group followed immediately. “I have heard all the stories about how nuclear war is not good and am deeply moved. It is true that I do not have a lot of money, but I pledge to give $500 to this worthy cause and will join your group. I  am proud and honored to be part of Searching for Peace Everywhere.” The applause was deafening. Someone patted me on my back. Someone else embraced me. What a great thrill to be part of such a wonderful group of sincere, generous people.

I glanced at Embry who was now slouched  over in her seat with her head in her hands. The speeches continued.

Embry then sat up and whispered in my ear, “ We can’t even pay our utility bills, and you pledged $500 to this group that you know absolutely nothing about? Have you lost your mind?”

“Listen, there is nothing more important than stopping nuclear war, and I am going to do my part. We will figure out some way to come up with the money.”

Embry groaned.

Then it was all over. The speeches had all been made. I filled out my pledge card, signed up as a member  and was ready to talk to my new friends, who were cheerfully chatting away. Embry grabbed my hand and said, “Come on, we are getting out of this place right now.” She practically yanked me out the door as my new friends waved good bye and thanked me again.

On the way to our car a young woman raced up behind  us, panting.

“Stop,” she said, “I need to talk to you.” She went on to say that she was a reporter from the Baltimore Sun and was doing a story on Searching For Peace Everywhere.

“You are new, right? I have two questions for you. First question—do you know how often this reception happens?” Before I could say anything, she said that it happened three, sometimes four days a week and that it had been going on for months.

The second question was if I knew how many people besides ourselves were “new” to the group. She said that tonight there were actually six of us, three couples. All three couples had pledged money, but I was the most generous. All the other people there were part of the organization, part of the scam. People like  us were referred to as pigeons; and their hit rate on pigeons was pretty good, often as much as  several thousand dollars a night. All the other pledges were bogus.

“But It is for a good cause, stopping nuclear war.”

“Stopping nuclear war, my ass,” she shot back. “These people are all part of Est, and the money they raise goes straight into the coffers of Est. It does not have anything to do with nuclear war.”

Est was one of the New Age, feel-good, self actualization groups, popular at the time. They were known for having weekend retreats where they locked up everyone in a large room, would not let them out even to go to the bathroom, broke down their defenses, and if time permitted, rebuilt them to be happy members of the Est cult. Several of our friends had told us Est horror stories.

“But what about the nuclear war angle?”

“They are using this to make money  because it is now obvious to most people that Est  is a fraud, and people are dropping out like flies. They are desperate for cash. And why the nuclear war angle? Think about it. Have you ever known anyone who is for nuclear war? Jesus.”

“Oh,” I replied. Embry just laughed.

So although I had made a solemn pledge, I tore up my pledge card and membership application and never gave them a cent. I must have gotten a dozen or so reminder letters, some of them threatening, but miraculously no phone calls or personal visits. I never saw the story in the Baltimore Sun.  And I never heard anything more about Searching For Peace Everywhere  or about Est or ever heard again from my friend. And fortunately up to this point I am happy to report that  the world has avoided a nuclear holocaust.

Okay, I admit it: I like to be liked. And  I also have yearned for respect almost my entire life, an endless quest , so to speak, often unfulfilled.

Of course, being liked and being respected does not happen all the time and rarely happens at the same time, but it happened to me in the hot summer of 1981.

It all started with a phone call from an acquaintance from  my former job where I worked as a developer of affordable housing. I hardly knew the guy, but  he got right to the point. “Joe,  I  just wanted to call and tell you how much I respect you and how important you were to me when we worked together.”

I couldn’t believe it. Me? Important to a guy I really didn’t know? It just goes to show, you never know when you are having a positive  influence on someone. It was a miracle that he actually called and let me know how he felt. I was elated.

He went on to say that he respected and liked me so much, he was having a party in my honor and was going to invite a lot of his housing friends and people at HUD. It was going to be fun—but it was not just for me, it was also for my wife, and there would not be a party unless we both could attend. Now was that thoughtful or what? He did not even know Embry.

“The party is going to be on Wednesday, July 18. Can you and your wife make it?” I checked with Embry. I could make it. She couldn’t. I was really disappointed. Here was a guy having a party in my honor, and I couldn’t even make it. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity lost. I expressed my regrets, thinking how wonderful it would  be to have been the center of attention.

“Oh, that’s ok, we can move it to the next Wednesday.”   Wow, this guy won’t give up, I thought. The conversation went on  like this with several other dates proposed until we found one that worked. Wednesday, August 9. Oddly, all the dates were suggested were Wednesdays. His last words were that it was really going to be fun, that I would meet a lot of affordable housing people and that it was very, very important that we got there on time.  He gave me the address of his apartment , conveniently  located only a couple of miles from our house in northwest Washington.

Since the party was almost a month away, I did not give it a great deal of thought; though when I did,  I could not conceal my pride and sense of satisfaction. The fact is that  being honored like this does not happen to many people. It was not that I did not deserve this kind of recognition. It is just that  it doesn’t seem to happen all that much, if ever. I felt so fortunate.

About a week before the event, my excitement was starting to build. I got a call from my friend reminding me of the party and verifying that both I and my wife would be present and on time. He stressed  that we should be there at seven at the latest.

There are two other things that you should know. First I had just started up my own consulting practice (in affordable and seniors housing) and was desperate for clients; and two, August 9, 1981, the day of the party,  could well have been the hottest and most unpleasant day in the history of Washington, with sweltering humidity and temperatures near 100.

The reason the first fact is important is that on that very day I was in New York City consulting with one of my few clients. I had planned to catch the two o’clock shuttle flight allowing me to get home in plenty of  time for the party. My client asked if I could stay another day to finish the  work on the assignment. Rule number one: you never turn down a client request,  especially if he is your only client. I turned him down. I could not miss the party in my honor, after all the planning that must have gone into it. I just could not do this to my friend or, for that matter, to myself. I had never before been honored in such a fashion. I caught the two pm plane, which was delayed,  but did get into National Airport around five thirty,  allowing time to get home, take a shower,  get dressed and still make it by seven. But I had to hurry. I did not have a minute to waste

I told the cab driver  to step on it, arrived home around six and stumbled out of the air conditioned  cab. The heat almost knocked me out. I raced up our front stairs, announcing that I was home and that we had only minutes to get ready. There was no answer. Embry was nowhere to be found. Puzzling, I thought. Before I had left for my business trip, I had reminded her how important the event was and how we had to be on time. Oh well, I thought, she will surely be here soon. The baby sitter showed up minutes later.

At six thirty I was showered, dressed, and ready to go. It would take about fifteen minutes to get to his apartment, plenty of time. Still no Embry. At six forty-five, still no Embry. By this time I was pacing the floor of our front porch scanning the sidewalk, sweating, and furious. How could she do this to me? At exactly five minutes to seven, I saw her. She was smiling, with our six-year-old daughter in tow, and had on her swimming suit. They had been for a refreshing swim at the neighborhood pool.  She was casually walking toward the house.

“Do you  know what time it is and where we have to be?” I shouted. Several passersby on the sidewalk gave me a puzzled look. Embry’s smile changed to a frown. “What’s the big deal? It is unbearably hot. We went to the pool.” she said, “I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes….”

A couple of minutes? I was ruined. It was already seven, and we would be at least a half hour late. I can’t remember exactly what I said to her next, but she gave me a puzzled look and said, “Are you crazy? You don’t even know this guy!”

Around seven thirty she reappeared. By this time I had calmed down a bit, realizing that the damage had been done, and there was nothing I could do about it. Maybe my friend would be a little upset, but it was not the end of the world.  I jumped in the car and motioned  to Embry  to get in. How could she be so slow? I stepped on the gas as we raced up Connecticut Avenue, thankful that there were no cops around to nail us for speeding. We did not say one word to each other  the whole way to the party.

Now that we were finally moving, I was finally able to relax a bit. I envisioned what it would be like when we did arrive. We would be warmly greeted. My friend would introduce us to everyone and say a lot of nice things about me. There would be great food, beer and wine and probably some good music in the background. I would feign humility and bask in the limelight, maybe even say a few words myself. All would be good. I managed to smile at Embry, who despite  her  look of bewilderment,  managed to smile back.

I had his address on a sheet of paper—an apartment building on Connecticut Avenue, apartment 603. We pulled into a side street, found a parking space; and I leaped out of the car, pulling Embry along. Panting, we arrived at the front door of the apartment  building, which thankfully was unlocked.  It was now almost eight, and the elevator took forever to get down to the first floor. As the elevator door opened  on floor six, I bounded toward  apartment 603 and found it only a few doors away. Oddly there was no sound coming from inside the apartment—no noise or laughter or music. I must have written down the address wrong. I paused for a long moment. Embry suggested I should just knock and see what would happen.

I did. The door opened,  and we gazed into a room packed with probably thirty or forty people, all stone silent and sitting on the floor. The room was suffocating. Air conditioners are not equipped to cool an apartment packed with people when it is over 100 degrees outside. All eyes turned to us. There was a man  standing in front of the group. He was probably around 40, was wearing a dark suit and tie and had a dead serious look on his face. My friend was nowhere to be seen.

“The Howells I presume?” he said in a sarcastic tone, “We have your place reserved on the front row. You are one hour late.”

My friend suddenly  appeared from nowhere and escorted  us to a spot in the front as we tried to avoid stepping on anyone. We sat down on the floor as people shuffled around trying to make room for us.

I had no idea what was happening or where we were. I immediately thought of Franz Kafka. Was this some kind of purgatory? Was this a bad joke? Was it some kind of torture? Was it a precursor to an execution? Or was it just a nightmare, which would fade into memory when I woke up?

I was so confused I  could not focus on what the guy was saying.

But after a couple of minutes  I did begin to get my wits about me and was able to see what he was doing. He had an easel and was drawing a pyramid with dollar signs all over it.

Wait a minute. I had seen this picture before. An out-of-town, old friend from high school had showed up at our house a few years before, supposedly for dinner, but had immediately brought in an easel  on which he drew a pyramid with dollar signs and insisted on talking about some hair brained, get rich scheme selling toothpaste and laundry detergent. I had told him I had no interest in selling toothpaste or laundry detergent. He said, I didn’t have to sell anything, just enlist six friends, and I would be guaranteed riches.  He was representing a company I had never heard of called Amway. When I told him we were not interested in riches and that we should just  have dinner and talk about old times, he left in a huff, not even staying for dinner. Embry thought the guys was nuts. I never saw him again.

I quietly turned to the woman next to me, who seemed to be spellbound by whatever the presenter in the dark suit was saying, and asked in a whisper, “Amway?”

She nodded yes, smiling.

The moment the young woman nodded, Embry, with a stage whisper heard by everyone in the room, exclaimed  with the voice  of authority: “Joe Howell, I have been married to you for a long time and I have put up with a lot of shit, but I am not putting up with this shit for one instant.” She stood up and headed for the door.

There was a hushed silence. Then everyone looked at me.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I stood up as well, waved my hand, and  with an embarrassed smile managed to say, “Bye bye,” and bolted  for the door, trying not to step on anyone.

Someone opened the door but not before I was able to notice the look of horror on the face of my friend. The door slammed shut and Embry and I stood alone in the dim hallway. We looked at each other for a brief moment  and  burst out laughing.

So much for being respected and well liked, I thought. But life could be a lot worse. I could be selling toothpaste and laundry detergent.

The time was mid October 1969. We were enjoying a quiet meal in Chapel Hill at the Blosser’s house, some of our closest friends. Bill was a fellow classmate at the School of City and Regional Planning. Actually “enjoying” is probably not the right word. Embry and I were completely wiped out, having been on pins and needles all day as we nervously sat in the waiting room of University of North Carolina Hospital. Our daughter Katherine–ten months old– was undergoing  heart surgery to correct  a  birth defect. But by early evening we were finally able to relax. Late that afternoon the heart surgeon had appeared briefly with a smile on his face, and our cardiologist, Paul Harned, emerged to let us know the operation had gone well and that hopes for a recovery were very good. So being at the Blossers for dinner was a welcomed relief—almost a victory dinner. At last we could relax.

After graduating from Union Seminary  in 1968, we had  moved to Chapel Hill where I enrolled in planning school at the University of North Carolina, and Embry got a job working for one of the planning professors as a computer programmer. We lived in rundown house in adjacent Carrboro , close enough to bike to classes and to work.  We loved everything about Chapel Hill— the house and neighborhood, fellow planning students, who unlike so many at Union Seminary  had no hang ups about the meaning of the universe, a good job for Embry, a beautiful campus, progressive by Southern standards, and a relaxed, laidback atmosphere.

But most of all we loved Katherine.

Katherine was born Thanksgiving weekend in 1968. Allard Lowenstein, the famous social activist, and his wife,  Jenny,  were staying with us and sleeping on our couch in the living room when Embry went into labor. Around midnight we said a quick goodbye and charged off to Watts Hospital in Durham. Early the next morning Embry gave  birth to a six and a half  pound, baby  girl, using hypnosis as a natural childbirth technique.

We were alerted that Katherine had a heart murmur shortly after her birth but that this did not necessarily mean anything serious since often these disappear. For now we should not worry about it but should let the doctors know if we noticed anything unusual.  To us Katherine seemed perfectly normal in every way. She was a pure delight, and I had never seen Embry happier. When we first met,  Embry  mentioned casually that she loved children and would like to have at least four—maybe five. And she was a perfect, loving, joyful  mother –literally beaming most of the time. We were lucky to find a kind woman with infant care experience  who provided day care for the new born children of planning  school students, and everything miraculously seemed to fall  into place.  It was certainly one of the happiest times of our life.

It was when Katherine was about three months old that we first noticed that when she got excited or particularly active she seemed to turn slightly  blue and lose her breath. After a couple of episodes we took her to the cardiologist at the UNC hospital for a series of tests, which revealed that there was in fact  a problem with a heart valve after all, but it did not appear to be imminently  life threatening and was fixable. The cardiologist recommended that if her condition continued to worsen, Katherine should undergo an operation to address the problem temporarily until she got to be somewhat older and could have it fixed permanently through open heart surgery. The operation was called a “Blaylock shunt” and involved rerouting vessels around the heart—a proven procedure with a very high success rate. And the hospital had a good pediatric heart surgeon. Of course, we were apprehensive, but given the diagnosis, generally hopeful and positive—just another one of those hurdles to overcome. It took several months of monitoring the situation and consulting with the cardiologist before the operation finally happened.

That is why when the phone rang at the Blosser’s around ten pm just as we were ready to return home, I did not think much about it. “It is for you,” Susan, Bill’s wife, said, turning to me, “and it is the hospital.”

I suddenly felt a cold chill come over me and took the receiver. The person calling was Doctor Harned,  who said there had been some complications, and we should immediately come to the hospital. We quickly said our good byes and rushed to the hospital. Neither of us said a word.  We were met at the door by Doctor Harned. He had been such a help to us during the entire experience—a kind and gentle person, who gave you the facts but let you know he was in your corner all the way. By the ashen expression on his face, we  knew  the news was not good.

The facts were that she had been doing fine– in fact doing so well she had been taken off the ventilator–but that suddenly  her heart had stopped. They had tried to revive her, and she was still alive, but things did not look good. There could be irreparable brain damage from lack of oxygen. We sat there in frozen disbelief. He excused himself. The cardiac surgeon suddenly whisked past us with a frown on his face and did not look us in the eye.  A few minutes later Doctor Harned returned. He had tears in his eyes . Katherine had not made it.

Talk about game changers.

I do not recall sleeping that night. Calls had to be made to family, relatives, friends. Embry’s parents were on a ship in the Mediterranean.  Embry was despondent, and I was doing the best I could to try to  hold things together, without a great deal of success.

Before he left, Doctor Harned had told me that we had been assigned a chaplain, who wanted to meet with us first thing the next day. Having had my fill of seminary and religion at that point, we had not even entered a church in Chapel Hill and had no religious connections there.  My fears were confirmed when it turned out that the guy was an evangelical Southern Baptist. Not taking any chances, I blurted out something to the effect that I was a seminary graduate, knew about God and religion, and had actually served as a hospital chaplain myself, and I did not want to hear one word about how this was God’s will . He seemed to understand, turned out to be kind and supportive, and honored my request. I later felt a little guilty about giving him such a hard time at the outset.

It is amazing what happens when tragedies like this occur. People rally.

The very next day food started appearing almost by the hour. Friends stopped for tearful hugs and embraces.  The phone was constantly ringing. Our living room was full of people almost all the time.  Having friends  present in situations like this makes so much difference. Nobody has to say word, just being there is what counts. It turned out that the wife of the head of the planning school (who taught in the social work school herself) organized most of the food delivery effort, which resulted in enough food to feed an army for a week. What is it about food in times of tragedy that seems to have such a soothing affect?

My parents arrived the next day. It was the first time I believe I ever saw my stalwart father wipe tears from his eyes. It took a couple of more days for Embry’s parents to get from their cruise ship to a plane to  the US and then to Chapel Hill.  I can’t remember all the people since so much still remains a blur, but it seemed at the time that most of the people we loved and cared for were either there  or with us by phone.  Several of our  neighbors, who were African Americans since we were the only white family on the block, and  who we really did not even know very well, stopped by. Without all the love and support we felt, it would have been hard to pull through.

But we did pull through. What were our options?

The funeral was held in Davidson, and the idea was to have a small, family, grave side service at the cemetery where Katherine’s ashes would be buried in Embry’s family’s plot. When we arrived in Davidson and went to Embry’s parent’s house, we were astounded to see the living room, and virtually the entire house, packed with my planning school classmates. Practically the entire class was there as were other friends from Chapel Hill and Davidson. The planning school  must have had to cancel classes. So much for the small service. I remember very little about the service itself except that it was short, and  there was no mention that this was the will of God.  The Presbyterian minister, Will Terry, had been the college chaplain when I was at Davidson and a friend. He knew better than to try to make sense of a loss like this.

Of all the help we received, the most comforting probably came from Doctor Harned. He was a real pro, who had been through situations like this many times yet never lost his  empathy and compassion. He said one thing that particularly stands out. It is the kind of thing that said by someone else might be taken as a cheap shot.  But in his case it was profound. “Think about it, “he said in his soft, gentle voice, “Your daughter lived a wonderful, though short life. She had loving parents and was until the very end, happy and cared for. In the fullness of time, all life is short. Ten months?  Eighty years? Of course, on one level there is an enormous difference. But on another level—a more profound human level, in the fullness of time—the fact that she lived is what is important. For this you can be thankful.”

There is really no way to adequately convey what it means to lose a child. I suppose this is a truism. People understand this. Still when it happens to you, it takes on a whole new meaning. I think that for a young mother it is much harder than for a father. Only months before, Katherine had literally been part of Embry’s  body, and they were still connected in spirit if not in body. She must have felt like she was losing part of herself.  And what I did not  understand then, but what  as a grandparent I fully understand now is  how  hard the loss of a child is  for a lot of other people besides the parents. At the time I did not think about how much our parents must have suffered, but as a grandparent I can’t imagine how I could bear it if we lost any of our  grandchildren. Also now at age 70 I know that you suffer when your children suffer regardless what age they are. That is just the way life is.

Doctor Harned’s  last word of advice was to mourn but to move on. The best thing he said we could do  was  to have another child as soon as possible;  and on July 6, 1970, Embry gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Andrew—just about nine months to the day after the loss of Katherine. Four years later, Jessica was born; and thankfully both of our children have had rich, rewarding lives—not without challenges, of course—and have produced four wonderful grandchildren, a boy and girl each.  As the Evangelicals would say, we have been blessed.

But while you mourn the loss of a child, it is not something that you ever really put behind you forever  and “get over.”  In a sense, of course, you do because you have no other choice. But you still wonder what she would have been like when, say, she entered the first grade, or had her first date, or what she would have studied in college, or whom she would have married, or what kind of mother she would have been, or what  career she would have pursued, and what would have excited her, and what causes  would have captured her heart. You can only wonder and mourn for her and for the world, which never got the benefit of someone  you know, deep down, would have made a difference.