The Double-Edged Sword Of Life On A Yacht

Living on a yacht in Marina Del Rey is a double-edged sword at times.

Being waved through security gates at an exclusive condominium and having private parking in an underground, secure parking facility is very nice.

Walking along pathways lined with towering palm trees and exotic flowering plants and having your own private convenience store, drinking clubs, fitness clubs, access to the docks where multi-million dollar mega-yachts are slipped, this is all very nice.

You meet a different class of people who never seem to work. They are all tan and drive nice cars and are exceedingly polite and smile with perfect white teeth. I never saw a bad set of teeth the entire time I lived on the yacht. These are very nice people in a very nice nautical location, dripping wealth and eccentricity. These are people who always ask you over to help them with neighborly favors and offer strong cocktails in the company of ever-increasingly fashionable, firm, tall men and long-legged young women.

No one ever seems to complain about money except when they are referring to situations that are really pressing, like the hurricane that just took out their place in Boca Raton or the virus that is killing their Bison herds in Aspen.

Here I was in the lap of luxury and ensconced in total Valhallan irresponsibility. I liked it. Everyone in the Marina knew I was on a hit TV show and even though they knew I was a lower-level assistant, I was "in."

A brief walk down the docks and I was invited onto massive international cruisers–hundred million dollar private vessels–replete with crew and free drinks and offerings of foreign food things, always accompanied by questions about the actors I worked with.

If that got boring, then a few more paces along and I'm at the Four Seasons paying huge sums for small food and glamorous drinks in a truly staggering bar surrounded by people who I didn’t know but whose voices and faces were too familiar not to chuckle about.

 These were the salad days before circumstances got weird.

I did not know it, but the other edge of the sword was being sharpened the whole time I was settling into my hip new world. Thinking back I should have recognized the sound of “The Other Edge” being sharpened. I am a man who has come to recognize such sounds. I was too giddy with the environment to hear or see what was coming at me. So sitting at the bar at the Four Seasons, dripping in vodka, I stared intently into the eyes of my six-foot tall exotic model/friend and began plotting a scheme to introduce ourselves to John Kerry, who was in town promoting his Global Warming Documentary.

I had not a care in my heart or mind or loins of anything ever getting negative. Kerry and his entourage were on their way out. Me and my date both agreed to go back to the boat and get more cozy. In a movie, this is when there is a fade-out and a couple wake up smiling in a guilty, yet warm and giggly manner. Coffee is offered and plans are made for another perfect evening.

This is not what happened to me that night.

A walk down the slips and docks proved very romantic. The moon was out and the air was full of floral scents. Then we reached the dock where the yacht where I lived was tied up. There were strange men with cameras hiding along the security fences. Three of them began waving in a panicked way to get our attention. Police were everywhere. The neighbors had binoculars and pellet guns. I was asked for my identification by a private security officer. My date was asked for the same. I heard a pellet gun fire and someone yelled in pain somewhere in the bushes. The security force ran off and I unlocked the gate and ran with my date down the gangplank to the yacht. Off in the distance my date and myself could see the bright lights of a movie shoot.

 Climbing onto the yacht we had a better view. Yes, there was a major motion picture shooting right across the channel and Salma Hayek was being stalked by paparazzi. Those men with cameras were the tabloid types and the locals were firing on them with air rifles and water balloons filled with urine. The hatred of tabloid culture is universal in Marina Del Rey. Me and my date had another “Industry Chuckle” and descended into the bowels of the yacht.

This is when things got bad.

I had no idea that my roommates were so unaccustomed to the company of women. From the moment they set eyes upon my date, they were like drunken frat boys seething and erect–dropping the worst pick-up lines any man can possibly deliver. There would be no love for me tonight.

My date asked to use the bathroom and was shown inside. (Here is a truth about living on a yacht). No matter how big or elegant a boat is, it is still just a boat and that means it is narrow and cramped. The toilet offended my date. Very tastefully constructed, the walls made of river stones, with brass and steel adornments, doors and cabinets made of antique wood; this bathroom was small and had no toilet paper. Lifting the lid to the commode, my date saw that my roommates had not flushed all day. The smell and vision was horrifying. My date, now pale with disgust, came out of the bathroom and grabbed me by the front of my shirt. Her mouth was quivering but no words were delivered.

She left immediately, pushing past drunken, piratical horn-dog boat dwellers who were asking for her name and phone number. Down the dock she went, past angry neighbors hooting and hollering at the show biz types on the other side of the security fences. Up the gangplank and struggling with the lock mechanisms of the gate and then facing a barrage of flash bulbs from paparazzi (who thought they recognized her from somewhere), my date disappeared into the dark night.

My Hollywood quality night and expectations of Marina Love were gone in a horrible ignominious way.

I learned later that I could never bring a girl around the yacht, ever. Even platonic female friends were hassled. The moment a female voice was heard, my roommates would attack with bad manners and demand attention and ask if she had any available friends. The toilet was regularly full of human waste because the yacht did not have a septic tank; the guys just flushed it directly into the marina waters. They were poor examples of the glamour they were surrounded by.

I also learned that the owner was being evicted for his slovenly existence. He was an embarrassment to the marina and the nice people who lived there. There were noise complaints every week. My two roommates were constantly fighting, they did not trust each other. Money was always an issue. So was security. Both men often brought sleazy girlfriends around who were known thieves with mean axes to grind. There was no reason to this life. Aging strippers who doubled as prostitutes regularly staggered through the hallways yelling in drunken stupors. The sound of breaking glass became a frequent signal that it was time for me to leave and take a walk to the beach.

My dream was over. I had to live on this yacht for another year. I had made a deal to rent the room for twelve months. If I was going to be stuck with two fools on a leaking boat, with bad plumbing, surrounded by decadence and no toilet paper, I had to make some adjustments.

The next year was going to be an adventure. I was sure of that. And so it was. That night when I crawled into my cabin and listened to the seals barking and the ropes creaking against the watery swells, I once again envisioned the good of the marina instead of the bad. Monday was another hard week at the studio and I only had two days to figure out how to have fun in this place. My mind slipped into dream. A boat has a way of doing that to you. The portholes were open as well as the hatch over my bed. The air smelled salty and the flowers on shore were distinct.

There would be games for sure, as gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson used to say. It was my job to make them fun. I decided to start keeping a journal.

Part One: Anchored on a Yacht with Characters in Marina del Rey