The Cruise of the Aphrodite

We were sitting at North Avenue Beach, eating peanuts and watching pretty girls getting sleepy and careless in the sunshine. My friend, Marty, waved his hand graciously towards the water and said solemnly, "I see a new fate in store for us."

"We have been in many ventures together," I said patiently, "but drowning in Lake Michigan is out."

He looked at me scornfully. "You have no imagination." He assumed the manner of one talking to an inferior. "Listen, Horsey," he said slowly, "I've tried to get you to understand this many times. You have to have big ideas to associate with classy women. You have to want to eat caviar and drink champagne, not . . . not," he motioned violently, ". . . not be satisfied with peanuts."

"I paid for these peanuts, Marty. You were broke, remember?"

"That has nothing to do with it," he said as he dug into the bag for a fistfull. I squeezed my hand together around the bag so he couldn't get too many out.

He continued, "One has to develop an air of success and hobnob with the upper set if one hopes to enjoy the companionship of high class damsels."

"How about being waiters in some high class dump?"

"No, no, no, no," he said, straining to control his annoyance. "Waiters are servants, not equals."

"Chuck Meyers was a waiter," I said. "He's got two cars, a big house, a beautiful wife and a jolly, plump maid."

"He is a poseur," Marty declared. "Not socially acceptable. It's not how much money you have. It is the scope of your way of life. Personally, I enjoy lavish leisure. I'm not sure about you, Horsey."

He was silent.

"What's the deal?" I asked.

With dignity and careful pronouncement he said, "We should become yachtsmen."

"I know how to row."

"I don't mean the Lincoln Park Lagoon! I mean out there. Big white boat. Yacht caps. Tall drinks. Pretty girls. Midnight parties. Invigorating storms. Strange lands. Trading beads with the natives for an island of fruit. Trading cows for wives."

"I hate cows."

"It's a chance to rub elbows with people of wealth and culture."

"All right," I said with some irritation. "I guess I'd like to be a yachtsman. Where do we get fifty thousand dollars?"

"That," Marty said archly, "is why most men do not have yachts. They suffer from the grand delusion that yachts cost fortunes. It is merely a clever rumor circulated by present yachtsmen to keep the sport from being crowded and to hoard women."

He pulled a crumpled piece of newspaper out of his pocket and squinted at it carefully. In a monotone he read, "For sale. Forty-foot schooner. Sleeps eight. Three hundred dollars."

"Where is it? At the bottom of the Chicago River?"

"Here's another. Thirty-foot cabin cruiser. Excellent for handyman. Will trade for banjo or best offer." He rapped the paper with his fist. "With some white paint and an engine tuneup we can save ourselves thousands of dollars."

"I think we'd do better with the banjo."

"We can take a look," Marty said. "In case we find a steal, how much money can you borrow?"

"Not enough to pay off what I already owe."

"Forget your past. In a short time we might be wealthy. Do you realize what a tip from some financier's loveable daughter could do for us on the stock market? We'll borrow capitol and live off your investments. Compared to that, the cost of a slightly used yacht is mere peanuts."

He dug his hand into the bag and scraped out the last crumbs.

A high-power boat cruised close to the shore. A heavy set man was seated on the fly bridge. Two curvy girls in play suits lounged on the front deck. A steward came from the cabin with a tray of sandwiches and cocktails. Marty put his fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Everyone on board looked over. Marty jumped up and waved.

The heavy set man stared quietly. The two girls stared sullenly. The steward waved back.

Marty was excited. "You see how easy it is to make contacts?"

"That was only the steward."

"Looked like the owner to me. They would have all waved if we had been in a boat. We are just landlubbers. We are not a part of the sporting world."

"Marty," I said, "I got a friend with a little boat and an outboard motor we can borrow. I know how to start the motor."

Marty got up sternly. He shook his head in silent disgust and walked away.

"Where're you going, Marty?"

"To the boat yard."

"Can I come along?"

"You can," he said condescendingly, "if you will make every effort to conceal your peasant blood."

• • •

The boat yard didn't look good. All the best boats were gone. The ones left had a weatherbeaten, ancient look. The bleached blonde in the yard office was the same way, but it looked like she had more trips in her than the boats. Marty had a weakness for any kind of blonde.

"My good woman," he said in careful accents, "allow me to introduce us. I am Martin Smedley the third and this is my secretary and traveling companion, Mr. Horace Forester."

"My name is Waldschmidter," I corrected.

He gave me a guarded nudge as he eyed her rather hefty figure. All this time he was holding his hand out stiffly. The woman looked at it suspiciously and then gave it a limp touch.

"I don't do the buying," she said defensively.

"Dear madam, we are not salesmen," Marty assured her with a forgiving laugh. "We are interested in purchasing a suitable yacht with which to enjoy the pleasures of Lake Michigan and the hospitality of this city's gracious yacht clubs."

I gave Marty a nudge not to overdo it.

The woman looked at us uncertainly for a few moments and then shouted in a loud voice, "Max!"

There were strange noises in another room. A thin man came shuffling into the office. He looked like he had been sleeping it off.

"They want a boat," the woman said and walked out.

The yardman sized us up. Marty straightened his faded tie and picked a speck of lint from his sagging tweed suit.

"I got an old one for fifty bucks," the yardman said.

"Let me assure you that money is no object," Marty told him. "Although we would be interested in a moderately priced vessel since it would allow us to invest more in remodelling to suit our tastes."

"You can sink a wad into this one," the yardman said. He led us to a far corner of the boat yard.

Propped up with rotting timbers was the warped hull of a boat. Marty regarded it thoughtfully. I climbed up a shaky ladder and looked inside. It had no cabin, no deck, no motor and a hole in the bottom.

"It's been recently worked on," the yardman said.

Someone had built a crude framework of two-by-fours over it and tacked on a ragged piece of canvas to keep off the sunlight.

"When was the last time it was in the water?" I asked.

"Couldn't really say. Only been workin' here eight years."

"What happened to the engine?"

"Dropped out. We cut her up for ballast."

Marty was undismayed. "We'll probably have to pay a bit more," he stated, "but in the long run it will save money on repairs."

The yardman thought for a moment. "Could you go as high as three hundred?" he asked. "This one floats," he added hurriedly.

"Price is not really an object," Marty repeated, "but . . ."

"It's got to be cash," the yardman interrupted. "The owner is forced to leave town."

We walked down a row of empty boat cradles and descended a short flight of steps to the dock. It was only sagging planks nailed to the tops of rotting pilings. Floating low in the water was a dirty boat hung with automobile tires. Its paint was peeling off.

"It has nice low lines," Marty said.

"It needs pumping out," the yardman explained.

"It looks strange. Almost has the shape of a shoe," I said. "It's kind of small."

"This here is a custom made boat. The fellow that owns it built it himself."

"Is he a carpenter?" Marty asked.

"No, but he likes to work with wood. He's a shoemaker."

We climbed into the small cockpit. The boat rocked dangerously. I looked into the doorless cabin. It was only four feet high with part of it under water.

"What are the specifications of its power plant?" Marty asked.

"The engine was tore out of a '34 Ford. Makes it nicer than boat engines. You can crank it when your battery's down."

A gear shift lever and knob stuck out of the center of the dock. The yardman patted it. "Gives you three speeds forward and one in reverse. Right now the clutch needs fixin' so it'll only go in reverse. Runs nice."

"Seems like it's just been nailed together. Don't they usually use screws?" I asked.

"Them's boat nails," the yardman said quickly.

"It's too small," Marty said.

"Two cows would sink it," I added.

"Well, if you want something bigger you got to pay more. How about a thousand bucks?"

I got a coughing spell.

Marty poked me viciously. "We'll take a look at it," he said.

This one was about forty feet long. It was roomy, but old. It had a cabin under the forward deck, a main cabin and a trunk cabin. It was stripped of furnishings. The wood looked like dirty gray blotting paper. Marty was electrified.

"This is elegant. Really elegant." He tempered his enthusiasm in front of the yardman. "It will need extensive furnishings and redecoration," he told him.

The yardman said, "It makes a nice roomy shack on the river. Guy that owns it used to bring women here. You and your friend can have some good times. Put in a coal stove for the winter. Get some lanterns for light and," he winked, "a couple of soft mattresses. You can haul water from the yard office. It's about a hundred yards."

"We are interested in extensive cruising," Marty laughed.

"Suit yourself," the yardman said flatly. "You want her?"

"Well," Marty said, "let's discuss the financial aspects of your offer."

• • •

It didn't seem that he could do it, but Marty talked the yardman down two hundred bucks. To raise money we spent two days pawning things and visiting all our erstwhile friends. By the sheer force of his threatening, blackmailing, swindling personality, he managed to borrow all but four hundred dollars. He tried every thinkable scheme for getting the rest of it, including some schemes that were not thinkable, like trying to sell bartenders future cruising privileges at twenty-five dollars a throw.

"They have no imagination," Marty said bitterly. "They are enslaved to peasant attitudes. It is better that we do not associate with the working class."

"They maybe would have kicked in a pony of beer," I speculated.

"Ale!" Marty said. "It's called ale. Only the poor drink beer. Ale comes in small bottles."

"Speaking of drinking," I said, "there's Lefty across the street. It looks like he's having a party."

Lefty was sitting sleepily in a doorway holding a half-empty pint of port wine in one hand.

Marty slapped me on the back. "That's it. A fine suggestion. Lefty just got discharged. Maybe he's loaded."

We made a fast, dangerous crossing of the street. He approached Lefty with his arms extended like he was going to hug him. "Lefty, my old comrade," he said warmly.

Lefty looked at him groggily and tried to get up and leave. He couldn't quite make it.

Marty grabbed a limp arm and began to pump it up and down. "Lefty, we have so much to talk over. So many old times to remember and so many new experiences to share with each other. You must be my guest for a welcome home party."

"I need some sleep," Lefty said (continued on page 54) Cruise of the Aphrodite (continued from page 14) thickly.

"A shave, a shower and a good meal and you'll feel tops again. Lefty, if you cooperate we can all take a refreshing cruise on our yacht. The salt air will do you wonders."

"It's a lake," I said.

Marty ignored me. He pulled Lefty to his feet.

Lefty resisted. He fished in his pocket for a fifty cent piece and offered it to Marty. "Get yourself a pint of wine and leave me alone."

"Your sense of humor has not deserted you," Marty laughed as he pocketed the half-buck.

We dragged Lefty over to a grill and poured black coffee into him. He was feeling rough and only heard half of what Marty told him. I guess the words pretty girlies, wild parties and rich friends got through to him, because he became interested.

We loaded him onto a street car and helped him over to the boat yard. With his blurred vision the boat looked impressive. He hadn't cashed his mustering out pay. He also had a small wad he had been forced to save up while in an army hospital recovering from an impolite disease. It was a landfall. Marty guided Lefty's shaky signature on the back of the check. The yardman made out the bill of sale and transfer of title.

Marty bought a bottle of French wine in celebration. Lefty complained that it was too sour and mixed his with soda pop. It was too much for Lefty. We carried him into the forward cabin and laid him out on the bare spring of the bunk.

"He's not socially desirable," Marty reflected, "but good companionship could improve his cultural worth."

"So could a bath and some D.D.T."

Next morning Marty was up early, whistling and splashing white paint over the hull. The mooring ropes broke twice and we had to buy sash cord to hold things down. Marty borrowed a battery charger and ran an extension cable out to the dock. Everyone was eager to have a ride, especially Lefty.

"If this tub is so wonderful why can't it move?" he kept asking.

"Patience," Marty said. "Cruises are not planned in a day."

To keep harmony we made sure Lefty was supplied with port wine. It made him more manageable, except that he fell overboard twice. After that we made him wear a moth-eaten life jacket. "It makes me feel like a fat slob," he kept muttering.

That night there was a heavy rain. It dribbled in through the cabin tops and decks. Our blankets got soaked and finally we all got up and sat huddled together under a piece of canvas. I boiled up some coffee in a tin can by holding lighted matches under it. Marty kept telling us that a can of putty would take care of everything.

When the boat was all painted it looked a lot better. From about a block away it almost looked classy. When we were ready to start the engine the yardman came over to gas us up.

"How much do you want?"

"Five of regular."

"We only pump marine gas. Five gallons won't get you far."

"We won't be cheap about it," Marty said, looking suspiciously in his wallet. "A full tank would probably be better. How much would that run?"

"Let's see," the yardman reckoned. "There's two tanks amidships and one under the stern deck. I'd say about 250 gallons."

Marty hit the big gong. He stepped back a pace.

"It's a low compression engine," the yardman continued. "It burns about four gallons an hour."

Marty recovered his composure. "Very well, we'll take eight gallons. We have other committments and won't be able to spare more than a couple of hours."

The engine was hard to start. Lefty was a mechanic. He took out the spark plugs and poured in heavy oil to get up the compression. He had us get 25c worth of ether to pour in the carburetor. The engine coughed and smoked and eventually started. Blue flames spurted oddly out of one side.

"It's got a cracked block," Lefty said very matter-of-factly. He took these setbacks better than I expected. He had been jackrolled enough to be calm about losing money.

We were only hitting on five of the eight cylinders. Marty cast off and almost ran aground turning around in the river. He headed towards downtown. He felt good at the wheel. As we approached another boat he reached up in a nautical manner and gave a tug on the whistle cord. The compressor was just about shot and the whistle made a vulgar sound. The other boat gave a blast on a siren and all the girls on board laughed and pointed as we passed by.

Marty nudged me painfully in the ribs. "You see," he said loudly, "we really belong, now. We'll soon enjoy female companionship."

Just then Lefty let out a holler. He had jumped down from the cabin top and his foot went through the deck. I helped him get it out. He was sore.

Marty shouted through the windshield. "It's all right. A piece of wood and some screws will fix up everything."

"You ain't going to fool with my foot," Lefty said.

I helped Lefty back into the cabin.

"Horsey," Marty said, "I think it's time to issue a ration of grog to the crew."

I dug through a box of junk and handed Lefty his bottle of wine for the day. He was mad at Marty and told him he'd better take on a cargo of pretty girlies or give back his money.

At Erie Street the rudder became fouled. The railroad bridge had just opened for us when suddenly we were out of control. Marty pulled too fast on the reverse gear and killed the engine. A tug pushing a sand barge came straight towards us. We were drifting broadside because of the wind. Marty pulled on the whistle and it fizzled out. "Do something!" he shouted.

I grabbed a boat pole and ran outside. It wouldn't even reach to the waterline, much less the side of the river. Marty came out with a flare. "We've got to let them know we are disabled and in distress," he shouted. He lighted it, but in the bright sunlight it was almost invisible.

The barge didn't slow down. We drifted a little to one side and it plowed past with only inches of clearance. The pilot shook his fist and shouted something.

"He doesn't like yachtsmen," I observed.

"He is a common seaman and socially inferior," Marty explained.

The wind was turning us again.

"Horsey," he said, "you will have to volunteer to dive overboard and clear away whatever is fouling the rudder."

"This is the drainage canal," I reminded him.

"This is the call to duty."

"Swimming gives me an ear ache," I said.

"We must all rally to the emergency. I will undertake to sober up Lefty."

"Why don't we just wait until the wind blows us close to shore and then abandon this hunk of driftwood? We can take a trip to Texas or somewhere." I was trying to tempt him. "You always wanted to try your hand at the oil industry."

He ignored my remarks. I stripped down to my shorts and went over the side. We had been carried downstream to an automobile bridge. A crowd of people gathered along the railing and stared down at me. I untangled a piece of burlap from the rudder and climbed back in. Marty was holding a piece of wet rag to the back of Lefty's neck as he swayed uncertainly over the engine. He clumsily pulled and adjusted things and got it running.

"You can retire to your quarters," Marty said as he let Lefty sag down next to the engine hatch.

I dragged Lefty away from the escaping fumes. "Let's turn back."

"We're almost to the locks and there's Lake Michigan!"

We chugged along for another ten minutes and got through the locks. Marty told the attendant that we were the U. S. S. Aphrodite, home port Chicago, destination confidential. He was nettled when I asked the attendant how far away the nearest Coast Guard rescue boat was stationed.

When we were out on the lake I'll have to admit that it was nice. I had never seen the skyline before. When people waved, I always forgot and waved back, even though Marty kept telling me that it was a breach of yachting ethics. At North Avenue Marty got in pretty close to the shore.

"Isn't the water kind of shallow here?" I asked.

"If we don't get in close enough how (concluded on page 72) Cruise of the Aphrodite (continued from page 54) are the girls on the beach going to see us?" he asked back. "We'll drop anchor so some of them can swim out to us."

"We don't have an anchor. Even if we had an anchor, the pretty ones never know how to swim. They can't get their fancy swimsuits wet."

"You're a first class wet blanket," Marty said.

We were doing about four miles an hour at full speed, leaving a trail of blue smoke behind us. A big white boat passed us swiftly. Their stern wash set us rocking. Marty was quiet for a time. I watched him and figured out he was getting seasick. He began to turn green.

"Horsey," he said in a thin voice, "would you take over?" He ran back to the cockpit and hung himself over the railing.

A few minutes later the engine died. I shoved a stick into the gas hole and found we were empty. We seemed too close to some pilings and the wind wasn't doing us any good. There was a shudder and the sound of splintering wood. When it got quiet I could hear the sound of running water underneath. I didn't have to look below the hatch. We were starting to settle. I went back to Marty. He was so dizzy he could hardly see.

"We're sinking," I said.

He wasn't able to say a word. He cupped his hand over his mouth and got bug-eyed.

Lefty woke up. He staggered over to the railing and looked with glazed eyes towards the shore.

"An island full of naked women," he shouted. "You know, Marty, you're all right, boy. This is the life! You're real genuine, Marty!"

As he waved to the girls on the beach it upset his balance and he tumbled to the deck.

A boat with a large party of people on board pulled up about fifty yards away in deep water. They all watched us in silent fascination as we slowly sank. It took them twenty minutes to decide that we needed help. I just sat there. Lefty was too gone to move. I tried not to look at Marty. When the water started lapping in over the deck they sent a steward in a dinghy to take us off.

The owner of the yacht turned out to be a mean drunk. The steward kept insulting us. There were a lot of fancy looking girls in skimpy clothes on board, but they just giggled and kept away from us. I got a blanket to wrap around Marty and he said, "I'm Martin Smedley of the U. S. S. Aphrodite and this is my secretary and traveling companion, Mr. Horace Forester."

"The name is Waldschmidter," I corrected. He sagged back. I had to leave him to steal a shaker of Martinis for Lefty who was getting the shakes.

"You're real genuine," Lefty said.

I was getting an ear ache.

"Would you please take over?" said Marty as he turned green