"Two and a Half Nickels" captures the excitement of a family adventure in Europe during the mid 1960's. It's a fun escapade and gastronomic delight for a young family sailing the Adriatic, Aegean and Mediterranean waters in a charted vessel. Each day is filled with culinary fantasies and visits to exotic islands and countries.. NOTA: El libro no está en español, sino en inglés.

TWO AND A HALF NICKLES

By DONALD S. BURNS

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Donald S. Burns
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-4724-5

Contents

CHAPTER ONE.......................1CHAPTER TWO.......................4CHAPTER THREE.....................9CHAPTER FOUR......................15CHAPTER FIVE......................21CHAPTER SIX.......................31

Chapter One

When does an adventure start?

Is it in the wee hours of the morning when sleep becomes an elusive demon darting from your grasp? Or is it at a cocktail party when you're nakedly revealing your dreams of visiting with a sensuous half-dressed Polynesian girl on the island of Bora-Bora?

I can't really pin down just when our adventure started, but I know it was long before I signed the charter agreement for the M.Y. Cuhona and made airplane and hotel reservations for the ten of us.

In my case, I believe my adventure started the night that ...

"Luke, I'm fed up with the whole ball of wax. I've lost rapport with people in the company, I've collected my profit sharing, and I'm as nervous as a cat on the proverbial roof, so I've decided to chuck the whole damn mess. Today I'm a man. I resigned. Yep, I told them to shove it in their ear."

"Honey, I'm with you the whole route. Now what are you going to do?" was her agreeable reply.

"Well, I'm not just exactly sure, but now that we've got two and a half nickels to rub together, let's take the kids to Europe and spend a year spending. Since I'll be broke when I get back, I'm really going to enjoy myself before I have to buckle down again. I know I can get a good job to rebuild our finances, so what the hell, are you with me?"

"I'm ahead of you, dear. Let's call the kids at school in Arizona and give them the news."

"Okay. You tell those three, and I'll break the news to the group here."

I think that was the genesis of our adventure.

My eager and fun-loving wife, Lucy—Luke to me and her intimates—really pushed the go button by her immediate acceptance of my dream. The telephone call to our three oldest gals in school added even more fuel to the blast. The three gals at home were perhaps somewhat less enthusiastic, especially Robin, age three, who flatly refused to go unless she could take her "blankie."

Yes, I had committed myself right up to my eyeballs, and I hoped no one would go by in a motorboat to upset our dreams.

The prospects were even brighter after Luke and I made a preliminary trip to Switzerland in February 1966 to look for schools for all six children. The fact that we spent more than half our time looking for new and unspoiled ski areas did not deter us from our school search. As a matter of fact, we were highly successful in locating schools in Switzerland and disposing of each of our big and little demons in various well-watched, well-chaperoned institutions for les jeunes filles. That's not what the evil-minded reader might think—that's a girls' school.

Julie, eighteen and our oldest, a high school graduate who had been accepted at Stanford University in Palo Alto, received a year's deferment and was entered at the Institut Richelieu in Lausanne. There she was to specialize in French and take various other courses in boy watching, business, and the avoidance of the continental pinch, a favorite sport for us old-time continentals.

Patti, sixteen, and Laurie, fifteen, were accepted at a wonderful school in Gstaad, the Institut Montesano. Here the girls specialize in skiing, French, skiing, and as a minor subject, boys.

Wendi, our thirteen-year-old, was to attend Brillantmont, an outstanding girls' school in Lausanne. Here there is no fun in the sun other than highly supervised activities along with a very challenging academic program. To my knowledge, Brillantmont is the only fully accredited school to Stanford in Switzerland.

We had planned to send Lonnie, our eleven-year-old, to Montjoie in Villars S. Ollon, but a change in plans that I will divulge later in this narrative prevented her attendance.

Our crew was rounded out by three-year-old Robin, blanket on one shoulder and thumb in mouth, along with her close friend Chris Karl, twenty-one-year-old glorified babysitter, nurse, student of skiing, sailing, and more particularly, student of life.

"You're out of your cotton-pickin' head" was the spoken consensus of our Newport Beach friends.

"You'll go out of that pinhead of yours traveling with all that girl-type company," commented many of my business associates.

"You won't last ten weeks" was the caustic comment of my faithful and forever enduring secretary.

For that matter, everyone with an encouraging comment such as the foregoing was right!

But that's getting ahead of myself and ruining the supposed suspense that I am trying to build in order to make this story a saleable commodity. After all, if I can peddle this to some unsuspecting editor, I can write off the expense of the adventure.

Chapter Two

My experience in the planning of this grand adventure has proved, beyond that dimly lit shadow called doubt, that the best-laid plans of mice and men too often get all fouled up.

Once the aura of wonderment of realizing that we were really going ahead with this trip had subsided, some of the stark realities of how, when, where, and who bubbled to the surface. These so-called facts had a slight effect in tempering the enjoyment of anticipation, but when you've got your neck out, it has to be full throttle ahead.

We wavered considerably on what to do during the summer, fall, and spring months. Winter was no problem because we knew that skiing and stretch-pants-watching would keep me busy. We thought that the best thing to do was to put our beautiful fifty-three-foot, Garden-designed ketch, Little Revenge, on the market for sale or for an annual charter. Then we would use some of the fabulous charter income or large profit from the sale to help us finance the charter of such a boat as the hundred-foot, American-owned ketch, the Kikki.

After much discussion with the yacht brokers here in the West and a few in the East, I signed the listings and put my dear love on the auction block. There was no real need for concern, because after the initial pitch by the brokers, nothing happened. I guess the stock market went sour, or the real estate market was bad, but no eager large-boat bidders appeared fully rigged with a bone in their teeth. As a matter of fact, we didn't see even one hull down on the horizon.

Correspondence started to flow back and forth over the Atlantic and into the far reaches and corners of the Mediterranean. It was our intention to charter, or perhaps even buy, a cruising ketch in European waters for our cruise, which would occupy the summer, fall, and spring. These letters instituted the first pall of discouragement.

Boats that were older, smaller, less well equipped, and rather ratty in appearance were available at only twice the price that we were asking for our beautiful, fully equipped, modern, and immaculate Little Revenge.

It was obvious that we were walking into a dark den of slick pirates who were out to scalp the rich, jet-set Americans. Frankly, true blue discouragement set in. We were getting buyer's remorse. We began to figure out the daily budget, and after multiplying our daily figure by 365, we found that this astronomical sum was really going to dissipate the estate that I had spent twenty years trying to build.

The only thing that prevented me from swallowing my pride and calling the whole thing off was that when I pussyfooted around the subject with the kids and Luke, I received icy looks and reproachful stares. I just didn't have the guts to back out then.

Unhappily, there was no activity on either a bona fide charter or the sale of the Little Revenge. I did have some wheelers and dealers make me all sorts of indecent propositions, such as running the boat as a floating house of ill repute. They would split fifty/fifty on the take and even offered me free guest privileges. Other people offered to "take care" of the Little Revenge while I was away for a year. I even was offered a deal whereby I paid the expenses of a group of mixed single protesters to go to the South Pacific, where they were planning to protest the French hydrogen bomb test. This group assured me that they were nonprofit and that therefore all the expenses, including depreciation, would be tax deductible.

There was a lull developing in our plan—and decision-making progress. Many future contingencies started to revolve around when or if we could charter the Little Revenge. Even the yacht brokers were ominously quiet after their rash of usual promises. Then I started to have some sleepless nights wondering what I was to do with my little beauty, the Little Revenge.

While cruising to Catalina Island one weekend on a beautiful balmy day with a force 3 wind, Luke remarked how wonderful it would be to have our own boat, which we knew and trusted so well, with us in the Mediterranean. The idea nestled comfortably in the back of my mind, and as we cut through the waters of the blue Pacific under almost cloudy skies, I imagined this to be the same exhilarating experience I would enjoy while slipping along the sunlit shores of Costa Brava.

By the time we pulled into White's Landing on Catalina, I expected the Spanish port authorities to bustle out to the Little Revenge and ask for our clearance papers. The spell was broken when one of my neighbors yelled over a greeting and an invitation to cocktails as soon as the sun got anywhere near the yardarm. The idea, however, was not lost. As a matter of fact, I began to like it more and more.

There was an actual bedlam of enthusiastic assent when I mentioned it to the gals that same evening. I admit my thoughts may have been stimulated by the wholesome and delicious dinner that Luke had just prepared in our galley. The delightful Rhein-Hassen wine that we had with our gourmet dinner didn't hurt either.

As we adjourned to the cockpit to look at the brilliant orange and red of the setting sun, I lost myself once more to the future. This was the only way a man should go ... with his own boat, his wonderful family, enjoying the advantages of beautiful foreign shores ... Maybe tomorrow there would be some of the cute little bikini-clad Spanish girls to look at through my binoculars ... Man, this is living ...

"Hey ... Don," bellowed a voice, "come on over for an after-dinner drink ... You asleep or something?"

Gone were the bikinis, back came White's Landing. We were being boarded not by customs officials, but by some of the gang from the yacht club. I had to tuck my dreams away until I could get rid of these unappreciative, overzealous Americans.

Soon after returning from that three-day cruise I called my secretary into my office and said, "Lynchie, find out what ships could carry the Little Revenge to Barcelona."

"Don, do you feel all right?" she queried.

"Don't question the boss—hop to it. I want a report tomorrow morning with shipping schedules and prices."

Lynchie left with a look on her face that said the boss had popped his cotton-pickin' head. Resigned to the inevitability of the command, she started warming up the telephone lines to Los Angeles. At eight thirty the next morning she placed before me the schedule of times and prices with other information such as insurance costs during shipping and while cruising in Europe, cradle costs, and so on. She had done an excellent, thorough job. The total cost staggered me. I tucked the information into my desk, feeling that if I didn't look at it for a while, it might be possible for me to rationalize this huge expenditure before I had to break the news to Luke. How does one go about rationalizing a twelve-thousand-dollar cost—one way! Hell, I'd said her back from Europe. Thus began my train of thought so I could sell this program to Luke.

That evening between the day-end activities and the before-supper rush, I poured Luke a good stiff vodka martini and fortified myself with a fine French aperitif.

"You know, honey, those boats we saw in Europe were really pretty filthy. Further, I'm sure a foreign crew would take advantage of our good nature and easygoing ways. All in all, the only real answer to our problem is to take the Little Revenge with us.

"I found out we can ship her via the Italpacific Lines and in twenty-eight days have her offloaded in Barcelona. There she can be re-rigged, have a quick bottom and topside job—and we'd have our own boat, our own crew, and our own comforts available when we struck out on our adventure into the blue seas of the Mediterranean."

"How much is this going to set us back?" was her first question, which was immediately followed by, "Are you going to send over our own skipper?" A torrent of other questions followed.

"Hey, slow down!" was the only defensive remark I could make. "Take it easy and I'll try to answer one question at a time. Here ... have another martini."

I don't know whether the extra one or two martinis or my persuasive, almost desperate sales appeal turned the trick, but before supper we both agreed that even though it might cost us more than the two and a half nickels we had saved, we should send the Little Revenge to Spain. Easy come, easy go—except that the easy-go seemed much easier than the easy-come.

Again, the routine of planning the details took over our activities. Negotiations with the shipping lines became intense, and I attempted to get a special rate. The insurance company was asked to take a closer look at their figures, and I commenced looking for competitive prices on all aspects of our expenses ... tourist versus family rates on the airlines, first class rather than deluxe hotels, shipment of American staples aboard the Little Revenge, and other corner-cutting devices were beginning to fall in line. It appeared that sagacious savings could be made if we were willing to sacrifice just a little comfort. I should put this more strongly: we had to sacrifice to save.

Our spirits were elevating again. Planning became a period of fun-filled anticipation. We started to read all the available literature on various potential ports of visitation. We studied Field and Fodor's. The former seemed to approach these tourist traps with a wonderful tongue-in-cheek humor. The latter lacked the comedy, but appeared to be more cognizant of the "two and a half nickel" problem. Amazingly, we found very little literature available on a pure cruising guide. For some reason the people who have cruised extensively in the Mediterranean are more interested in reporting on the wealth of history than divulging the best way to approach that special rock-rimmed bay that houses a truly safe and peaceful anchorage.

The building blocks were falling into place and the adventure seemed a sure shot.

It looked like we were ready to go ...

Chapter Three

The strongest structure, if shaken hard enough, can come tumbling down. Even though the bricks that went into building our plans seemed to be well laid, the whole thing was toppled by a single telephone conversation.

I was at my desk one afternoon when a business associate called.

"Don, would you be interested in going ahead with that dealership we discussed almost a year ago, if we raised the allocation, made the concessions you asked for at that time, and changed the location to be within ten miles of Newport Beach?"

"Yes" I replied without hesitation.

There, in one word, I had blown the adventure of a lifetime.

How was I going to break the news to the troops? I sort of felt trapped between pleasure and opportunity, memories and money, or perhaps stupidity and shrewdness.

The yes I had just given to the business opportunity was irrevocable. Now I had to go home and sell this new concept to the troops.

I stayed in the office quite late that evening, mainly because I was afraid to break the news. I knew Luke and the kids were counting on the program we had previously planned. I figured that when one got stuck in a situation like this, the best thing to do was compromise. With that thought in mind I carefully drew plans that would allow, I hoped, everyone to enjoy part of what we had anticipated.

When all was written down and organized, I left the sanctuary of my office and was prepared to enter the den of lionesses. If I'd been a drinking man, I would have stopped at the famous sternwheeler, the Reuben E. Lee, for liquid fortification and professional sympathy from my friends—but damn me troubles, full speed to the barn.

"Hi, Luke, what's new?" I queried just to avoid temporarily the inevitable. I listened to the outline of her day and felt guilty listening to her humdrum existence. No wonder she was looking forward to our now shattered adventure.

"And how did your day go, Don? Anything new at the office?"

With a now-or-never approach, I plunged in.

"Our year's trip is off. I made a deal to open a new automobile agency near here. But I've got it figured out that we can spend two or three months in Europe this summer cruising the Adriatic, the Mediterranean, or the Agean.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from TWO AND A HALF NICKLESby DONALD S. BURNS Copyright © 2012 by Donald S. Burns. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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