____________________________________________________________________

Trustingly taking her hand off his, putting her arms about his neck, pulling him closer again, their lips met again… less urgently—at least less urgently for Marsha Goldman.

For Mitchell Lipensky, though, his hand held flat between their pressing chests, by stretching his fingers he was able to feel the softness on either side of Marsha’s chest… But feeling he was doing something wrong… Feeling this was a betrayal of Marsha’s trust, Mitchell withdrew his hand.

 Several times throughout this day people that knew Marsha, both male and female, came to her. They stood or stooped in front of the blanket, or knelt on it. After a few minutes of small talk, catching the subliminal hint that said, “we want to be alone,” the people left… And in the midst of the crowd, they were alone. ___________________________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

 June 18, 1955

“God, Marcie…” Wearing a summer-weight light blue skirt with a matching, sailor collar jumper, thinking, She’s so cute!  Overjoyed to be with her, proud to be seen with her. “…how come you always look so beautiful?” he asked as, taking her elbow, they stepped from the sidewalk to the slightly moving, railed gangplank that went from shore to the permanently berthed, completely refurbished, long-retired automotive ferry ship that was known as “The Columbia Yacht Club.” Inside, he led her past a glass trophy case containing dozens of sailing trophies, then into the dining room.

Seeing them, an attractive, blonde, middle-aged hostess, “Hi, Mitchie,” leaving her stool at the near end of the bar, “How’s it going?”

“Fine, Mandy, just fine…. Mandy, I’d like you to meet Marsha.”

“Hi, Marsha. This the first time you’re aboard?”

“Yes. Actually this is the first time I’ve ever been on a boat, uh,” remembering, turning to Mitchell, smiling, “ship.”

“Come on,” Mandy said. “I’m holding a table for you.”

Before becoming The Columbia Yacht Club, the dining room was the ship’s bridge and captain’s quarters. Now, three sides of the room were glass and there was a panoramic view of Navy Pier and Lakeshore Drive to the north, the beautiful Chicago skyline to the west, and the prestigious Chicago Yacht Club and Lakeshore Drive to the south.

Even though it was only six-thirty, it was Sunday, and the dining room was jammed with people dressed in all type of clothing: dirty, or somewhat dirty denims or shorts for the working sailors and those who’d been rag bagging or stink potting; and somewhat cleaner, less disheveled clothing for their guests and other people, such as Marsha and Mitchell, who were informally dressed for dinner.

As Mandy led them into the dining room, “Hey, Mitch!” they stopped at a table where a young man in denim slacks and jacket was sitting alone, eating a hamburger.

“Karl!” Obviously glad to see each other, “Jesus, It’s good to see you!” Heartily shaking hands, “How the hell’ve you been?”

“Good, Mitch! When’d you get in?”

“Thursday… Karl Metzenberg”—his mind flitted to the night of the “Friedman inquisition,” but, passing it off just as quickly—“I’d like you to meet Marsha Goldman.”

Standing, “Marsha, hi!” Impressed, Karl looked at her a moment, then sitting, back to Mitchell. “We’re going out in about an hour or so.” Looking at Marsha again, “How’d you like to go for a nice, calm, moonlit sail?”

“Yeah! You bet!” Looking at her, “Sorry, Marcie. That’s only if you want to.”

“Yes,” thrilled at the prospect, “I’d love to! But what about clothes? Am I dressed okay?”

“Sure you are,” Karl said, “except for those high heels. Take ’em off and you’ll be just fine… Tell you what; you two take your time eating and whenever you’re done just come aboard; we’ll wait for you.”

“Thanks, Karl, that’s really nice of you.”

“Don’t mention it, pal. For the Coast Guard I’d do just about anything.” Smiling at Marsha, “See you later. Enjoy your meal.”

Their table faced south, towards the prestigious Chicago Yacht Club where everyone in the dining room was properly dressed for dinner.

“My, God, Mitchell, it’s so beautiful!”

Tickled that she was enjoying this as much as he, “Yeah, you sure are.”

He ordered prime rib, and Marsha, the fried shrimp dinner.

When, “Shrimp?” he questioned, “Seafood, I eat,” she responded, “but fish? No!”

                                                                               **** 

“Wow! That’s it? My God, Mitchell, it’s beautiful!”

Undeen, the Metzenberg schooner, was forty-five feet in length, painted glossy-black with fine-line, white piping, and had brightly varnished teakwood decks, hatches and rails. The two-masted boat had a galley, head, and room to comfortably sleep six or, if friendly, eight. Besides Karl, two members of Undeen’s permanent crew were there: Stephen Krugman with his wife, Sally, and Reiner Krout and his girlfriend, Rita.

“Steve! Reiner! Hey!” Waving, taking Marsha’s shoes and peds as she, holding onto his shoulder for balance, pushed them off with her toes, then, holding his hand as, hiking her calf-length dress over her knees, she stepped from the quay to the gunnel as, reaching to her, Stephen, in the cockpit, took her other hand, and Marsha stepped onto the teakwood deck, then into the cockpit. Both feet planted firmly, smiling at Stephen, “Thank you,” Marsha said, as…

Stepping from the quay onto the deck, “Marcie, meet Steve Krugman and Sally.” Shaking hands, “They’re old married folk.”

Nodding their heads, both said, “Hi!”

“And this kraut’s Krout.” Leaning across the transom, shaking hands, “Reiner, hi!” Glancing from Reiner to Marsha, “And this is his girlfriend,” nodding to her, “Rita…”

Smiling, “Hi!” Marsha said, nodding her head as she was introduced.

“…Or is it…?” Mitchell asked, “You guys married yet?”

“No,” Reiner looked at Rita, then away, “we ain’t married yet.”

Marriage, obviously, was a sore spot between these two because Rita scowled at Reiner before, smiling a forced smile, making a half circle wave to Marsha, “But we are going to do it any time now! Ain’t we, Reiner!”

“Yeah, babe. Sure we are!”

“Sure we are!” Rita snapped back. “When cows shit sour cream!”

Having heard this argument before, many times, “How long you been in the Coast Guard now, Mitch?” Sally asked.

“About two and a half years.”

“Yeah!” Glaring at Reiner again, “’bout as long as this guy’s been promisin’ we’re gonna get married!”

“Hey,” looking from Rita to Reiner, “I’m sorry! If I’d’a known I was going to start a fight, I’d never asked.”

“Nah, it’s okay, Mitch. Me’n Rita’s only playin’ around. Ain’t we, babe? Wooff!” Gasping, Reiner turned white as…

Playfully punching him in the stomach, “Yeah! Sure we’re playin’ around! Ain’t we babe!” Rita mimicked.

“Hey, we got company, here! Enough bullshit!” Putting his can of beer into the wooden holder to the side of the helm, Karl pushed the button starting the auxiliary motor. “Let’s get the show on the road!”

No doubt about who the captain was, “Sure, Karl!” flipping their cigarettes over the side, stowing their beer, too, Stephen began to remove the sail cover as, jumping to the wharf, going forward, releasing the bow line, tossing it aboard, then going aft, Reiner released the stern line and hopped aboard as Undeen backed away from the dock.

“I’ll stow the fenders.”

“Sit still, Mitch. You’re a guest here tonight. Rita’ll get ’em! Won’t you ‘babe’?”

Enjoying her position as—unless her place aboard was needed by another guest—a secondary crew member, considering these jaunts as a quickie kind of vacation, jumping to it, “Yeah, sure, Karl.”

Making a quarter circle in reverse, Karl then pushed the gear, reversing the screw and, after a few feet of backward drift, the bronze propeller bit, moving the black schooner forward.

Passing the club tender—the powerboat that transported people from the club to boats secured to buoys, and back again—Karl tapped the button on the console and, UU-OOGGHH!

And, UU-OOGGHH! the horn on the tender answered back.

Navigating around boats that were under sail, that had the right-of-way, and those moored to cans…

“Marcie,” pointing to starboard, “there’s my dad’s boat.”

“Where?” Although the sun was to port; glaring on the calm water, having to shade her eyes, “Where?” Marsha asked. “Which one is it?”

“There, at about two o’clock. See?” Pointing between a sloop and a motor cruiser, “There, the one with the white hull and green deck.”

“Oh, yes!” Much smaller and far less elegant than the boat she was on, nonetheless welcoming each bit of knowledge and information that led her deeper into Mitchell’s life, “I see it now!”

“Not quite like this boat.”

“Doesn’t matter, Mitchie. It’s beautiful, too.”

Passing the last line of boats… then the inner breakwater, “Hoist main and mizzen!” Switching the auxiliary motor off, Undeen drifted with forward momentum, as…

Sails unfurling, crackling in the light, evening breeze, Stephen and Reiner cranked brass handles on the fore and aft masts, as…

Head tilted back, Marsha followed the upward progression of the snow-white sails until, the breeze catching, moving forward, picking up speed Undeen heeled to port, as… Grabbing hold of Mitchell’s knee, “Oh, my God!” her knees tensing, about to bound to the high side…

“This the first time you’ve been sailing, Marcie?”

Strands of hair blowing across her face, brushing them back, trying to hold them down, “Yes,” she said, swallowing nervously, looking from Sally to the water that bubbled by the lowered rail.

“Don’t worry, honey, this crew’s great.” Rita said. “And this ain’t even what’ch’ya’d call a breeze. Shit! I was aboard once when we were barrelin’ across this lake and they hoisted the red flag, and…”

“Red flag?”