Two Captains, Christie Brinkley, and Me
Despite the fact that I’m a fifth generation Texan, my grandparents had a beach house in…New Jersey. This came about when Exxon moved my grandfather from Houston to New York. My grandparents visited Long Beach Island, New Jersey, found the area perfect for a summer getaway, and bought property. As such, I spent a vast portion of the summers of my youth at “the shore” as beaches are called up north.
During my summers on LBI, I tried and failed miserably at becoming the water skier my grandfather thought I should be, tried and failed miserably to surf, and tried and failed miserably at meeting singer Billy Joel who lived just down the beach (I never met him, but I did check out his trash piled on the street after he hosted an epic all weekend party. There were cases and cases of empty champagne bottles, and I knew, just knew, that Christie Brinkley had drunk out of one of those bottles and most likely while wearing a bathing suit from her calendar and muttering to herself, “Who’s that very skinny Texas boy down there on the beach staring at the house? He’s pretty cute. He’s got good hair. I wish he’d come ring the front doorbell. I’d like to show him how to make me an Uptown Girl.”). While not stalking and writing imaginary scenes for supermodels, I learned a lot from the two captains on the island who were friends with my grandparents.
Me at around 19 and carrying less body hair than a newborn dolphin.
Captain Grant lived just across the street. He was in his late 70’s (My father said of his age, “That old Swede, Norwegian, whatever the hell he is has been 70 something since I was a kid.”) and taught me by example more than by actually talking to me. Grant had become a captain in the US Navy during WW II then become a ship’s captain in the commercial sector at the war’s end. He and his wife retired to LBI where they bought two houses, one next door to the other. That’s right, Captain Grant and his wife lived in separate houses. They visited in one or the other during the day but retired each night to their own bedroom in their own home. Captain Grant said living separately was the key to a happy and lengthy relationship and given that he had been married for more than 50 years to the same woman by the time I met him, I guess he knew what he was talking about (Full Disclosure: I thought the idea of being married and living in separate houses was really weird when I was a kid. Now? Not so much.). Other things the captain knew about was drinking copious amounts of Brännvin - a Swedish vodka-like drink -, smoking a pipe constantly, and dressing to the nines no matter the occasion (Seriously, the man wore an ascot most of the time).
Captain Goodell lived across and down the street. He was retired and split his time between Virginia and LBI. He hated my father with a passion for some reason that involved my father and his daughter dating at one time or another but tolerated me thanks to him still being friends with my grandfather. Goodell was a sunbaked man with thick, leathery skin who chain smoked unfiltered Camels, drank rotgut whiskey and beer from sunup to way past sundown, and cussed a constant blue streak. He was the opposite of Captain Grant in every way, but I thought of him as an equal in terms of being a role model. Goodell took me fishing and crabbing on a regular basis and helped me earn my Motorboating and Rowing Merit Badges for Boy Scouts. He taught me everything he knew about boats and fishing, telling a good fish story, and warned me against getting ever married.
“Trust me,” he said. “I’ve had three wives. It ain’t worth it. Unless you can afford separate houses like that Swedish Fancy Pants up the way there.”
Lessons learned gentlemen and I fondly remember you both.
This piece first appeared in the Fredericksburg Standard.
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