Back in Connecticut after this pleasant break (the longest time I had been away from the boat since the launching), we found a number of problems awaiting us. First, I had a bill from the shipyard for $914.92, a figure which will remain engraved in my memory. I was aghast, for I knew that the dockage had been without charge, the materials at a discount, and we had done most of our own work. “Labor,” however, was still the chief item on the bill, and I was forcefully reminded of an incident I had witnessed earlier that illustrated most vividly how labor costs can mount. While installing the shaft, one of the workmen happened to touch a spot of wet green paint on the engine. He stopped work immediately, with a curse.
“That does it!” he exclaimed enigmatically, eying the green spot with disgust. Throwing down his tools, he left the boat.
Half an hour later I went from the boat into the shed and saw him still sitting there, idly rubbing his fingers with a rag, while smoking a cigarette. I said nothing, but later, while checking over the bill, I figured that that little spot of paint had cost me about $4—the cost of the time needed for the workman to recover his mental composure and restore his fingers to their former pristine condition.
Under the circumstances, I was particularly interested in an article I read about that time, by a yacht owner who had kept a record of the work done on his boat over a period of thirty years. He pointed out that, labor costs aside, the time taken to do the same job had more than doubled, and as I thought of the pouting workman, lounging in the shop and contemplating a green smear on his finger, I could understand why.
Another problem was slower to become apparent, but no less real, and couldn’t be solved by paying a bill. During our absence, Mickey and Moto had become friendly with a very fine family in Rowayton, who on our return immediately extended their hospitality to us all. It was the first time in our travels that we had spent so long a time in one place and achieved such an easy intimacy with any one group, and perhaps we should have been prepared for the tragicomic consequences.
Mickey and Moto, quite unfamiliar with the camaraderie of American girls, became enamored of the daughter of the family. Jealous of each other, they promptly joined ranks against Ted on his return to the boat, while he, completely unaware of the situation, began to compete for the attentions of the young lady.
Not until the day before we sailed from Rowayton did we realize that we had been sitting on a powder keg. Ted came home from a sail with the girl, to be greeted with a torrent of loud and tearful abuse from our usually quiet Moto, who had obviously been drinking. The unleashing of this apparently long-buried hatred and resentment was an unnerving experience, since we had come to like and respect Moto very much. His very real torment was obvious, and although at this time we did not fully realize the cause, it was impossible to write it off as the empty rantings of one in his cups.
We took off the next day, September 7, with a rather subdued and introspective crew. During the next several weeks, only gradually did we fit the story together. Just how involved the various men of our crew had been we will never know, but there is no doubt that bits and pieces of a number of hearts had been left behind in Rowayton. How deeply embedded were the suspicions and bitterness only slowly came to light in experiences such as the following:
Weeks later, in the course of a violent outburst, Mickey accused me of “spying on him.” It took considerable patience and much probing to get at the origin of his belief, but eventually it was traced back to Rowayton and an incident that had occurred during our stay.
One evening, arriving late, and looking for Barbara and our hostess, I had wandered into the small sitting room reserved for television. All was darkened except for the TV screen, and I had asked, referring to the program, “What’s going on?”