Authors: Gene Grossman
We spent several more days in Lahaina, and always seemed to gravitate back to the friendly atmosphere of the Yacht Club, where we were allowed to purchase a fifteen-day guest membership privilege card, courtesy of arrangements made by our new friends.
Before leaving the island, John offered to sponsor me for membership in the club. At first it seemed like a strange idea, but upon hearing that as a member I’d be entitled to reciprocal privileges at thousands of other yacht clubs around the world, the idea sounded like a good one so I accepted. Six months later I received my membership card in the mail and have kept it current to this date. It’s only for an Associate non-voting membership. In order to be a Regular Member with charging and voting rights you must have a residence on the Island. The club’s logo of a large whale looked very impressive on the triangular burgee that I had fastened to my boat’s flagpole, and it was the last thing I saw as the burnt-out remains of my Chris Craft were being towed away. I’ll have to buy another one when I get back there this time.
--------------
The flight is a little over five hours and I’m spending most of it reading some Sherlock Holmes stories. I can’t help but think of a strange coincidence: Arthur Conan Doyle, the Holmes’ creator, was an ophthalmologist, just like Doctor Sherman Gault. But unlike Gault, Doyle was never accused of killing anyone.
Doyle was born in 1859 and got his medical degree from the University of Edinburgh, where he studied under Dr. Joseph Bell, who used to tell his students that no matter how good the eye can
see
, many times it doesn’t
observe
. To prove his point, Bell would have a student go outside on the street and bring in any passer-by at random. Bell would then amaze his students by doing a Sherlock Holmes-type of ‘rant,’ telling all about the stranger by just observing him. According to Doyle, every one of Bell’s observational presumptions would invariably wind up being correct.
Having a slow medical practice, Doyle began creating stories featuring the fictitious Sherlock Holmes, influenced to a great degree by Doctor Bell. There have been some new versions of the Holmes stories, written with the permission of the Doyle estate, but a pure Sherlockian won’t read them. All that we would consider poring over is referred to as
‘The Canon,’
the set of sixty original stories (fifty-six short stories and four novellas) by A. Conan Doyle. Any book written by another, while still being a Holmes story, is considered outside the Canon and not to be read.
I sometimes wish I could have been around in 1887 to read Sherlock Holmes’ first appearance in
A Study in Scarlet,
which was an addition to the Beeton’s Annual Christmas publication. Someday I plan to visit London to see Mrs. Hudson’s rooms at 221b Baker Street, where Holmes and Watson allegedly resided from 1881 to 1904. The tourist guides say that Holmes’ study overlooking Baker Street is still faithfully maintained. Only the non-believers doubt its existence.
My timing is perfect. At the last page of The
Adventure of the Speckled Band,
the announcement of our approaching landing is being made, so we straighten up our seats, put up our food trays, fasten our seat belts and with white knuckles, wait to touch down. You can always tell when a flight is about to end when you hear those flaps on the wings being lowered to slow the plane down. I think they’re called ailerons.
The twenty-seven mile taxi ride to Lahaina is as exhilarating as ever. As I look out the left-side rear window, I see a sight that always fascinates me: waves are coming in toward the shore, but the wind is blowing very hard against the waves. This conflict of waves versus wind causes a spray off the top of each breaking wave to be blown back offshore, toward where the wave was coming from. Next on my list of interesting sights is a certain empty bar stool at the Lahaina Yacht Club which, after showing my membership card and signing in, is filled by my rear end while the bartender serves my first topless blended margarita of the day… ordered in advance via cell phone when we’re about five minutes from the club’s Front Street location.
Lahaina Yacht Club is only the width of a slightly larger-than-normal storefront, as are most of the places on Front Street, whose back-ends are balconies hanging out over the Pacific Ocean.
It’s very relaxing sitting on the balcony, sipping Margaritas and having pleasant conversations with other members of the club. They all notice my small suitcase and are aware of the fact that I just flew in. I get some respect for placing a higher priority on visiting the club than trying to get a hotel room down the street at the Pioneer Inn. Being surrounded by people who you can immediately bond with, and who all share a common interest and would like to get to know you better is a wonderful experience. It makes you feel like a celebrity. Probably a lot like being a black Republican.
The time flies by and in no time at all I’m looking at the club’s dinner menu. This is great: no fax, no phone, no Stuart, no Laverne, no ex-wife, no distractions. My before-dinner cocktail is brought over to the table and the waitress tells me that someone at the door wants to see me.
“
I’m sorry honey, but there must be some mistake. Tell whomever it is that I’ve recently deceased and am therefore not accepting visitors. I only know one person on the island, and that’s my club sponsor John Williams. He’s also a member, so he wouldn’t be waiting at the door.”
I was hoping that would do the trick, but I notice that she’s still standing here.
“
Mister Sharp, I can assure you that it’s not John Williams who wants to see you.”
“
My dear, I don’t intend to get off of my chair until it’s either time to pee or go to bed, hopefully in that order, so you might as well usher whoever it is over here to my table.”
It’s a good thing I’m partially embalmed, because it helps to absorb the shock of discovering who my visitor is. I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. Without turning around, I once again instruct the waitress.
“
Honey, I told you that I don’t know any non-members on the Island, so please tell whoever it is that I’m not…”
I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence because I feel some warm, wet lips on the back of my neck. If the waitress thinks that a stunt like this will increase the amount of her tip, she is absolutely correct. I turn my head around to give her an opportunity to earn the biggest tip of the year and am stunned to see who’s kissing me. It’s not the waitress. It’s the doc’s girlfriend, Rita.
*****
Chapter
7
By reflex action I stumble to my feet and graciously pull out a chair so Rita can sit down. She has another type of greeting in mind and after the longest, wettest kiss of my life, my red face and eyes and I sit down next to her. I hear some applause from the bartender and the waitress.
Her presence makes my head start to clear up enough to try a conversation. “Well, well, it’s a small world, isn’t it? What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” Hearing that lame remark come out of my mouth tells me that my head really isn’t cleared up enough to try being clever. She knows that her showing up here must have shocked the hell out of me.
“
Hello sailor, wanna have a good time?” I look around the room to make sure she came by herself.
“
Not if you’re with Doctor Death.” I can tell immediately that was the wrong thing to say to her, so I back off on insulting her boyfriend. Like a real trooper, she lets the remark slide right past her.
“
Peter, honey, where are we sleeping tonight?”
“
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. But to answer your question more seriously, I’m afraid it will be right here at this table if I don’t get down the street pretty soon and register at the Pioneer.”
Standing in the lobby of the Pioneer while leaning against the counter for support, I am informed that the Inn is completely filled, and has been since yesterday.
As expected, Rita comes through perfectly. There’s some sort of underground network of stewardesses [who from this instant on I’m informed, are to be referred to as ‘flight attendants,’ any violation of said rule to result in a loss of consortium] who have an international chain of apartments available to them. On Maui they have one a few miles north of Lahaina at the Hale Kai Apartment Home Complex on Lower ‘H’ Road, which is where we taxi to after completing one of the most enjoyable dinners I can ever remember having. That was the first meal during which I rushed to get through the first dessert, looking forward to the upcoming second one.
The evening is another memorable one, but carries with it the biting feeling that this is too good to be true, and will end sooner or later in some conflict with a person who has probably taken the life of one human being already. Rita is unflappable and constantly assures me that everything is going to work out just fine between me and the doc. Denial is not a river in Egypt.
My flight to Thailand isn’t scheduled to take off until nine this evening. Rita has already left to catch her connecting flight to Los Angeles, so I decide to spend my remaining daylight hours on Maui sitting under the Banyan tree, reading some more Sherlock Holmes. If you’ve never been to Maui or India, you might not be familiar with the Banyan tree [real name
ficus benghalensis
]. The shady branches of this tree from India cover almost an acre, and its roots extend nearly fifty yards. This one was planted in 1873 to mark the 50
th
anniversary of Protestant missionary work in Lahaina and is now the largest tree in the United States. You can sit under it until four in the afternoon, at which time about a thousand squawking birds come flying in from somewhere and descend into the branches of the tree. From that moment until the sun goes down it’s too noisy to sit there, so once again, it’s Patrón margarita time.
This evening I bid farewell to the gang at the club and try to answer all the questions about where my good-looking girlfriend is. The taxi picks me up at seven sharp and I’m on my way to the airport, and then to Thailand. This leg of the journey will be more than twice as long as the one getting to Hawaii, so I prepare to finish the Adventures of
the Five Orange Pips, the Musgrave Ritual, The Red-headed League,
and
the Six Napoleons,
all of them classics in true Sherlockian fashion.
I seem to remember getting through the first three before the club’s last Margaritas kick in, and then sweet sleep comes. The stewardess, er, flight attendant wakes me and I discover that I’ve been out for several hours, and it’s now time for the usual stuff – seat up, tray up, and belt fastened. We’re going into the landing pattern.
This is my first trip to Thailand, and the farthest away I’ve ever been from the States. Being a strong believer in our wonderful American judicial system, notwithstanding many of the ignoramuses that inhabit it, I always feel better in an environment where I know what my rights are and how to handle myself in any kind of situation. That good feeling doesn’t exist outside of the U.S. of A., so left to my own choice I’d rather not be a world traveler.
Come to think of it, ignoramuses probably belong in the judicial system, because the very first ignoramus was a lawyer. George Ruggle wrote a play in 1615 entitled
Ignoramus,
named after its lead character - a lawyer.
Years ago, before I got married, some friends and I sailed about twelve hundred miles South one winter, from California to Puerto Vallarta, on the Mexican mainland. I remember feeling uneasy every time we went ashore. It’s probably due to bad memories from all those dramatic noir movies, in which completely innocent Americans always seem to get unjustly prosecuted by people like my ex-wife and her gang. Somehow I usually feel like Rick, the Humphrey Bogart character in
Casablanca
, fearful that there’s always a Claude Raines-type policeman ready to take me away on a politically motivated charge. Fortunately, it isn’t like that at all in Thailand.
I was told that a government official would be meeting me at the airport. He had been sent a picture of me, so I wasn’t to worry about being found. And I was. A short, well-dressed, pomaded government-type individual introduces himself to me. He must have seen me looking around at the surroundings like I’m some hick tourist. “Mister Sharp, why don’t you sit down for a minute until I return; we’ll be riding to my office soon. I’ll go and get my elephant.”
It isn’t until we’re sitting in the back seat of his air-conditioned government vehicle that he gives me one of those “gotcha” smiles, but I do actually see some elephants. They have them in several rural areas for people to ride and have their pictures taken with, but the Bangkok officials are getting tired of the mess they make with their droppings, so eleven new city bylaws are being strictly enforced to keep them out of the urban areas. In the past I’ve been irritated by seeing some dog droppings around where I live, but learning that an elephant can drop up to a hundred pounds a day now makes me realize how lucky I am that there aren’t any of these huge critters in Marina del Rey, California.
When the official sees me looking at the elephants he tells me the tragicomical story about what happened several years ago when a twenty-one year old elephant named Phlai Rungruang got mad at a tourist, after having been teased by a withdrawn offer of some sugar cane. The young elephant ran amok downtown for three hours until subdued by tranquilizer darts. Evidently his trainer never taught him to obey the command “Stay.” I’d hate to have been the tourists sitting in that little seat aboard Phlai during his temper tantrum. It was probably like John Travolta’s riding that mechanical bull in the motion picture
Urban Cowboy
. Fortunately, some very good lessons are learned at an early age: I remember a traumatic incident about thirty-six years ago when my father tried to have me sit still on a pony for a photo-op. After that I was forever convinced that guys raised in big urban cities like Chicago are not meant to be on top of animals.