Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1960)

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Caribbean and then to New Orleans and up the Mississippi to Chicago and, before we hit Chicago, I’d want the masts in place again so every drawbridge on the river’d have to go up!” Oh yes, I’d have to be with him for that. And when I look up, he leans over and brushes my face with his own. Then down the wooden planks we go, Rock chatting with the skipper, who takes care of the boat. Then we’re aboard. Rock goes aboard, as he always does, as if it were the first time and he can’t quite believe it’s his. But it is. He lifts the canvas bags to see the gleaming chrome and brass, scoops up the pillows scattered aft and stows them below so he and the skipper can paint. I’m practically forgotten and I hate that. “Here, put on your sweater,” he says, tossing over the white-cord one that he bought me a few weeks ago. “Can’t have you catching a cold now, can we?” He helps me on with it. I’m supposed to amuse myself while he’s totally absorbed in puttering about with white paint. Well, I thought to myself, snuggling down in my sweater, what are you going to do? Rock’s like that. He likes doing things himself. He’s a movie star and he loves to work, but I honestly don’t think he likes a movie star’s life. As I watch him at work, his hands with a life of their own, I feel he’s happiest here, working on his boat with the skipper, who’s Australian, with a thin British accent and a thin disdainful sort of English nose, but he’s not disdainful at all. He likes working with Rock and the two of them, barefoot again, with their buckets of white paint, work methodically and patiently, one on either side of the cabin. “We should never change the color, should we?” says Rock, looking around. The green hull is rich with the black rail and white cabin. The skipper agrees. So do I. He shows us every Newporter in the bay, the all white, the white with blue trim, the black. Rock’s green is richest. It’s romantic and with the Arabic name Khairuzan in gold, it might be a romantic galley of long ago. When I think of a galley I realize I’m hungry. Suddenly, I’m starved. But Rock is oblivious, talking about next weekend’s cruise to Catalina. I can come along if I wish — I do not wish, 1 only wish my lunch! Finally, I get purely and simply impatient and start pacing back and forth, back and forth. For a moment he’s angry, he’s rubbing the side of his nose in that way he has, when he’s annoyed. He doesn’t anger quickly and when I see the color begin creeping up his throat and see his brow wrinkle, I get a little scared. I am hungry, I am impatient, but I don’t want him angry. Not really. He’s started to clean his brush now and I stand behind him as he squats on deck. His back is warm against me, and he’s forgiving me, I know, I can feel the tenseness slacken, even though he doesn’t say anything to me, even if he is talking to the skipper about the boat races at Ensenada. 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