The date was August 4th, 1989; a very big day in a year chock full of them. I had gotten my first real job, I had graduated high school, and had attended “senior week” with my buddies. It is a DC tradition that graduating high schoolers head down to the Eastern Shore for a week of revelries in Ocean City or Rehoboth. It has also irreverently been described as “a bunch of kids looking to get two things, neither of which require an ocean.”
That whirlwind of a week aside, I settled into working hard at the job to stash away some money, until my older brother Dave announced his plans for his summer vacation and that, as a treat for surviving four years under the Jesuits, I was coming with him.
So, on that bright August day, we were flying to Miami to meet up with the TSS Mardi Gras, one of Carnival Cruise Lines finest, to take us on a five-day adventure to the Bahamas. Our itinerary consisted of leaving that night and arriving the next morning in Freeport, spending two days and then heading to Nassau. After another two days there, we would be off on our “fun day at sea”, which basically consisted of the sail back to Miami from Nassau and taking advantage of all the ship had to offer.
I went along with whatever Dave wanted to do as far as outings. We visited an oceanarium and soaked up a lot of local color for the first four days, doing usual touristy things. The last day was where things took a turn.
I was just shy of 18 so I didn’t want to take my chances trying to get a drink; even if we were outside of the US, I was still barely underage. The slot machines were another matter. Dave and I walking with purpose straight to the nickel machines garnered no more than a cursory glance. I was with an obvious adult, minding own my business, and as long as I was spending money… “Ahh, he’s old enough.”
After dinner, we were trying to find something to do and we found it: the cruise director, one Mr. Malcolm Kennedy, was not only a delightful old Scotsman but also a hilarious stand-up comedian. We two brothers were by far the youngest people at the show, but we were roaring with laughter. He finished by saying he was having another show at midnight; Dave and I both knew that the “late night” show always had the best, dirtiest material and immediately agreed to be back at midnight. Or that was the plan…
Knocking around a cruise ship at night when you’re young (and one of you is comparatively very young) can get kind of boring. After a while, Dave announced he wasn’t going to make it till midnight and was going to turn in. I was no quitter, but now I didn’t even have the company of my big brother to pass the time. I fell back upon a plan I had used often in my youth: the video arcade. Plenty of games there suitable for a kid to pass the time. It was a rather small affair, only half a dozen or so machines. I settled upon Dig Dug, a game about digging in a garden and battling pests or something like that… it really didn’t matter. On my third or fourth game in, I heard it, over my left shoulder:
“What are you doing playing my machine?”
I turned to look, and I saw them. Now, I need to interject here: the water of the Caribbean Sea has a shade of blue not found anywhere else in the world. Enya wrote a song all about it, and I’m fairly certain she’s not the only one. It’s the reason the world finds that area so beautiful and why so many people holiday there every year and I am here to tell you that all of that pales in comparison to the blue eyes that were staring daggers at me at that moment. I stammered out an oh-so-eloquent “What?” which she followed with a laugh that was like music. “I’m just kidding. I didn’t think anyone was playing Dig Dug but me.” Her distraction ruined whatever efforts I was accomplishing in my game and I was met with a large Game Over on the screen. Little did I know, the game was just beginning.
We made introductions. Her name was Robbie; not short for anything, that was her name. and she was from Hewitt, Texas, a suburb of Waco. Due to the vagaries of school districts, she was going into her senior year in the fall even though she was two months older than me. She had auburn hair and the most infectious smile. It was her idea to walk out on to the deck and look at the ocean. I don’t think I was capable of having an idea at that moment.
We talked and talked; about what, I couldn’t tell you. I do know this: it was her that kissed me. I never would have made the first move. I wouldn’t have dreamed of it. My history of being an artist and a sci-fi nerd gave me absolutely no preparation at all in dealing with the fairer sex. Her personality was much more of the “going after what I want” variety, and that’s the only reason this episode was happening.
My knowledge of girls being mostly hypothetical up to this point, I can tell you that first-hand experience was way better. Girls smell good. I’d never been close enough to appreciate that before. Robbie wore Chanel No. 5, which I was later told was too “grown up” a perfume for a teenager, but I couldn’t have cared less. The first time you ever put your arms around a girl and pull her close to you? If there was anything better, you couldn’t have proved it to a then-17-year-old me.
There’s more to the story of that long-ago August night, but suffice it to say, I arrived back at our cabin, somewhat in a pleasant daze, about 5:30 in the morning, never having seen Malcolm Kennedy ever again. I passed her table on the way to ours at breakfast, and spent every moment we could that final day lamenting why we couldn’t have met earlier in the trip. We traded addresses and phone numbers, promising to write and call, which we did. Frequently. An entire paycheck went to paying a phone bill presented to me by my very irate mother. I spent that Thanksgiving with her; her parents didn’t know what to make of this “yankee boy” she’d found. She spent the first half of the following summer in DC, I spent the other half in Texas. Obviously, like a kid who didn’t know any better about the real world, I asked her to marry me and she immediately said yes. We saw each other every chance we had, but we went through all the usual long-distance relationship problems. We fought a lot, mostly about not being together or being together and one of us having to leave. Sometimes it was just the sparks that fly in any relationship too passionate for it’s own good.
We finally, finally, broke up because it was evident, I didn’t want to move to Texas and she didn’t want to move to DC. She ended up marrying a guy named Andy and immediately moving to Napa, California with him. It went bad for them after about a year, and that’s when the phone calls started again. She told me all her problems and how unhappy she was. To this day, Andy blames me for breaking up their marriage, saying it was hard to be married to her when she was still in love with me. She moved back to Texas and has been there ever since.
We saw each other twice after our “final” breakup. A friend of Robbie’s was getting married in Virginia and I had gotten to know her too from when I was in Texas. Since it was close to DC, she invited me too. Robbie and I decided to be platonically civil with each other; that didn’t last long and led to an… interesting and decidedly un-platonic weekend overall.
The last time was about five years later. I had been in a relationship for a few years and it had spectacularly flamed out and I just needed to get out of town for a bit. Robbie and I had been down to a very occasional phone call, remembering a birthday or just checking in. One opportunely timed phone call and I was on my way to Texas for a week. We fell back into silly romance like we were still teenagers… for a week, then we said goodbye. All the old problems were still there and weren’t changing anytime soon. The phone calls died off eventually. I entered into a relationship with someone who would one day become my wife and I was happy and Robbie hated me for that. I’ve tried reaching back out now and again, usually when there’s been some weather disaster or power grid failure in Texas, just to see if she was ok. Turns out… she still hates me, but I’m always glad she’s ok.
So that is the story of the one that got away. I wouldn’t change anything really; I ended up with the right partner even if Robbie didn’t, and everything I went through then played its part in how I got here now.
I still have that first look though, and that first kiss, and the smile I get when I smell Chanel No. 5.
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