You never know who’s gonna need your help
Issue 89 : Mar/Apr 2013
Alone in my Bill Tripp-designed Columbia 26 sailboat that late September afternoon in 1975, I was bound under power for Hyannis on the south side of Cape Cod. I was taking my boat to a marina to be hauled for the winter. The moderate northwesterly wind was on my nose as I headed up into the inner harbor. Ahead, I observed a rented sailboat, a 17-foot O’Day Daysailer, unsuccessfully attempting to tack upwind to its rental source. It was simply going sideways — back and forth — making no progress uphill against the wind.
Asking myself, “Why not?” I closed on the boat and asked its two occupants if they could use a tow. Nodding their heads vigorously, they accepted my instructions and dropped their sails. I circled, threw them a line, and took them under tow. The tow line placed their boat about 15 feet off my stern, exposing the name of my boat, Rights of Man. I was not trailing my small dinghy, Women’s Rights.
Once things were settled and we were under way, I turned back to study the sailboat’s occupants more closely. They were both guys in their thirties or forties and they appeared more relaxed than when I first came upon them. I searched my memory wondering if I recognized one of them. He was attired in a black navy pea jacket, had shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle, sharp elongated facial features, and wore distinctive sunglasses. They were small granny glasses in a gold frame. I called over, “Are you John Lennon?” He nodded.
I paused a moment or two then, being the smooth-talker that I am, I offered a well-thought-out and erudite response: “I like your stuff.” He nodded in acknowledgment.
Within 15 minutes or so we landed at their targeted dock; it was not my destination, only theirs. Securing the boats, the three of us stepped onto the dock whereupon John and I engaged in a discussion. I called him “John,” don’tcha know. He proceeded to query me about the difficulty he experienced attempting to “traverse” his boat against the wind. “Traversing” — that’s Limey talk for “tacking,” maybe?
I made only limited progress in explaining the process of how one advances a sailboat against the wind. John Lennon was an intense and polite listener as I tried to describe the process of tacking, flailing my hands around like a symphonic conductor and babbling incoherently. He asked intelligent questions, was appreciative of my infantile efforts, grasped more than a few fundamentals of the tacking process, and was extremely gracious in his demeanor. He was so unpretentious one couldn’t help but like the guy. It’s a shame he was taken from us so young.
As we concluded our discussion, I asked him for an autograph. He almost jumped saying, “That’s the least I could do.” One would have thought I had rescued him from the ravages of a hurricane. I went below into my cabin to fetch a small notepad and pen and presented them to him.
As John scribbled on the notepad, I turned my attention to his companion, who had not said a single word during my exchange with John. I did not recognize him. He was a short cherubic-looking guy with thinning blondish hair brushed straight back. Except for his glasses, his clothes were nondescript. Confronting me with a rather bland Buddha-like smile and staring straight at me, he almost challenged me to inquire as to his identity. I didn’t. My mother had told me never to ask of another person, “Are you anybody important?” I wish Mom had kept her mouth shut.
This guy was sporting a pair of sunglasses even more outlandish than John’s. Each lens was formed in the shape of a humongous star. I still can’t swear positively as to his identity, but several persons have since told me that this guy, a rock star even better known at the time than John Lennon, was a frequent companion of the Beatle. I never asked for his autograph. If I had, I would have had the two autographs on the one sheet of paper. I am quite sure it was Elton John.
John returned the notepad. On it, the artist John Lennon had drawn a sketch. It showed a sailboat with two stick-figure passengers on it waving for help. A few birds and clouds floated overhead. In addition to the picture, he added his signature, the date, and his personal logo (a Piccaso-like caricature of his facial features). On the top were the words “With grateful thanx.” I have given the autograph to my eldest son, Tom, a professional musician who incidentally played on Broadway for the short-lived musical show “Lennon.”
Later that evening, when alone and having secured my own boat, I went to downtown Hyannis for a late snack. I was virtually the only patron when I claimed a counter stool at HoJo’s. I was bursting with the need to tell someone of my recent encounter.
When the waitress came with my coffee and English muffins, I was really beside myself and nearly exploded with excitement as I asked her, “Guess who I met down at the dock and who gave me his autograph?” Assessing me with a wary and jaundiced eye, she politely and cautiously asked: “I dunno . . . who?” I almost shouted the answer before she finished speaking: “John Lennon of the Beatles!”
She countered: “Oh yeah?” as she looked at my plate. “You want marmalade with those muffins?”
After a long career of racing and cruising, at age 78, John Murray acquired a Pearson 26 he has named The Last Hurrah. He has retrofitted her for singlehanded sailing and sails her out of Salem, Massachusetts. John and The Last Hurrah can be spotted anywhere between the Maine coast and New York City.
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