Meanderings of the Mind

A casual glance encompassed the room, seeking friends, enemies, and acquaintances. A small smile and nod to an Arab man in traditional garb. A stern look at another man, who replied with a hostile stare. These two were not friends.

The aristocrat turned back to the game. No immediate threats had been found, nor any targets. A woman in a simple, yet stunning dress, stepped into the gap at his side, her eyes on the table.

Everybody recognized her. Princess Grace of Monaco. Several large men stood by her. Two looking out at the room, one examining the players and spectators around the table. Her bodyguards, I guessed.

Technically, he was of a higher rank -- a Prince by birth while she was a Princess by marriage. But, standing side by side, it was apparent she reigned supreme. An aura of charisma, elegance, and authority surrounded the Princess. The Prince had an admirable, though less regal, aura -- that of a man secure with himself and his abilities.

Princess Grace and the aristocrat exchanged words. A slip of paper fluttered from his silver cigarette case to the table. He seemed not to notice. The Princess picked it up and slid it into the palm of her glove. She studied the game for a few more moments before leaving with her entourage.

Like aristocrats everywhere, the Prince had connections in many places, high and low. During the Cold War, he exploited those contacts as a spy, moving through Europe with the rest of the jet set, using guile and humor to learn what was happening on the other side. He wasn't uncovering state secrets or foiling evil villains but collecting the type of nuance that provided crucial context to understanding actions and decisions.

It was vital for policymakers to know, for example, whether a troop movement was a threat or merely political posturing for a domestic audience. More than one international incident had been avoided because of the Prince's reports.

It was equally important to know the gossip. Who was having an affair, in debt, or embezzling. In short, who could be bribed or blackmailed into revealing secrets.

The jet set was an odd group, composed of many who thought themselves above nations and politics. Some were wealthy and unknown. Some were poor but famous. Faded royals like the Prince and a smattering of celebrities, intellectuals, and artists.

They were the successors to the café society of the early 20th century, literally jetting from one exotic destination to another. Paris for breakfast, London for dinner, St. Tropez for the beaches, Cannes for the film festival, the Isle of Capri or the Italian Riviera to relax, New York for nightlife, and Hollywood for glamour.

What did they do? One might ask. It was hard to say. Some had inherited family wealth and never worked. Some ran business empires, though business was never part of the glamour. Some wrote famous novels or created modern art. A few were included because they were good company, smart and funny.

They were well known, but often it was not clear why. Today, we would say they were famous for being famous. But it was more than that. A style -- and ambiance -- went with being in the jet set. It wasn't enough to be rich or famous. One also had to be "special."

The man in front of me had attended the wedding of Charles and Diana, commenting at the time that she was unlikely to fit in well with The Firm, as English royalty is called. He had been photographed with Ari and Jackie at dinner, on the arms of various supermodels on the red carpet, and racing with Steve McQueen.

Now, he was retired. The jet set still exists but has mostly disappeared from the tabloids and gossip columns, replaced by celebrity worship. For the first time in more than four decades, the Prince could enjoy a life of anonymity. I wasn't going to spill his secret.

I did wish he would buy a different bathing suit, though. Or get waxed. Too much hair was being displayed in too many places for my taste.

~~~ Wedding Fever ~~~

The couple strolling along the beach holding hands were young. They couldn't be older than their late teens. They probably had parents farther down the beach, wondering where these two had gone and what they were doing.

The lyrics to "I think we're alone now" came to mind as I watched them kiss, oblivious to my presence.

"She's a nice girl, but he's too young to settle down," I imagined the boy's mother was saying.

"Relax. They're good kids. Are you going to worry this much when he goes to college next month?" responded the boy's father, putting his book down.

"Yes. I'm probably going to worry even more."

"Just tell yourself that no news is good news."

How often have parents done that when facing the imminent departure of their children? Pretended that 'not knowing' is the same as 'everything is fine.' Not that it prevents the worrying.

I looked away for a few moments as a large yacht passed by in the distance. The black flag looked familiar but was too far away to see clearly.

A loud, squeaky voice assaulted my eardrums.

"Mom! Dad! Watch this!"

The couple, now in their late 20s, watched a youngster do an awkward cartwheel, spinning dizzily at the end and landing on his rump in the water. He raised his arms in triumph. Two other children, one younger and one older, laughed nearby.

The young couple smiled and applauded politely. Clearly, they had seen this before.

The family meandered closer, kids noisily splashing in the shallow water. Neither Mom nor Dad wore a wedding ring.

Why did I care? I'm an agnostic on marriage. For most people, marriage works well. For some, not being married works well. I was married, briefly, a long time ago but harbor no resentments because it ended. Overall, the first six years were enjoyable. The last two, not so much.

Were they afraid of commitment? That was a frequent excuse not to get married. But with three children well past the baby stage, the couple had already demonstrated commitment.

Were they afraid of marriage itself? Possibly.

Marriage is a strange thing. For some people, marriage is a horror, a set of chains binding a couple together so tightly that neither can move or breathe. It is a thing to be avoided.

Others see marriage as compromising the purity of their love by imposing bureaucrats, archaic rules, and divorce lawyers on what should be a free and natural bond between two people.

A third group -- the majority -- believes in the importance of marriage. The ceremony is a major milestone in life and in a relationship. It is an accepted part of a relationship that is guided as much by social convention as head and heart.

This couple belonged to the fourth and smallest group. They had a relationship that was preordained by the universe itself. Marriage for couples such as this rise above the conventional, achieving a mystical status. Romeo and Juliet. Antony and Cleopatra. Ben and Jennifer.

To see them not married was unsettling, like seeing a picture hanging crooked on a wall and not being able to straighten it.

The pair paused for a public display of affection (PDA for those who only know acronyms). The children groaned, and I politely averted my eyes.

When I looked back, the children were even older. They grow up so quickly. The daughter, maybe 15 now, was shyly holding hands with a boy.

"When are you getting married?" her brother called out, and the pair blushed.

"Yay! Wedding cake!" shouted the youngest child.

A look of terror swept across the parental faces.

People who oppose the web of expectations that come with marriage rarely look terrified at the mention of the word 'wedding'. Disgusted, maybe, but not terrified.

The couple wasn't bothered by the idea of marriage. They were terrified at the thought of a wedding.

That I could understand. Some folks have been picturing their wedding since they were a child. That idealized picture may disappear, buried under the pragmatic details of life, but it still carries weight.

For the first time, you must face your childhood fantasies and discard them. Not just discard. Destroy. You are irrevocably taking your place as an adult.

Adult obligations and responsibilities will cast a shadow on everything you do from now to the end of eternity. Obligations and responsibilities are very visible with a wedding.

Who to invite and who to leave out, the politics of picking a bridal party, where to hold the event, what vows to use, the type of flowers, cake, and more. For God's sake, the bride-to-be even has to get special underwear.

And let us not forget the big one -- the cost.

When you think about it, looking terrified is a perfectly appropriate response to the suggestion of a wedding.

You could elope, but then your favorite Aunt's heart will be heartbroken. She made quilts for each of your children, sends cookies every Christmas, and signs the cards 'Your Aunt Millie' as though you might forget who she is.

Aunt Millie helped you plan your dream wedding when you were only seven. She has been waiting for the real thing ever since. Eloping means rejecting her and many others. It may be faster and less expensive to elope, but it is just as fraught with emotion as a big wedding.

The children form a line facing their parents, smiling but serious too.

"What are you doing?" Mom asks, her tone light and amused.

"It's time for a wedding," the oldest says solemnly.

They step aside and gesture toward the beach. The oldest takes Mom's hand, the youngest dad's hand, and their daughter stands behind both, gently pushing them forward.

An older man with long gray hair in a ponytail appears. He is wearing faded cutoff jeans, an even more faded 'Crimson and Clover' tee-shirt, and leather sandals. His hands are tucked into his back pockets. His appearance may be casual, but his approach is direct.

I smell meat cooking and turn to look. Grills have been set up for steaks, hamburgers, and chicken legs. The men tending the grills nod at the couple, who are looking very confused.

"Why are Tom, Dick, and Harry here?" Dad questions.

A table nearby has two kinds of salad, coleslaw, baked beans, deviled eggs, chips and dip, brownies, paper plates, and plastic cutlery. In the middle of the table is a cake with a slightly lopsided bride and groom on top. Next to the cake is a tin of homemade cookies from Aunt Millie.

"It's time you were married," the daughter declares. "You have been procrastinating for decades, so we planned a wedding for you. You can't say no."

The couple is panic-stricken, looking desperately for an escape route. There is none. They are surrounded on three sides by children, family, and friends. Calmly facing them is Ponytail man.

"We are gathered here," Ponytail intones, his gaze sweeping across the assembled group.

"Do you, Francis?"

Francis, better known as Frank, looks like a moth flew into his mouth. But he recovers enough to say, "I do."

"Do you, Kelly?"

Kelly having had a moment's warning, is better prepared. She blushes and takes Frank's hand.

"I do."

The youngest appears and slips rings onto their fingers.

"I'm authorized. You agreed. They saw it." Ponytail vaguely waves at the crowd. "You are. Kiss."

It is the shortest wedding in the history of weddings. Frank and Kelly kiss, looking perplexed.

Their oldest explains. "The wedding is over. Sign the paper and you're married. Congratulations. You can relax now."

The youngest shouts, "Let's eat."

A roar goes up from the crowd, half teasing, half congratulatory.

As people head toward the nearby grills and open bar, Frank and Kelly are left alone, waves lapping at their feet. The couple are holding hands, blushing, and glowing. They have been together for nearly twenty years but feel closer than ever.

Life is suddenly different for them. An intangible dimension has been added to their relationship. Marriage is not just about a piece of paper.

The universe sighs and applauds. The crooked picture has been straightened.

Frank and Kelly join the crowd. All three children get loving noogies for plotting such an outrageous ambush. People offer quick congratulations. Music begins, and people dance in the sand. A volleyball game starts.

I give the bride and groom a thumbs up and snag a hamburger. It seems right that strangers celebrate too. Ponytail and I dance, and I find out he is a retired Professor of Philosophy from Minot, North Dakota.

Now, he is the resort's on-call officiant, ordained on the Internet. The resort is a venue for many fancy weddings and happily rents ballrooms and caters receptions at exorbitant cost. These events usually have the family priest or minister flown in to unite the happy couple in matrimony.

But there are also less formal weddings, often impromptu on the beach. Being a full-service resort means providing for those events too. Grills, picnic tables, bars, and a DJ suffice for the reception. Ponytail lives nearby and is happy to officiate on short notice. Sometimes in cutoff jeans and a faded tee-shirt.

Having been told of the parent's phobia about weddings, he trimmed the service to its essentials. Eight short sentences. Twenty words.

"Everybody has been to weddings," he tells me, "They can recite the vows from memory. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. Til death do us part. You don't need to say all the words for people to embrace the meaning," he says philosophically.

A slow song comes on, and we waltz in the sand. Later, I do the chicken dance with Crazy Uncle Harry.

Best wedding ever.

~~~ Pirates Ahoy ~~~

My chaise lounge was at the end of the beach. In the morning, it was in the sun. As the day progressed, trees gradually provided shade, preventing both overheating and sunburn.

More precisely, the chaise was at the end of this section of the beach. The resort owned a three-mile expanse of white sand but segmented it based on one's housing choice. Those in the cottages had their own beach area, separated from the others to preserve the illusion of privacy.

There were tall trees -- palms and bananas mostly -- and lush undergrowth that included ferns, vines, small palms, and exotic flowers, such as orchids, Bird of Paradise, and Bougainvillea.

Lush tropical undergrowth. A perfect hiding place for pirates. Blackbeard had once sailed these waters. Who was to say modern-day pirates weren't skulking nearby? After all, resort security was occupied keeping those Great White Sharks away. They probably hadn't thought about pirates.

Most modern pirates are a disappointment. No eye patches, bandannas, or tri-corner hats. No broadswords or flintlocks. Modern pirates wore ordinary jeans and denim shirts. They could walk through a mall and not seem out of place.

Even worse, most modern pirates steal music and movies, not gold and jewels. They live in their parent's basement and drive used Toyota Corollas. No three-masted ships. No walking the plank.

But at the resort, a real pirate might still exist, hiding behind the large fronds of a tropical fern. A leader of fierce men, captain of a stolen yacht rocking gently in the water just over the horizon. I remembered the yacht I saw earlier. The black flag I couldn't identify was a Jolly Roger.

He would be here to find his next victim, displaying the same cold assessment as the Great White Shark. Who was worthy of his time and energy? Was it me? A shiver went down my spine at the thought. Was it a shiver of fear or excitement?

The air hums and an aura shimmers near a stout palm tree.

A flicker and Captain Hook stands before me. The nemesis of Peter Pan. Debonair and stylishly dressed, he is the epitome of culture and elegance. Very British in his demeanor, he bows. Afraid of nothing except the crocodile which took his hand.

A flicker. The rogue Jack Sparrow looks around nervously. Satisfied he is safe, his mischievous smile flashes. Is he planning his next adventure or, more likely, in the midst of another miraculous escape from peril?

A flicker. Long John Silver coolly gazes at me. With his peg leg and parrot, he is the quintessential pirate. Wily and ruthless, treacherous even. But with a core of humanity that leads him to care about young Jim Hawkins.

The hum ceases, and the images fade away.

A man steps from the undergrowth. No eye patch or bandanna, but his manner of dress screams 'pirate'. Leather boots rise almost to his knees. The pants are loose and crimson. The shirt, unbuttoned to the waist, is silk and royal blue. A wide sash holds an empty scabbard. The resort doesn't allow swords, even for pirates.

He is a burly man with dark eyes, a full beard, and red hair. A small scar on one cheek adds to his dashing appearance. In his hand is the traditional tri-corner hat.

His steely gaze sweeps the beach from ocean to road before he turns his attention to me. With a bow and sweep of his hat, he introduces himself.

"Greetings, my lady. I am Captain Rogers of the good ship Woe-Be-Me. Might I ask who you might be?"

"You may call me Buttercup. I assume your first name is Dred."

"Ah, you have a bit of wit about you. And a quick wit at that. How refreshing."

"I've seen the movie many times."

He pulled up a lounge chair and ordered a Cosmopolitan from the waiter.

"What happened to 'Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum'?" I inquired.

"I'm just learning the pirate business. I worked for the Geek Squad until a couple months ago. In my spare time, I invented a portable holograph. That's what I used to show you my favorite pirates."

"And your pirate ship?"

He almost blushed with embarrassment. "Custom made yacht. Selling the holograph made me rich, which lets me do whatever I want. For the moment, I want to be a pirate. It's not going well though."

"Your previous conquest was less than a success?"

"God, she was a bore. A corporate attorney. Nothing worse."

"What became of her?"

"I made her walk the plank. Unfortunately, we were tied up at a dock, so she went down the gangplank instead of over the side. We got teased a lot for that faux pas. I had to give the crew extra rations of grog to ease the humiliation."

I unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh. The pirate glared at me.

"Perhaps you could say you chivalrously allowed her to depart with her life," I offered.

"Aye, that would sound better. Anyway, last I heard, she discovered her true inner self and is selling sustainably sourced beach hats in Malibu."

His focus returned to me.

"And what do you do, my lady?"

"I own a PR firm. Mostly crisis management. You know, like the TV show, except in real life."

"I don't watch much TV, except Game of Thrones. Is the work exciting?"

"More exciting for the companies in crisis. I come in, give them my advice, collect a check, and leave."

"Ah, a lot like piracy. Hit and run."

"Don't knock it. Maybe I can give you tips on improving your public image. Branding is everything these days."

He cocked his head and considered it.

"How do you like my outfit? I usually wear it at Comic-Con."

"The outfit is perfect, but maybe don't mention Comic-Con."

His Cosmopolitan finished, he threw me over his shoulder, and we faded into the foliage. Would I become his slave? Concubine? Second in command?

More importantly, would my company handle his PR?

~~~ Back to Reality ~~~

I never found out. A beach attendant approached with a cellphone. I had left mine in the hotel room.

"A phone call for you, Miss."

It was work. That is what happens when you are the boss of a high-powered PR firm. How the resort found me on the beach, I don't know. Maybe the key to the cottage was also an AirTag.

I know my people can handle the job when I'm gone, and they know I won't second guess their decisions when I return. But, when a big client has a big problem, everyone feels better after talking to the big boss. Including the big boss.