The wickedest storm of the trip hit while we sat anchored at a Mediterrean port. I heard it first, a dull roll of faraway thunder. Then I saw lightning striking all around, lacerating the sky. Soon the thunder came in louder, sharper cracks and my parents’ friends rushed to the stern. Over their heads I could see orange flames. A hillside home was burning, a man swore he had seen it struck by lightning, and a woman began to sob. Big drops of water pounded our deck and in moments everyone was wet. The Wild Goosespanned 136 feet, yet she rocked now like a toy boat in a rowdy child’s bathtub. Whipped by the new moon, the ocean crashed inside our living room. When the sea rose again and drenched our downstairs cabin, all the adults looked nervously to my father. Even some of the highly capable crew stood frozen in place, no one assuming leadership. The sobbing woman then became hysterical. “I’ve never been out in lightning! My God! I’ve never been out in it!” She chanted this over and over, until I felt vexed almost beyond the point of endurance. I knew she couldn’t, but I felt like screaming “Stop!”
My father went to her then. He didn’t touch her, and I couldn’t make out his words through the heavy darkness and rain. She quit her sobbing, though, and soon started giggling in a high-pitched girlish tone. Several adults started laughing with her, and even one of the men made light of his own fear. The rain still fell in earnest, but the lightning strikes had receded and the storm appeared in retreat.
It wasn’t. Later that evening the black clouds burst again. Though the sea stayed out of our ship, it battered her sides on and off through the night. By the time my father and I rose with the sun to survey the damage, the winds had died and the sea had flattened. The adults appeared topside around nine, looking puffy-faced and drowsy, but by mid-afternoon they had drunk, gambled, regained their vim. I could tell by their manner and conversation that they were pleased with themselves, as if the night before they had passed some collective test. I was pleased with my father, who had quietly shared his mettle.
I had never seen my father so flustered. What the savage storm couldn’t do, Grace Kelly could.
With our ship moored in Monte Carlo, my father had planned a rare early night. I think he was still worn out by the visit of the William Holdens, who had just flown back to their home in Nairobi, Africa. My dad was extremely fond of Bill Holden, but from the moment they’d stepped on The Wild Goose, he and his wife Ardis had bickered nearly nonstop. Apparently Mr. Holden’s marriage was not holding together, and a heavy drinker anyway, he started binging. Though not in the habit of imbibing day and night, my father and his old friend drank steadily for the better part of two weeks. When my father drank in front of me, he was prone to act sloppier, sillier, more gregarious, never mean, but sometimes obnoxious. When Mr. Holden drank he seemed not to change at all: unerringly kind to everyone else, he fought constantly with his spouse.
Between the boozing and the tension between his guests, when the Holdens left my father sought little more than a private night with my mom in their master bedroom. But that night my parents were first disturbed by me—I couldn’t sleep and crept to their bedroom—and several hours later by a member of our crew. “It’s Princess Grace!” he announced. “It’s Princess Grace! She’s coming on board!”
It was after midnight. Running to the mirror, my father said “Jesus!” Though sleeping soundly I woke up quickly, desperately wanting to meet Princess Grace. My parents had met her earlier at a party hosted by movie mogul Jack Warner, honoring her engagement to Prince Rainier, when Grace Kelly was leaving Hollywood. I, on the other hand, had seen her only on TV and in my mother’s magazines. Even there, her fresh pure skin looked aglow. She was the most radiant woman I’d ever seen, and I yearned to see her in person. My hopes were dashed by my father. “It’s very late,” he said in a tone with no room for rebuttal. “You’re a little girl, and we’re in a hurry.”
A hurry? He was positively rattled. Rushing to peel off his pajamas, his thick fingers fumbling at little buttons, he finally cursed and quit in exasperation. While my mother lagged behind a little longer, John Wayne marched out to greet the Princess of Monaco wearing his silk pajamas hidden beneath his clothes.
Several days later, in Portofino, still feeling pouty over not meeting my first authentic princess, it barely registered when my father was called to work. Henry Hathaway was prepared to shoot Circus World, so we flew directly to Madrid, where my parents had rented a villa belonging to Ava Gardner. During their tempestuous affair, Miss Gardner had shared this home with Frank Sinatra. Now, behind the actress’ villa, an unheated pool was cracked and dirty, and squawking chickens tromped through Ava Gardner’s tomatoes. I found it kind of neat, and bohemian; hating it, my mother called it “barely livable.” Already working long hours for Henry Hathaway, my father did not seem to care either way. Exhausted, all he wanted at night was food and a bed.
It was only a few days later that my father and I were mobbed near Madrid. Despite this trauma, I don’t recall hearing my parents discuss it. Then again, they were not talking much about anything. I could tell they were not getting along well; I wanted to go home. But our trip was still young, the mobbing only prelude to the nightmare.