For those of you who know the story, this is not a picture of him. It’s a picture of Captain Ron from the movie of the same name. Uncanny resemblance, right?
You may ask why the (at the time) darling of Ponte Vedra would fall for a jobless, penniless bounder who crucified the English language around a chain of Lucky Strike cigarettes. You got me. I lived in a big house in Marsh Landing and he lived on a dissipated boat, chained to the Beaches Marina Dock for non-payment.
I drank white wine. He drank a case of beer before lunchtime. It was chased by enough morphine to KILL a lesser human, in an attempt to deaden the phantom pain that plagued his self styled “broke back”. I had a charming, well educated group of family and friends. He had an extended clan of trailer-trash pickpockets.
I served on several Boards of Director, he caught alligators with his bare hands. I had money. He spent it.
There’s an old country song that laments, “Cigareeets, and whiskey and wild, wild women – they’ll drive you crazy – they’ll drive you INSANE.” Substitute: “white wine” and “men” and add “to the poor house” and you’ll have the makings of my theme song. At THAT time. When I was drinking…
