Nancy and I were excited because this was a new part of the coast for us. We were going to anchor in a tiny bay we’d heard about just west of the ruins of Olympos. We went forward to the bow with Kevin while Ercan steered and Muhsin and Baresh prepared lunch. We chatted and laughed, and it felt as if the good part of the summer were beginning, the good part, even, of our lives. We had many years in beautiful places to look forward to, with smart and interesting guests.
Our anchorage was magnificent. Steep mountains on either side, two small islands at the narrow entrance, and a low saddle beyond the inside shore, leading to another lovely bay. No habitations, no other boats, just this beautiful place all to ourselves. We dropped anchor in the center and I backed within about thirty feet of a white cliff, then Baresh jumped into the water with our stern line tied around his waist. He climbed to an outcropping, tied us off, and dove back in. It all went very smoothly.
Because of Kevin’s good company, the ease of running a charter for one guest, and the spectacular coves and ruins, this charter was almost entirely a pleasure. There were some problems developing with the boat, however. The caulking on deck was coming loose, for instance. Within a week, there was one section on the starboard side, near the boarding ladder, that I could actually pull out for almost a foot.
Grendel’s deck caulking had been twenty years old and showed no signs of this. One afternoon Ercan and I inspected the deck thoroughly and found loose seams from the bow all the way back to the poop deck on the stern. It was all coming up.
I waited until Nancy and Kevin went for a paddle in the kayaks and called Seref on Ercan’s cell phone.
Seref didn’t want to believe it. “This cannot be true,” he said. “There is some other problem. The Cekomastik does not come up like this.”
I asked Seref to replace the seams in Gocek, between charters, and this became a daily fight over the phone, without progress. He had the advantage of time. If he delayed long enough on anything he didn’t want to do or didn’t want to do my way, I’d have to accept his solution in the end, because I had these charters to run and then I was leaving for Mexico.
We arrived in Gocek at the end of our first charter, said goodbye to Kevin, and greeted Seref and the construction crew. They had brought a lot of materials and equipment with them, including the AC units, the roller-furling and sail, and the marine plywood and mahogany, but they hadn’t brought anything to recaulk the deck.
I pulled Seref aside to walk down the dock while the men unloaded everything. The waterfront in Gocek is lovely, the small town tucked into the head of a large bay with dozens of forested islands and a mountain rising directly behind it. The late morning was sunny and hot.
“You must understand, David,” Seref said. “I don’t make any money on this boat. I take nothing. When it is all finished, you give me some commission, what you think is right. But I don’t take any money now. All is for the boat.”
I listened to this and knew it was crap. He was getting a commission every time I bought a nail or a piece of wood.
“I don’t make any money on this boat,” he said. “I build it like it is my boat. I try to do everything right.”
“I appreciate your efforts,” I said. “But the deck caulking should last at least twenty years. This deck caulking lasted about a week. So it has to be replaced. And I’m not going to pay. I already paid for caulking the deck.”
“David, really you push too much. I cannot do this. Where do I get the money for this?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Just do it.”
We walked on without speaking for a while, then Seref said, “You do not know me.”
I didn’t respond. I actually liked Seref, and this was difficult for me. I didn’t like to push, but I had to answer to my lenders. It didn’t make sense to pay for the deck twice on a new boat. Seref was going to have to fix it.
Talvi, the poet who would be teaching the writing workshop during this charter, arrived in the evening, followed by Steve, a friend I had invited on the trip for free. As long as the trips were nearly empty and still had to be run, I could easily invite a friend.
The two of them were thrilled to be in Turkey. They had dinner with Nancy while I kept working on the boat.
In the morning, we had just enough time to clean up from the construction projects, unload all of the workmen and their tools, and finish provisioning. We had only two paying guests: a friend of mine named Cristal and her friend Jen. Both were getting discounts, so there were no guests paying full fare.
Just before we left, I called Amber in California. I was actually pulling in some new loans despite everything, but I wasn’t keeping up with my bills. The loans were only $10,000 to $20,000 at a time now. It was a week into August, and so far I had accumulated about $450,000 in private loans, far more than I had thought I would need for the entire project. That didn’t count the $125,000 I owed on just my one Stanford American Express card, which would soon shut down because even with a 120-day grace period and juggling my three other AmEx cards, I wouldn’t be able to pay enough of the balance.
I had to survive until the middle of October, two months away, for John’s loan. On my last round of bill-paying the week before, I’d had long phone conversations with AmEx reps, explaining the situation regarding the balance on my Stanford AmEx card. I was running trips for Stanford Continuing Studies, and yes, I would be able to repay the amounts, but no, I didn’t have the funds yet. I was running this whole travel program, and I needed to have the cash to keep the trips going. What I told them was true, but I also didn’t emphasize that I was on my own in this business — that if things went bad, Stanford wasn’t going to bail me out. These were my own losses I was taking, not Stanford’s.
In addition to being behind on AmEx bills and behind on money for construction, I was also running short on cash for operating the charters. I needed more diesel, but I didn’t have the money. I would probably run out before the end of this charter, so I needed to come up with a solution soon.
We motored into the bay and anchored at Cleopatra’s Baths. It was sunny and bright, pine trees reaching down to where ruins lay submerged in about ten feet of water. We snorkeled and swam around the ruins. I enjoyed it but felt preoccupied.
I found some solace hanging out with my friend Steve. He played harmonica and had interesting tales from his few days in Turkey. He had been told by a taxi driver, for instance, that the current tomato glut was Monica Lewinsky’s fault. “I know, I know,” he said. “It sounds strange. But here’s how it works.” He was doing these exaggerated gestures with his hands, cutting them up and down through the air, clearing the way for a story, holding his harmonica in one hand. It was late in the day, before dinner, and we had the forward deck to ourselves. “Clinton’s embarrassed about the whole Monica Lewinsky thing, so to divert attention, he flies to Kosovo. This makes Americans think more about Kosovo, so they decide not to travel to places like Turkey, so no one is eating in the tourist restaurants, and the restaurants stop buying tomatoes. So now there’s a giant tomato glut and the price has fallen and farmers are going out of business. It’s all Monica’s fault.”