Mr. Courage

In 1993, when I was 16, I landed my first yacht delivery job: sailing a magnificent yacht from New York City to an exclusive yacht club on Long Island Sound. There was just one problem. We were teenagers, and we were terrified the marina manager or police would stop us before we even left the dock. Fortunately, one of my buddies knew a kid at a fancy boarding school who taught us how to dress like “rich assholes nobody would dare question.” So there we were, strutting down the dock in borrowed cordovan penny loafers, sport coats and slicked-back hair, looking like we’d just stepped out of a country club catalog. We jumped aboard, tossed the lines and shoved the throttle forward before anyone could ask questions. Perfect getaway. It was a glorious day on the water. Blue skies, fair winds, not a care in the world. Until we approached the East River. That’s when tiny kittens started crawling out of a deck box. KITTENS. The yacht had been sitting idle for weeks, and apparently a stray cat had decided it was the perfect maternity ward. Now we had a boat full of kittens. What the hell were we supposed to do with them? We had a yacht to deliver, a fancy yacht club expecting us, and absolutely no idea how to explain our unexpected passengers. Eventually, we arrived at the club, where a large party was underway. People were gathered on the veranda of a magnificent Victorian mansion overlooking the harbor. They watched as this beautiful yacht glided in. We collected the kittens in a cardboard box, climbed aboard the club launch and headed ashore. Picture three teenage boys walking toward this grand clubhouse in borrowed penny loafers, navy blazers and slicked-back hair, carrying a box of kittens. That’s when we realized the party was a wedding. And that’s when one of my buddies looked up at the veranda, which was packed with beautiful women in their twenties, and shouted: “ANYONE WANT A KITTEN?” I have never witnessed anything like what happened next. An honest-to-god stampede. Women came pouring off the veranda, practically trampling one another to get their hands on a kitten. Suddenly, three awkward teenage boys were THE most popular men at the wedding. We each took responsibility for finding homes for a kitten. My buddy Adrian took three kitties but I just wanted to find the ONE perfect match. I picked out a gorgeous, classically beautiful woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement. She was 26. I lied and told her I was 19 and home from Annapolis. For the next several hours, we wandered the club grounds together, taking turns holding the kitten while I pretended to be terribly reluctant to part with it. Eventually, she had to leave. I agreed to surrender the kitten, but only after extracting a solemn promise that she’d invite me to her Manhattan apartment to check on it. She agreed. Of course, she’d been drinking, and I figured there was absolutely no chance she’d remember my phone number, much less call. Remember, this was 1993. No cell phones. No texting. No Insta. Just a telephone number scribbled on a napkin and a teenage boy’s impossible dreams. Then Thursday arrived. The phone rang. I bolted out of my bedroom toward the hallway extension. But my mother was standing in the kitchen and answered first. “Hello?” A beautiful female voice came through the receiver. “Is John Konrad there? I’d very much like to invite him to dinner tomorrow night to see my kitten.” She said TO SEE MY KITTEN 😳 And she said it in a VERY sultry voice. Now, to understand what happened next, you need to know something about my family. 1/2