This Is Your Captain Speaking: My Fantastic Voyage Through Hollywood, Faith & Life

by MacLeod, Gavin

  She was fantastic. We didn’t have anything in common, artistic-wise or anything else, but we had the Lord in common. That was enough.

  I had told her a few times that we weren’t sure when it would happen, or where. We were waiting for the Lord to tell us. Then one day, Beulah Ward said, “Well, I’m telling you: you should get married at the Born Again Marriage conference in Omaha, in front of all those people. Give them hope.”

  It was a beautiful idea—to use our remarriage to give hope to others. So we did. Pat and Shirley Boone served as our best man and matron of honor at a ceremony in front of a thousand people at the Red Lion Inn in Omaha, Nebraska. We got married in front of people who had gathered in prayer for the sake of their own marriages. We served as an inspiration to all of those people. It was incredibly moving.

  The conference was led by a married couple who hosted a program on TBN called Marriage on the Rock. They themselves had been inspiring people to believe in love, and to believe in their marriage—even when their partners had lost their way. All was possible through Jesus, including the fixing of broken marriages. It was wonderful to be a part of that inspiration.

  This marriage was different for Patti and me, because it wasn’t just about us. There were three of us in the marriage now: Jesus, Patti, and me. That first pillar of strength is so powerful. We were all in this together. None of us would leave. None of us would walk away. I wouldn’t walk away from the marriage because I wouldn’t walk away from Jesus. Patti wouldn’t walk away from the marriage, because she wouldn’t walk away from Jesus. Neither of us would walk away from each other, because we had this bond with Jesus. And Jesus, well, he would never walk away from either of us. It was a marriage of safety, security, and love far greater than either of us had ever known.

  In the spring of 1986, after we had completed shooting The Love Boat but before the final episode aired, my boss, producer Doug Cramer, had this idea to use a Princess ship for a fund-raising gala. Doug was heavily involved with the new Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles, and our show was so hot, the idea of throwing a gala on a Princess ship in San Pedro Harbor drew lots of press and attention from all over. The plan was for all of these beautiful, wealthy people to pile into limousines, motor down to the harbor, and have a magical evening on the ship—and I, as the Captain, would be there to greet them as they came aboard. Some of Aaron Spelling’s other big stars served as greeters too, including Linda Evans, Joan Collins, and John Forsythe.

  The night was incredible. Diahann Carroll was singing in one room while Bobby Short was singing in another—there was fabulousness everywhere you turned. Once I finished with all of my duties, I finally had a chance to join my wife and daughter at a big, round table in the dining room. Right after I sat down, the door opened and who should walk in but Cary Grant and his young wife. He was eighty-one, maybe eight-two years old at the time, and he had that white hair and those horn-rimmed glasses—the picture of old Hollywood elegance. Everybody stopped and looked. He had so much grace and power and presence, and he held so much respect and reverence from all of us, it was astonishing to witness. Even among all of those stars, he shone bright enough to stop you in your tracks. You didn’t hear a glass tinkling in the room until he finally sat down at his table.

  That’s when Patti leaned over to me and whispered, “That’s Cary Grant!”

  I said, “No, really?”

  She said, “I want you to introduce me to him.”

  “What?” I said. “Patti. He doesn’t know me.”

  “Well, you worked with him,” she said.

  “That was twenty-five years ago. He doesn’t even know I’m alive!”

  Patti really poured it on: “I’ll never ask you for another thing,” she said. Then my daughter started in: “Please, Pop, please!”

  If any husband believes that his wife will never ask him for another thing, I’ve got a bridge to sell you. But Patti was so charming, I wanted to please her. I stood up and my heart was pounding out of my chest like a cartoon character. I was so nervous to approach him. I walked over to Mr. Grant’s table, and I took a deep breath and thought, God, give me the right thing to say.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Grant?”

  He looked up at me, and much to my delight, he recognized me right away. He smiled and turned, and grasped my forearm. “Gavin, Gavin, Gavin!” he said. “I’m so proud of you.”

  I tell you, I almost lost it. Cary Grant knew who I was. I still thought of myself as that young actor who played that role with him in Operation Petticoat. I had forgotten, He’s a human being! He watches television too!

  I introduced him to Patti, who was shaking all over, and my daughter, who was blushing. It was a wonderful moment for all of us. (My wife has since asked me for other things, by the way. Don’t be fooled, fellas.)

  The reason I tell this story is because it’s an example of a moment when I took a risk. Cary Grant was at that time maybe one of the biggest living movie stars on the planet. For me to bother him at dinner like that, he could have put me down. He could have said, “Please don’t interrupt me.” But he didn’t. He said something amazing. I took that risk of embarrassment for the sake of my wife and my daughter, and I’ve carried this lesson ever since: if you take a risk for somebody else, take a chance; don’t be afraid. It can give you a moment that can last for the rest of your life.

  That brief encounter with Cary Grant has helped me for the rest of my life too—when I’m down sometimes, when I’m doubting myself, I think of what that giant of a man told me. And I smile.

  Just a few months later, Cary Grant was out on the road showing his films and giving talks about them—connecting with his audience, live and in person, which was something he loved to do. And on one of those nights, in Davenport, Iowa, he had a stroke and died.

  Just like that, the great Cary Grant was gone.

  If I didn’t take that risk, if I didn’t reach out that night when we saw him, if I didn’t say hello, and then he had died? I would have felt guilty about it for the rest of my life.

  Sometimes you don’t get a second chance. You need to take a chance when you have the opportunity. Always.

  With The Love Boat over, Marion and Patti and I decided to join forces in a play. We would spend the summer performing Never Too Late, first in Denver and then all the way out on Cape Cod. My friend Jan Peters would join us on the road, too, and I could hardly imagine a better group with whom to spend my summer.

  I was worried about another friend of mine, though: Ted Knight.

  Ted had cancer. He had been fighting it off and on for years. He had an operation for it but never let anyone know back when we were on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Patti and I were the only ones who knew outside of his immediate family.

  That’s how close we were. We laughed and cried, and we just had a complete relationship, Ted and I. He really was like an older brother who gave me advice about everything. He was just wonderful.

  In the early part of 1986, his cancer came back in a more aggressive form. I said, “Patti, I think we should go see Ted before we go away.” We hadn’t seen him for a couple of months. He had been in treatment, but he was home now.

  So I called him. I said, “Listen, how you doin’?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m still here!”

  “Patti and I are going on the road,” I told him. “Can I come over and see you before we leave?”

  “Yeah! Of course. I want to see you.”

  I offered to come over that Sunday and he said, “Sure.”

  Ted didn’t have Jesus in his life. He didn’t adhere to any faith whatsoever.

  We went to church that day before we went to see him. I knew I wanted to talk to him about his choices, and about eternity. I saw Dean Jones at church with his wife, Lory. Dean’s a great actor, known for his Disney roles in The Love Bug and for so much more, but he became a born-again Christian in the early 1970s and had a powerful influence in the church. He’s quite a guy. I asked them both, “If you wo
uld just say a prayer for Patti and me, because we’re going to go over and see Ted, and I know he’s not doing well.” Dean prayed for us—and I know he also prayed for Ted.

  Ted was living in Pacific Palisades, in the house he always dreamed of. We pulled up and Dottie—his wife, who was one of the first people to tell me to stop drinking, way back when—came out to greet us. I loved her for that, and so much more.

  I asked her, “How is he?”

  “He’s not doing well,” she said. We talked for a couple of minutes, and then I heard Ted shouting, “Well, are you going to come in this house, or aren’t you?”

  We went upstairs and he was in bed, surrounded by bookcases full of books—and he was so thin. He reminded me of my father, when my father was home before he went to the hospital for the very last time.

  It was so good to see him, and he was so happy to see Patti and me. I told him that we were going out on the road and would be gone for four or five months. He was thrilled that the two of us were back together, and for some reason, on that day, he asked us how it happened. “You both seem so happy,” he said. “How did you do it?”

  That question opened the door.

  I told him, “The reason we’re back together is that God did it. We have a relationship like we never had before—because it’s not just Patti and me. It’s threefold. Jesus is here too. It’s the three of us. Nobody’s going to leave. He’s not going to leave us, and we’re not going to leave each other. There’s a secure feeling now.

  “But more importantly, Ted, have you thought about eternity? The afterlife?”

  He said, “Well, look at all these books. I’ve been reading all these books.”

  That’s when I told him, “You want to know why Patti and I have this peace? It’s because we know where we’re going when this is all over.”

  “You mean heaven?” he said.

  “Yes, heaven. That’s eternity, Ted. That is forever. Our lives here are like nothing, like two seconds. Heaven is forever. And if you accept Jesus into your life like we did, eternity in heaven is a promise,” I said. “Would you think about that?”

  He looked at me and said, “You know, I’ve been reading all these books . . .”

  He paused. He clearly hadn’t found the answer he was looking for in any of those thousands of pages.

  “What do I have to do?” he asked.

  “You just have to repeat a prayer after me,” I said.

  He teared up. He said, “I think I’ve waited long enough.”

  I tear up now just thinking about it.

  He bowed his head. Patti and I were on one side of the bed, and Dottie was on the other, and we all held hands and I read from what they call a tract, a little prayer card. I didn’t want to make a mistake! This was too important. I read it, he repeated it, and he started weeping. And of course I started weeping too.

  It was quite a moment.

  “Well,” I told him, “now you can, as they say, ‘rest in peace.’ Because the rest is going to be a blessing for you.”

  Dottie left the room, and Ted said, “Gavin, there’s one thing. I believe what I just did. But Dottie doesn’t believe there’s a God.”

  “Well, Ted,” I told him, “maybe she does now.”

  The tears started up again.

  “This is the most wonderful day,” he said. “I feel peace already.”

  “I’m telling you, Ted, this was the most wonderful day for me too!” I cried. And we hugged. I could feel the weight lifted off of his shoulders. He had accepted Jesus into his life, and the change in him was instant.

  Man, I could have packed it up right then and been happy. To think that you could be used that way by the Lord, for one of your very best friends. Every time I start to think about it I start weeping—out of joy!

  Patti went downstairs with Dottie, and Ted asked me to help him get to the bathroom. This incredibly strong, strapping Polish guy was on a cane now. So I helped him get out of bed, just like I used to with my father when I was a kid.

  When he came out, he said, “I want to show you something downstairs.”

  “Can you make it?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah!” he said. We went down through the kitchen and out to the backyard. He said, “Look. I finally have my dream: my own black-bottom pool!” He had talked about wanting his own pool for as long as I’d known him. It really was a dream come true. And it was beautiful. It was different from a lot of ordinary pools, and he pointed out why. “They wanted to put stairs here, but I made it smooth so I could go in in my wheelchair.”

  It broke my heart. Can you imagine a strong guy like Ted saying those words? He finally had his dream come true, and he couldn’t walk on his own to get into that water. I was happy for him, of course. He had made his dream come true. But the irony of it stung.

  We visited a little while longer, and then we left. Ted stood in the hallway and waved good-bye as we were leaving. He had a smile on his face. A peaceful smile.

  Once we were in the car, I said, “Patti, I don’t think we’re gonna see him again.”

  Patti was quiet for a moment. She took my hand.

  “We’ll see him again,” she said. “In heaven.”

  A few days later, we hit the road. We went to Denver to rehearse and then put up the play for the first time at this wonderful theater. When that run was over, we flew to Cape Cod, where we had a whole week off before we opened. It was the first vacation Patti and I had taken in what felt like forever. It may well have been the first vacation that didn’t involve at least some aspect of my work in our entire relationship! And as we tooled around the beautiful eastern peninsula of Massachusetts, we fell in love with the whole area. We just flipped for it. All that history, all that beauty, surrounded by the ocean—Cape Cod is one of the most beautiful parts of the whole country, as far as I’m concerned. It captivates you. Just think of the history alone. Route 6A, the King’s Highway there, was named after the king of England. The first church in the entire United States is right over there!

  Within days Patti and I decided that we wanted a house on Cape Cod.

  I happened to meet a real-estate agent at our opening-night party, and I told her we were on the hunt. We thought we wanted to live right there close to the theater in Dennis, so we could walk to our shows, just to make it easy. But thanks to that agent, our house hunt would take us a little farther than we expected.

  A few days into our run of Never Too Late, during a point in the play where I went backstage to change my jacket, I noticed there were some notes on my desk in the dressing room. One of them read, “Associated Press wants to talk to you after the show.” I had no idea what the AP might be calling about—until our producer, Charlie Forsythe, came running in. He was weeping.

  “Gavin,” he said. “Ted died.”

  “What?”

  “Ted died.”

  That’s how I found out that my best friend, Ted Knight, was gone.

  Ted had played the Cape Playhouse years earlier in a show called Generations, which I would perform myself eventually at a theater in Traverse City. So Charlie knew Ted. They all knew Ted. They all loved him.

  In between scenes, word got around to every member of that cast. We were all a mess—but we had to finish the show. The show must go on!

  When the curtains closed, we finally let it all set in—and the tears flowed like crazy. No one could believe this vibrant man had been taken from us.

  Losing a friend in show business brings an added layer of difficulty, in that the press often wants to talk to you. Reporters want the story, they want the scoop, and they want it right away—before you’ve had any time to grieve, or even to let the news sink in.

  “I don’t want to talk to the press right now,” I said. But someone convinced me to speak with just one reporter from New York City.

  The guy got on the phone and said, “Tell me, um, Ted Baxter did a show about conquistador boots?” I said, “Yeah, it was one of the funniest shows. He bought some boots that were
called ‘conquistador boots,’ and they made him taller, and it was a very, very funny episode.”

  “Well, what’s so funny about that?” the guy said.

  I just couldn’t. My dear friend, this incredible man I had known and loved since 1957, was gone, and this reporter was just—I’ll reserve my words here about how crass and clueless certain members of the press can be.

  “I’ll tell you something, mister,” I said, “I don’t want to talk to you right now.” And I hung up the phone. I didn’t want to talk to any of ’em. My heart was broken. I needed to grieve in private.

  Dottie called with a message. She said, “I’d like you to do the eulogy.”

  Unfortunately, I told her, I wouldn’t be able to fly to California for the funeral. Patti and I were committed to this play. There were too many people who would be let down if I didn’t show up. Summer stock is a tricky business, and to miss even a night or two could be devastating to one of these theaters. Dottie understood. Ted would have done the same thing if our roles were reversed. But she wanted me to write the eulogy regardless, and to send it to her. She said she could have someone else read it.

  I prayed to God for the right things to say, because I knew there would be plenty of nonbelievers at Ted’s funeral. I would have to word this carefully. I decided the best way to do it was to pen the eulogy in the form of a letter directly to Ted.

  My daughter Stephanie went to the funeral. Mary Tyler Moore attended, as did a whole bunch of others from our MTM family. And our great writer David Lloyd read the words I wrote:

  Dear Ted,

  . . . Patti and I cried rivers of tears when we heard the news, but forget our mourning. I want to celebrate your life. I want to thank you for having shared your entire being, not only with me but with the world. If laughter is healing, think how many millions you helped heal. That alone is tribute enough for any ordinary mortal, but you were far from ordinary, Ted. . . .

  You were blessed with success in all areas of your life. But your two Emmys, all your accolades and awards, pale in comparison with the award you received the last time we were together, just a few weeks ago, when you asked Jesus to come into your life. Because of this, we know where you are at this very moment. You are in our Father’s arms and if I know you, Ted, the angels are smiling their biggest smiles ever. You have finally done it all. . . .