Atlantic High

by William F. Buckley, Jr.

  As is his way, he leaped up the companionway (when Danny saunters, it is in the manner of Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, a kind of coiled, springy saunter: the racehorse bridled on his emphatic way to the starting gate). Van had elected to help Danny with the cooking and was there, arm around the running backstay, stirring and testing the sauce as Danny now gave it a little more of this or that. The bottle of wine between them rapidly emptied—and of what use, pray, is an empty bottle of wine? It was nonchalantly offered to Neptune, and instantly (a round trip by Danny, after cockpit to refrigerator and back, is measured in microseconds) replaced. By the time we sat down in the main cockpit to eat (superb steaks, with sautéed potatoes, nicely seasoned vegetables, brandied cake and parfait au liqueurs), the wine had had a decisive effect on Danny and on Van; so that when after dinner I made myself geographically approachable by moving to the after cockpit where Danny could discreetly join me, he had no sooner begun the conversation when Van hove in, instantly volunteering his own philosophy on—marriage, abortion, British bonds, Taiwan, Danny’s future, and disarmament.

  What Dan had only just managed to blurt out to me was that he had made Gloria pregnant, that he wished ardently to marry her, that he harbored no reservations at all about marrying her, that neither she nor he desired an abortion, indeed that he disapproved of abortion (“personally and philosophically”), that his worries were exclusively over the question: how would his little four-year-old girl, living with her mother in Colorado but regularly and delightedly visiting Danny in Connecticut, absorb the news? And how would his former wife take it—might she interfere with future visits by his daughter? And what did I think about the wedding, and might it be a good idea for Gloria to go to Spain and be married there, or might that appear to be furtive; Danny didn’t want furtiveness—he was very proud of Gloria and wanted all the world to know it, and he loved her deeply; and, well, he guessed he wanted me to know, and maybe to have my reaction. Van instantly volunteered to give my reaction on my behalf, and his own on my behalf; or something of the sort—Van had trespassed his private little threshold (the only time on that journey) and I kept an eye on him until, finally, he went to bed, though only after he concluded that this was an ideal time for me to initiate him in the felicities of celestial navigation, and assured me that if President Reagan designated him as president of the World Bank (Van is, simply stated, one of the brightest bankers in the Western world), that would not prevent him from joining me on any future transatlantic cruise; to which I replied that no ocean cruise would be the same without him, which is certainly true.

  Van approached our stateroom and with exaggerated precision achieved the passage to the upper bunk, having meditated that 4 A.M., when he would next be on duty, was not all that far down the line. I agreed, turned off the light, and went softly back up to the main cockpit. Christopher Little and Danny were talking animatedly. The moon was radiant. The only wind we felt was of our own making: 7.5 knots of it, bearing down on us from our easterly course. I mentioned to Danny merely that I understood everything he had told me, and that perhaps tomorrow we might talk more about it. He poured me a glass of wine and said, Sure!

  The next morning he was pale. A few weeks later, on receiving his journals, I took note of the relevant entry: “Last night proved to me, once again, that I can’t drink and hold my booze. They say I (1) did not eat dinner which I so laboriously cooked off the fan-tail and (2) stayed up to within 1½ hours of my watch drinking every wine in sight. Ah, but I awoke for the 4-8 shift and stayed awake for most of it. I found my glasses on the deck, why unbroken I don’t know. I figure I’ll atone today for last night. I hate myself….”

  And later, “I’ll atone for my sins by dying after a slow painful agonizing afternoon of gas. How does one get so paralyzed by just a few bottles of Mateus—one white and one red? Wine is medicinal—at what point does gluttony reverse the good effect?” Answer: At a point several miles behind the point Danny had reached.

  But (it transpired) Danny had kept not just a single journal, but a second. And what he told me, the afternoon of his distress, was that he wanted me to have not only the first, but the second. “The second is personal.” I said that was okay, and I appreciated his willingness to let me read it, but that after all I was committed to composing a book. He paused and said he didn’t care how many people knew how he felt about Gloria.

  Danny and I flew back to New York two weeks later, the day after landing in Marbella (the others would dribble back over the next days and months). The day after arriving in Connecticut, Pat and I ceremoniously congratulated Gloria (they lived four houses down from us, in a garage apartment). After the Bermuda telephone call Gloria had proudly announced, to Pat and two house-guests already known to her, a) that she would soon be married, and b) that she was expecting a baby. On both counts she was congratulated. When, on my arrival, my son Christopher telephoned me, asking routinely about the passage, I gave him a quick briefing. Quickly we talked about Danny, who had already called Christopher to invite him down from Nantucket (where he was holed up writing a book) for the wedding, which would be held on the Fourth of July, and to invite him to serve as best man. Christopher was glad to do this, enthusiastic as he is about Gloria, in sharp contrast to his dark forebodings about her predecessor at the altar, side-by-side with a love-struck Danny; at which ceremony he had also served as best man.

  The Fourth of July was a very beautiful day in Connecticut, and in the morning, dressed in the customary Levi’s and sports shirt, Danny cruised around to my garage office, two documents in hand.

  “Here are my journals.”

  I thanked him, laying them aside, and we talked about his plans. He would honeymoon aboard my yawl, Suzy Wong, taking only the weekend off. The marriage-making justice of the peace was due exactly at one, and Danny’s landlord Peter Starr (an old friend and sailing companion) and his wife Sandy had volunteered their huge lawn, extravagantly decorated, a large awning set up for the lunch. A hundred people had convened, Danny’s parents and grandparents having driven all the way from Florida in a camper.

  I forgot about Danny’s journals until the next morning. It was fitting that I should have seen the second journal during Danny’s honeymoon. What it comprised was spurts of objurgative passion, done stylistically as only Danny could: total candor, totally un-selfconscious. “Gloria, how I love you and miss you. Oh what presents you’ll enjoy, especially—me.” “I want your body against my own …I want this child and you.” “Gloria, it’s Wednesday, the 11th. I physically hurt from missing you so. I wish never to leave you for such a period again lest I die, which I prefer not. I’ve never wanted anyone so much. I feel that we’re truly one person. I know how you feel now and I want to be with you to cry and hold you and love you. I’ll see you in just over 2½ weeks. Can’t wait”

  The very night of the mid-ocean party he had managed an entry in his journal, “I love you Casale [Gloria’s surname]. I’ll always love you, you will be my cutie now and God willing for the rest of my life. Glor, we’ve had such an evening. We’re half way, a party of sorts, God knows how much champagne, wine and booze but I lie in my small and lonesome bunk, wanting one being, you. I close my eyes and feel you, touch you and smell you and for one moment know you are in me and we are together. But that fleeting moment lingers in my mind more than my body can stand. I’m 912 miles away from the nearest point of land. I love you. I look forward to your being ‘Mrs. Gloria Merritt’ …Yes! … She is my wife.”

  The following entry he wrote in the morning, entitling it “Dan’s Prayer.”

  “I pray Lord I live a full life with the woman I choose, the being I love so; who is with me now and always, and I pray to the Lord for the blessing you might favor us.

  “I wish to openly make amends for my sinfulness and open my heart to thee and my brothers around me. Please protect that which I love and care for and those who enter my life, help me Lord to be more like thyself. Let me grow as those around me have taught. />
  “I believe.”

  It is difficult to conceive of a marriage in which the bridegroom, formal theological difficulties to one side, more closely approached a state of grace.

  At 1:15 the justice of the peace hadn’t even arrived. Danny and Christopher (Buckley), dressed in white ducks, blazers, and gray silk ties, and looking like college freshmen at a fraternity induction, came into Danny’s living room where the Christopher Littles, Pat, and I were having a glass of wine, waiting for the ceremony to begin. What to do? How to get a justice of the peace at one in the afternoon of the Fourth of July! I called the home number of an old friend, member of a large law firm. He wasn’t there, but his wife was, and she gave me the names of two of her husband’s partners who were, she thought, also justices of the peace. The first one was indeed at home, mowing the lawn. Twenty minutes later he was with us, in full regalia. While the guests were being assembled he chatted. “I’ve been an AA for thirty-three years. But I keep up my license as J/P, want to know why? Under Connecticut law a J/P can lock up a drunk for thirty-six hours, no questions asked. I’m telling you, I use that power every now and again—maybe once a year—and I sometimes prevent real damage, wife beatings, suicide, maybe even murders. Yup.” We were advised that the guests were ready. It was 2 P.M.—at which moment the original justice of the peace drove in, utterly indignant at a substitute’s having been retained; and completely soused. I turned to Number Two and told him he had a splendid opportunity to use his powers on Number One; but, in the event, they just exchanged a fraternal wave. The latecomer slunk away. Christopher B. had, protectively, sheltered Danny from the hugger-mugger. Danny was by this time properly nervous. He and Gloria exchanged their vows in the midday sun demurely, perfunctorily, rendering quite conventional their passion—as if Romeo and Juliet had grunted out their consent to live as man and wife. After a toast to the bride and groom, the Littles walked back with Pat and me to our house. I felt that our presence, as survivors of that crossing on the Sealestial, was somehow obtrusive. Danny’s party lasted until after midnight.

  9

  Before recounting my great discovery in respect of star sights, I owe an explanation of the Plath celestial computer. In Airborne, when I got around to explaining celestial navigation, or rather to explaining how to navigate celestially (a very different enterprise), I warned that the reader might wish to skip the chapter I was embarking on. What follows here is less technical, and I should think it likely to hold the interest even of someone who never intends to come closer to navigation than to call the ship’s bridge and ask where we are. However, this particular chapter does indeed end—on page 169.

  As owner of a Hewlett-Packard 97 I concluded that progress had ended in putting computer technology at the service of the celestial navigator. I was wrong. Along came Plath, and one is dizzy with the wonder of it all. Before I forget, I should add that the HP-97 (a generation back from the HP-41C described above) has two features, one of which Plath doesn’t even try to imitate, the second of which it does, with minimal success. The HP-97 gives you a printout of your calculations. This is marvelous to have for three reasons. The first is that people like me make mistakes in actually punching in the numbers, and the result can be—and this is fortunate—chaotic. You may forget, for instance, to push the minus sign (indicating which hemisphere you are in) and the computer will humorlessly advise you that you are 10,803 miles away from your Assumed Position, on an azimuth of 272 degrees. What on earth did you do wrong? Clearly it was egregious. Did you poke the wrong year? Wrong month? You scan the little piece of paper, and in instants the mistake screams out at you; and you do it again, right. The second advantage of the printout is that you can detach it from the roll, and Scotch-tape or clip it to the log, a vivid aide-mémoire. One of HP-97’s programs permits you to request a fresh azimuth to your destination at any longitudinal increment. I felt especially importunate one spring evening in 1979, pulling out of Madeira (Latitude 32-45N, Longitude 17-00W) aboard the Royal Viking Sky, and so I commanded my HP to give me a great circle course to our destination in Miami (Latitude 25-45N, Longitude 80-15W, distance 3,289.9 miles), indicating the distance traveled between every degree of longitude, and the new heading on reaching that longitude. I sat back in a pharaonic trance as the HP chugged out my pyramid—seventy-two inches of detailed instructions and data. I arrived at the captain’s dinner looking like a ticker-tape parade, and presented the captain with it. He told me laconically that the Sky was not taking the great circle route to Miami, it would be “warmer zee ozzer way.” The third reason for the printout is that it’s fun.

  The Navicomp, as I say, attempts no printout, and is therefore one third the size of the large HP (the HP-67 has no printout but is otherwise identical to the 97). It does give you battery life, but here Plath isn’t even in a league with Hewlett-Packard. HPs can run for three hours from a rechargeable battery pack. If you set out on a long journey without shipboard current for recharging, you can take along, for a few dollars, a half-dozen precharged battery packs.

  By contrast the Navicomp is wedded to what is most usefully called an “iron lung.” This is a desk case which must always be connected to your power supply. It is designed to accept 220V, 110V, or 12V; it can be adapted to other voltages. The drain is about half an amp—not much, and it is surprising under the circumstances how hot it gets. Now you can remove the computer from the lung, and indeed you are expected to do so when you take it up on deck. But if you do not return it to its iron lung within about fifty minutes, it asphyxiates. Everything you have stored in it is wiped out. To be sure, every time you turn off the HP-97 you also wipe out its memory (not so the HP-41C). But the memory of the Navicomp—brace yourself—includes:

  A chronometer. Yes, and the day, the month, and the year. Keep it in its iron lung, or return it after not more than a forty-five-minute absence, and it will tick away the seconds, the hours, the days, the months, the years (even allowing for leap years) until New Year’s Eve, 2050. However, you will in fact want to reset it—the work of a half minute—in order to correct the chronometer from time to time. (Plath guarantees the accuracy up to a quarter of a second per day, which means a possible error of eight seconds per month.) Moreover, if you move about a lot or change sextants, you will want to adjust for height of eye or for index error, both of which adjustments are also easy. But the wonders have merely begun.

  Let us assume that you are going to take sights with a sextant whose index error is —1.5. And that you will take sights from ten feet above the water. You enter these givens. Then, with the aid of a radio or a chronometer or a telephone number (in New York, 936-1616), you get the exact time. You program this into the Navicomp. Then you enter the month, the day, and the year.

  You have made four entries—and you have done two thirds of your work. That two thirds you never have to do again, if you are on the same vessel, using the same sextant, unless you are adjusting your chronometer.

  All you now need is: your Assumed Position, and then your Sextant Altitude. The Navicomp gurgles a few seconds and gives you an Intercept (indicating Toward or Away) and an Azimuth. You have your Line of Position (LOP).

  Moreover, there is a rubber connector, about four feet long, which plugs into the Navicomp. At the other end is a rubber-encased button. When you have the heavenly body just where you want it, you push the button with the same hand that is calibrating the sextant mirror, and the exact time of the sight is recorded in the computer. You have then only the sextant angle to punch in.

  That isn’t all. You have just shot, let us say, the sun, an hour before sunset. The new moon is clearly visible, so you punch in the key for “Moon (lower limb)” which is 102. You look up at the moon and when it is nicely situated on the horizon you depress the button again, and you have recorded the second, minute, hour, day, month, year. You punch in your altitude. You receive the Intercept and the Azimuth for the Moon. Do you go now and plot the two LOPs for a fix? That’s for the proles. You merely pu
sh “D” and in a few seconds the Navicomp flashes out at you your latitude and your longitude.

  Suppose that you are shooting stars. The above also applies. If you shoot a third star, the Navicomp will give you a latitude and longitude based on the last two stars you entered. You like the third star and the first star? Repeat the time of the first star and its sextant angle, and you will get latitude and longitude based on the third and first star—ad infinitum.

  You have fifty-eight stars to choose from, two planets (Mars and Venus), lower and upper limbs for the sun and for the moon. I asked Plath (via its genial general manager Donald Gilluley of the North American Division in College Park, Maryland) why they didn’t give us Jupiter and Saturn, to which the answer is that when the computer was developed, the relatively eccentric elliptical patterns of those two planets hadn’t been programmed beyond the year 2030, and the Germans wanted to produce a machine that would take us uniformly right up to the year 2050, would you believe it! I would settle for a foreign policy that would take us to the year 2000. Anyway it’s a pity, since they are very bright planets, always in the way. The moon’s pattern is by far the most idiosyncratic, but of course you cannot have a navigational computer without cracking the moon, so the software for it was developed. You have to make do without Jupiter and Saturn (Mercury is too dim to make the effort worthwhile).

  In addition to LOPs and fixes, the Navicomp will give you Latitude by Polaris, Geographical Positions of the Celestial Bodies, Great Circle Distances and Directions, Local Time, and Greenwich Mean Time. As you would expect, Navicomp will act as a conventional calculator, providing the usual services—mathematical, geometrical, and trigonometric.