In 1971, a draft board doctor stamped 4-F on the induction physical form and Robert became a free man because of too short Achilles’ tendons. He escaped the draft but packed his duffle anyway, and split to California. After six months in the San Fernando Valley, he decided it wasn’t the scene he’d expected. He had dreams. Four hours and seven rides later, he arrived at the Port of San Pedro.
At berth 8, a short queue waited to board Catalina Cruises. As he approached the line, all heads turned. Tourists in slacks and sports jackets and Hawaiian print dresses watched him from behind Ray-bans as they shuffled Samsonite suitcases along the pier. He tossed his head to flip long wavy hair from his face. The action set the fringe of his vest swinging and released a whiff of patchouli. He smiled to himself and boarded buoyantly, short Achilles’ no impediment to ascending the boat ramp; bound for Catalina, Island of Romance. When Robert first set foot on the island 20 miles offshore from Los Angeles and 2,653 miles from his family home in Ithaca, Illinois, it embraced him and he never went back to Ithaca.
He felt accepted from his first day on the island when he was hired to wash dishes at the golf course restaurant. From the kitchen he could position himself to catch the eye of a starlette or USC co-ed vacationing with her parents. His Grecian features and stunning hair caught their attention, and from time to time a note with a room number was delivered to him. A succession of women and jobs marked Island time like tides, sometimes shallow and meek, sometimes a stormy surge, but on the whole an undistinguished fluid assemblage.
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