How Myths Get Made

The very good thing about having friends who like to hear your stories is that they tend to remember them even when you don’t. Recently at our needleworkers’ group my friend Rebecca said, “Tell them the Blonde in the White Convertible story.” She had to remind me what it was but, when I told it, everyone laughed.

I drive a white Sebring convertible. I absolutely love it. I’ve driven convertibles ever since I moved to Gloucester–-they just seem to go together. And, thanks to L’Oreal, I am a blonde. I am also a writer. Writers are interested in a lot of stuff–-that’s part of the deal. From the day I moved to Gloucester I have been fascinated by our working harbor and, in the last couple of years since leaving the corporate world to work here on the island, I spend as much time as I can lapping up the endless fascinations of this town.

The state fish pier is one of my favorite places. I write in my car there early in the morning and I often take a break to go down there to eat my lunch and soak up the sunshine. I love to watch the boats coming and going, unloading and re-outfitting. The entire business of maritime industry intrigues me.

I write a lot about working men. Doctors and lawyers and corporate-types don’t really intrigue me and besides enough people write about them. I grew up in logging country among carpenters and gunsmiths and stone masons so I know a lot about what they do. Fishing is new to me. When the boats first come in loaded down with their catch the entire process–-from docking the boat to hosing it down–-is interesting to watch. I spend a lot of time doing it.

Last summer I was invited to an outdoor party. I pulled up and parked near where the women were gathered and joined them. A couple hours in to the festivities I was introduced to a nice woman who seemed very interested in me. After we had been chatting awhile she said, “Do you spend time down at the fish pier?” I admitted I did. She then proceeded to tell me that her husband worked on the big herring boats I often see docked there unloading their catch.

“The guys all talk about you,” she told me. “They see you down there watching the boats and studying them but they say you never talk to anyone.”

I told her the truth, I’m a writer and several of the stories I am working on have a fishing or maritime setting. I am always trying to learn more about how that business works and what the men do.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s what Davya (our hostess) told me but the men think there’s more to it. They think you are looking for someone.”

“Really???” I loved that. “You mean like The French Lieutenant’s Woman? They think I’m searching for a lost love.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s what they think. They keep trying to figure it out. They say that when they say hello to you, you say hello back but then keep going so it’s not like you’re a hooker or anything.”

Whew, I thought. That’s good.

But the more I thought about it the more amusing I found it. The guys were just as quietly interested in me as I was in them. It also explained something that had happened a year earlier.

I met Mark through a mutual friend who gave him my phone number and suggested he call me about our writing group. As a Gloucester fisherman, Mark is more than a little acquainted with the goings on at the fish pier. Often when I was down there he would show up and we sat and talked–-sometimes for hours. Everyone there knows him and they exchange greetings. One day as we were gabbing he noticed several guys studying us as they passed by. He kept giving them that what’s-your-problem-buddy look and then, suddenly, he grinned and stared at me.

“Oh my gosh,” he said (well, actually, what he said was considerably more colorful), “You’re the Blonde in the White Convertible!” He grinned. “No wonder I’m getting the evil eye.”

I didn’t get it at the time but that was before I knew I was a legend. It isn’t easy being the stuff of myths. ;o)

Thanks for reading.