What a jerk, I thought, after Clark yelled at me again to pull faster on the sailboat’s lines to keep pace with the changes of the wind as we headed to open water from Marina del Rey. “I’m never going on another date with this guy again!”
But what do I know about sailing? Although I grew up in the Great Lakes region, I’d never sailed before and didn’t realize there are no passengers on a sailboat — only crew. I’d just moved to Los Angeles from Detroit after leaving a first-job stint in Switzerland. Both places were too cold for me, so no wonder L.A. was irresistible. Every January the nationally televised Rose Parade proved that even winters would reliably be 72 degrees and sunny.
L.A. was the place where this Motown gal believed her dreams of new beginnings with happy endings could come true. I met Clark on Venice Beach. And, no, he wasn’t a weightlifter, chainsaw juggler or a magician like the other familiar fixtures on the Venice boardwalk. When he emerged from the ocean surf with his boogie board under his arm and aimed his 1000-watt smile at me watching him from my towel on the sand, I mused, “Oh, yeah, these West Coast boys are alright.”
Our first date after that meet-cute was an afternoon of sailing the next week. Before the rendezvous with Clark at the boathouse, I’d treated myself to a manicure. Big mistake! I soon learned that it’s impossible to tug on the “ropes” of sails with just the tips of my fingers to vainly try to protect my fresh mani. Clark didn’t appreciate the nails; he shouted maneuvering commands that clearly conveyed his priorities were solely pragmatic. After the debacle of our initial outing, Clark reactivated his charm, so I gave him another chance, and we dated again and again. A picnic and concert under the Hollywood Bowl stars. The Pantages Theatre for a Broadway show. Lobster dinner in Puerto Nuevo — a long drive to Mexico, but worth it.
Clark continued to captivate me with his wry observations about the world, his inclination to be a jokester and even the goofy gifts intended to show he was a romantic at heart. I’m sorry to say that the six-pack Valentine’s gift of engine oil for my hemorrhaging VW didn’t quite make the cut. However, roses on my birthday, coinciding with the anniversary of our infamous sailing date and our exchanges of “I love you,” did endear him to me. Two years into our monogamous dating, I wondered where we were headed. I’d never been in a steady relationship that lasted more than six months — until now.
He’d been married before, for less than two years. And yet I was afraid to bring up the topic of marriage in case the answer precipitated one more casualty in my portfolio of failed romances.
Until one Sunday night.
After spending another consecutive weekend with Clark at his place, I was dreading my usual return drive home over the Sepulveda Pass and into the Valley. Somehow the burning need to just know what his intentions might be gave me the courage to pop the question: “Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”
His reply crushed me. “You know I was married once, but that didn’t work out. It hurt to uncouple our lives from our dreams.” He paused. “And now you are my special love. I couldn’t be happier with our relationship, and everything is wonderful just as it is. But … no, I don’t want to marry again.”
I felt dizzy from the visceral ringing in my ears as all I heard over and over was “no.” I don’t remember exactly what either of us said after that, but I was clear about what I wanted: I wanted to be married to him, my best friend. Not now, but someday I wanted to introduce him as more than the man I dated. I couldn’t detach my dreams from the day-to-day connections we had already built. And if I’d never be his wife, then it wasn’t enough.
It was over for me.
I drove mindlessly toward home. I replayed the breakup again and again as West Los Angeles retreated farther and farther away. Somehow I made it safely to the little bungalow I shared with Heather, my rescue cat. I hugged her close, thinking now she would see more of me on the weekends because Clark had been too allergic to cats to stay at my place. Reality hit, hard: He would no longer be part of my life.
Determined to put the weekend behind me, the next morning I prepared for another busy Monday of seeing patients. I walked briskly into the office, but the cheerful dentist I worked for took one look at my face with my eyes puffy from crying and asked, “What happened to you?”
Sniffling, I shared how and why I had broken up with Clark. My boss shrugged and quoted an old saying: “No need to buy the cow when the milk is free.” Gee, thanks for that.
As I was leaving for lunch at home, Dr. Happy Sayings bolted from his office and called out, “You can’t go! Clark is coming over.”
Before I could react, Clark was there, beckoning me outside. As he took me in his arms, my tears started anew. He begged me to stop crying and explained that he had never thought about marrying again until I surprised him by asking if he ever would.
Clark admitted that if being married was what it would take to spend the rest of his life with me, then yes — someday, yes, we would marry. That promise was enough for me, as another year passed without a wedding. When I was accepted into graduate school at UCLA, I retired as a dental hygienist and moved in with Clark. Heather moved in with an allergy-free Englishman in San Pedro, where she lived happily ever after. My happily ever after started soon enough.
My first year as an MBA student was a gold mine of entertainment as I regaled Clark with tales of the hookups between classmates. Later I joked that he couldn’t slip an engagement ring onto my finger fast enough. I also teased him that he had waited until he was certain I landed a good job post-graduation before setting the wedding date. We decided to forgo traditional nuptials in favor of a civil ceremony, splurging instead on an extended celebratory trip in Europe.
That summer my memories of the frosty winter when I’d worked in Switzerland faded with Clark by my side. Everywhere felt warm with bonhomie as the locals wished us an Ausgezeichnete Hochzeitsreise, or Excellent Honeymoon.
From an outdoor terrace in a lakeside Alpine village, we watched catamarans and windsurfers lean into the wind and fly across the water below. Clark held me close and asked if I’d like to go sailing. I just grinned and answered, “No, I don’t think so. … Everything is wonderful, just as it is.”
The author, who lives in Culver City, is still married to the erstwhile sailor, but she now sculls at UCLA’s Marina Aquatics Center. She returned to her alma mater as an executive coach for MBA students at the UCLA Anderson School of Management. She writes a weekly column for them about the ups and downs of careers and leadership. You can find her on LinkedIn at linkedin.com/in/pamschulz.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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