All good things come to an end. Isn’t that the cliche?
After its dizzying ride in the 1980s Vermont Castings ran into financial trouble in the early 1990s. Murray Howell died way too young, so did Don Larriviere, of Air Don fame. The company jet was sold. Duncan Syme was booted out of the company, followed shortly thereafter by anyone else associated with the old company culture.
I found myself with a small severance, a house on a dirt-crossroads, a wife and two sons, and a diehard attachment to the backwoods culture of Central Vermont, the area I had deemed “Beyonder.” If I wanted to keep the Morrises here, I’d have to figure out some form of self-employment.
Writing was not really an option. I had made nothing on “The Book of Heat,” peanuts on “The Great Beer Trek,” and double peanuts on “Beyond Yonder.” Despite my meteoric ascendency in the literary world, if I wanted to maintain the family lifestyle in Vermont, it would have to be as a business consultant.
I hung out my shingle: Stephen Morris, Consultant.
What kind of consultant? Whaddya want? Marketing? Sure. Sales training? Got ya covered! Technical writing? Piece of cake! Cleaning bathrooms? One of my specialties! Famous writer? That would be me!
My first real client was the appropriately-named “Real Goods,” a company that specialized in products for living independently, free of the power grid. They had been a Vermont Castings dealer and were familiar with me from the company’s heydays.
The founder of Real Goods, John Schaeffer, is a good-natured bear of a man with a trademark goatee. On my first visit to the company in Ukiah, California he reminded me that I had once rejected him for a job as a sales representative. He had even kept the rejection letter in which I referred to him as “too entrepreneurial” for the position.
“The biggest favor I ever did for you,” I responded, as statement that that has been validated by John’s success over the years. Most recently, he has started a pickleball camp on the magical homestead he has established on a mountaintop in Hopland, California. As I said … “Too entrepreneurial” to be a sales representative.
I claim no credit for the subsequent success of Real Goods, although I was instrumental in getting the company to articulate and refine its brand identity. As John and I worked closely, albeit separated by a continent, we became closer personally, too, especially as we each had young families that were, more or less, contemporaries. We visited the Schaeffers when the Morrises vacationed in Northern California and the Schaeffers visited the Morrises when they came to New England. We had a lot of fun.
Patrick Morris faces down an iguana.
One Christmas John told me that they were going to spend a week on a remote peninsula in Mexico. It was not far from Puerto Vallarta, but it was isolated and off-the-grid. John, family, and another family were going there between Christmas and New Year’s. Would we be interested in joining them?
It sounded like an exciting opportunity for the Morris family. None of us had been to Mexico and we’d be staying in an open-air tent in a tropical paradise. You bet!
We booked ourselves on a charter leaving on Christmas Day. We would meet up with the Schaeffers at the airport in Puerto Vallarta, and, should anything go wrong we were to ask at the airport for “Jaime,” (“Jim”). What could go wrong?
Here’s a list:
1. The flight could be 12 hours late, arriving at 11 pm.
2. There was no one named “Jaime” at the airport.
3. I spoke no Spanish.
4. This was pre-cellphone. There was no way to contact the Schaeffers. Also, since Jelapa was entirely off-the-grid, there was no way to be in touch with anyone.
5. We had no pesos.
Nonetheless, I was the alpha male, and so I did what alpha males do in times of adversity. I went to the nearest cab driver and said “Hel-l-l-p!” Luckily, he turned out to be a resourceful, trustworthy guy and soon the bedraggled Morrises were checked into a respectable hotel and the boys were watching “The Simpsons” in Spanish on the TV. All was right with the world. I even had information on the once-a-day ferry to Yelapa the next morning.
We showed up at the ferry dock the next morning with a renewed spirit of optimism. That faded instantly, however, as there was a notable absence of passengers and ferry. It turns out that we were on time, but Eastern Standard time, not local time.
The alpha male again launched into action bleating “Hel-l-l-p-p-p” to a cab driver. “I know a guy who will take you to Yelapa,” he said, an despite the growing (and entirely justified) misgivings of my family, I told the driver “Vamos” (“Let’s go.”)
Shortly thereafter, the Morrises and all their luggage were in a wooden skiff powered by an outboard motor that had no housing, heading out to sea. Maybe a half-hour later we were about thirty yards off-shore from a beach that the boatman gestured at and said “Yelapa.”
Ok … but my puzzled countenance perfectly communicated “How the hell are we supposed to get to shore?” Words were unnecessary as he shrugged what I translated as “This is as close as I can get.” I told Laura and the boys that we would be wading ashore.
That’s when Jake’s own alpha male hormones kicked in. Now 14, they had been bubbling near the surface for a few months now, and he screamed at me “You’ve completely lost it, Dad. This is crazy. We’re going back to the city!!”
I did what the alphas do; I jumped in the water with a suitcase over my head. I must say, I got some weird looks from these little brown kids playing on the beach when the dripping white Gringo emerged from the ocean, then turned around to portage another load, then another. Before long the Morrises of Beyonder were safely on the beach, once again, with absolutely no idea of what to do next.
Many adventures ensued, but the highlights were that we wandered on some jungle paths until we eventually came to a place that looked as if … maybe … it was the place we were supposed to be staying. There was no one around to ask. Then again, there wasn’t anyone around to tell us not to make ourselves at home, so we moved in.
But, then, as if someone waved a magic wand, things got better. we wandered back on the path through The Jungle and came across the Schaeffers, returning from the beach. After that it was non-stop fun—the beach, horseback riding, big combined family dinners, pods of dolphins, iguanas, the scorpion.
Oh yes, the scorpion. In our tented palace Laura, Jake, and I slept in beds covered by an insect net. Patrick slept on a couch. One night at bedtime we spotted a scorpion on his blanket about chest high. “Don’t move,” I instructed Patrick, then batted the scorpion off the blanket onto the floor where I cornered him. “Give me something to hit him with,” I said holding out my open hands while I kept the scorpion locked in my sites.” “Give me something— a newspaper, a spatula, a pan …”
Jake handed me a wine bottle.
Somehow, we all survived.