Weatherbird

“How cruelly the world needs the beauty of his mind,” lamented Gerald at his funeral. Only thirty people showed up in the rain at his graveside on December 27. Zelda was not allowed to attend, and Scott was also denied a Catholic burial as the Church considered his books immoral. Fitzgerald had done some silly things in his life, but who with his great talent hadn’t? Hemingway got it right when he told Sara Murphy: “Poor Scott, no one could ever help him but you and Gerald did more than anyone.” I guess we take death more seriously today, and when cheap old hacks die their funerals are oversubscribed.

But back to Weatherbird and happier times. As I walk her deck I can see Scott drunkenly moaning that Sara is being beastly to him because she’s focusing on Hemingway and his Spanish tales while Gerald is asking him to stop being childish.

Which brings me to my own child, John Taki, and the loss of his pointer dog Reas that has left us all bereft. J. T. asked us to keep Reas in Gstaad while he went bicycle racing in Spain, and Reas joined our other two dogs running around the Bernese hills. Reas had been with my boy all his adult life, from San Diego to Brooklyn to Rome and now Paris. She would sneak away down to the Palace hotel where the cooks would give her goodies and Andrea the concierge would then ring us and tell us she was waiting to be picked up in the lobby. Two weeks ago, Reas disappeared—something we were used to—but this time I had a terrible premonition about it. After looking for her for the best part of the day a gamekeeper found her at dawn. She had fallen in a crevasse and broken her neck. We brought her ashes on Weatherbird to J. T. and had a drink in her memory along with that of all the other greats who have sailed onboard this wonderful classic, starting with Papa. I hope something of theirs rubs off on me, but I’m afraid it will only be the alcohol consumption.