A Voyage to an Island of Memories

Jack Smith’s column for Thursday is being republished. Because of a production error, some editions of The Times did not contain the full text of Smith’s column.

I went over to Catalina Island by boat during the recent storm to keep a speaking date with the island Women’s Club.

The Catalina Express sails from San Pedro at 9 a.m., but there was some question whether it would go. San Pedro Channel was wind-swept and choppy.

I fortified myself while waiting with a blueberry strudel. We boarded at 8:45. About 20 passengers filed into the main lounge. Maybe half a dozen went topside. I was the only one in jacket and necktie.

Over his loudspeaker the captain told us it would be a rough ride. We were not to leave our seats. A crewman passed out plastic barf bags. The motors roared and we surged out.

It was an exhilarating trip. The boat pitched and rolled. Great sheets of spray raced back along the windows. At one point I thought I would go to the men’s room, but I couldn’t take two steps. I had been through a 60-knot gale once on the Tasman Sea, but the ship was larger and I was younger.

The Catalina Chamber of Commerce used to advertise, “In all the world no trip like this.” It is still an adventure, and even more so in bad weather. The 22-mile voyage is over before you get bored.

About an hour out, the twin peaks of the island began to emerge in the dark sky. Landfall. It is still a thrill, even on a short voyage. I thought I knew how the watch felt on the Santa Maria nearly 500 years ago.

We disembarked in the rain. There was no one to meet me. I wondered whether I should try to walk into Avalon. Finally, I saw a woman hurrying toward me in the rain.

Jeanne Hill, once a famous ice skater, had come to rescue me in her gray Nissan van. She drove me up the hill to the apartment where my cousin Annabel lives in blissful retirement. Her window overlooks Avalon’s pretty harbor with its herd of white yachts and the famous 12-story Casino, from which the likes of Jan Garber, Benny Goodman and Bob Crosby had once broadcast to the nation. Annabel served chicken salad for me and her daughter, Mary Salisbury, who works at the harbor.

The Women’s Club met in the Yacht Club, which is built on piles in the bay. I talked near a large trophy of a swordfish. There was a good turnout, despite the weather. There isn’t much to do in Avalon.

Annabel had persuaded me to make a reservation on the helicopter, which was to leave at 3:15 p.m., weather permitting. But at 2:30 the helicopter canceled. Too stormy. That left me with the boat, which was to leave at 4:30, if at all.

After the talk Jeanne Hill drove us around Avalon in her van. The town covers only one square mile. Whenever we encountered another vehicle, both drivers waved and yelled hello. Everyone knows everyone else.

There is no mail delivery. Residents pick up their mail at the post office, which, of course, is an important theater for the exchange of news and gossip.

We stopped at the compact sheriff’s office, where Annabel’s son-in-law, Bob Salisbury, works. On Fridays and Saturdays he plays the historic Page pipe organ in the Casino theater before the movies, always ending with “Avalon.”

The town consists mostly of early-century cottages prettied up with pastel paint and flower boxes. Two or three Victorian hotels remain. The town is enclosed on three sides by mountains that shelter the bay. Several mansions cling to the slopes, including the old William Wrigley Jr. place, which is now an inn. The bulk of the island is maintained under a conservancy created by the Wrigley family.

In the early 1970s I visited Catalina one weekend and looked at a hillside house for sale that overlooked the harbor. It was only $30,000. I thought of buying it that very day. But we already had a getaway house in Baja, and I thought, well, what do we need with another one?

I cursed myself for that lost opportunity. The house would undoubtedly be worth at least $300,000 today. And, aside from the value, I would love to have it as a retreat from smog, traffic and crime.

Oh, well, I wasn’t the only fool when it came to Catalina land. In 1853 Don Covarrubias, who held a U.S. patent to the island, sold it for $1,000. A later owner, James Lick, offered the island to Capt. William Howland for $8,000, but Howland thought the price too high and turned it down.

The boat sailed on time. There were only 10 of us in the main lounge. The channel had calmed down. It was a fairly smooth voyage through a brassy sunset. I made it safely to the men’s room and back.