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years. Appointing John was sending a very clear message to their daughter that she needed to change, even if that message would be delivered from the grave.
    So given this background, one can understand why John and Stephanie agreed to look for something they could share together and why they were driving to Portofino in Redondo Beach to see the yacht broker.
    They wanted to rekindle the love they had when they were dating. Back then John, on a whim, would whisk Stephanie away on an adventure to go skiing up in Big Bear, or walk hand-in-hand on the beach in Malibu. After which, they would have a wonderful steak and lobster dinner at Moonshadows, followed by hours of love-making.
    But that was then.
    This was now.
    They had been married for over ten years and the blush was off the rose, so to speak, and now they didn’t talk unless it was absolutely necessary. John was absorbed in his work at the law firm. To avoid her, he often either did not come home or came home so late she was asleep. On several occasions, he had to hear her complain that his work schedule caused her to cry herself to sleep. (“Boo hoo,” he thought when she was berating him.)
    This was their last chance to survive as a couple.
    Either they would do this or their marriage would end.
    They pulled their car up in front of the Pacific Mystic yacht brokerage and got out of the car. It was a modest place; with a small neon sign in the window with only two words “Yacht Sales” flickering in sea-blue neon. The building was termite-ridden and run-down, clearly not a place you’d expect to purchase a $500,000 hole in the water.
    With only two or three sales agents who worked part-time, it was more like a front for someone to launder money than a real business, especially with the economy the way it was. But the owner, John MacTavish, didn't really care. He had made his money in the 80’s. He now thought of the brokerage as a tax write-off rather than a source of income and a place where he could hang out and meet interesting people until he died. Mac was 72, and at the rate of his alcohol consumption, that wouldn’t be long.
    Mac wasn’t a good businessperson, but he still made enough money to keep the brokerage afloat even though the Portofino had raised his rent over 80% in the previous 5 years. He also had enough to live on as a result of an insurance settlement he received when a drunk driver ran his wife off the road and killed her in early 1992. The $5 million life insurance settlement would have allowed him not to work another day in his life, but he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he didn’t work so he continued.
    Stephanie and John walked up to the Portofino Inn, which stood out on a spit of land that stuck out at the end of the Redondo Beach Harbor.  They approached the small office and notice a wall near the office had an enclosed bulletin board. In it were several Xerox pictures of boats for sale. The Xerox images were curled and faded by exposure to the mid-day sun. That should have been their first clue. It looked like a bulletin board in an old folks home with cleverly worded “for sale” items strewn about hanging on rusted thumbtacks.
    "Are you sure you really want to do this John?" Stephanie asked looking at the bulletin board. She was having second thoughts.
    "Absolutely," John replied as he looked at the listings of the boats being offered for sale.
    “But you don’t have any boating experience. Neither do I.” Stephanie argued.
    “It really doesn't matter. Sailing, motoring, -- what's the difference? We would be out on the ocean. We would be alone. We would get a chance to reconnect. We would have to depend upon each another. You could learn to cook. I could learn to…. I don't know, maybe even fish. I catch the fish. You prepare it.”
    “But you don't even like fish.”
    “I know, but maybe I could learn how to like it. It’s supposed to be better than red meat, and I could probably stand to lose a few pounds.