It was 2020, when we were all still held in the depths of Covid, that I first heard his name. The words Grif Blackstone fell off my friend Sarah’s lips, and I was immediately intrigued. I had never heard the name Grif before, a name that sounded memorable, impactful, and distinctive. Mr. Grif Blackstone seemed like a movie star’s stage name, or a famous author’s pen name. Some people fall in love at first sight; I suppose you could say I fell in love at first sound.
“Do you want to meet him?” Sarah’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Sure!” I agreed enthusiastically. Sarah had recently accepted the position of Mr. Grif’s personal assistant, a coveted job, especially as the world was still shuttered. She would assist with his marine-focused marketing agency, the one industry that kept afloat during the pandemic.
Mr. Grif’s allure quickly deepened as I discovered more about him. Through Sarah, I learned that he lived on a boat in a marina filled with yachts and megayachts. I’d always been fascinated by people who adopted an unconventional lifestyle, and living on a boat certainly fit that criteria. I’d never wanted to be boxed in by four walls, two and a half kids, and a white picket fence. Living on a boat sounded like freedom. And an adventure. It sounded like the ultimate shedding of society’s suffocating conventions, while still embracing luxury and comfort.
“Is he single?” I asked Sarah with a laugh. “Yes, very.”
The two of us, plus a handful of other friends, headed to Marina Bay Yachting Center the following Sunday. Living in South Florida for the past six years, I had been on boat rides several times, so I knew the drill. I wore my turquoise blue bikini with silver hardware beneath a bright floral coverup that was just a tad too low-cut. Wire-rimmed Ray-Bans and Michael Kors flip-flops completed my look. I packed a straw hat to keep out the sun, which was still strong in early fall. And I brought a cheap bottle of Prosecco, which would be gone within the first hour of the boat ride. I was ready to meet Mr. Grif.
We rolled up to the marina in my friend Jacob’s red Dodge Charger. We found a parking spot, grabbed our stuff, and walked down the dock. It was a beautiful day, hot and humid already at eleven in the morning. Gleaming white yachts lined the dock. The sun reflected off their white fiberglass, creating sparkles that danced on the water’s surface. It seemed like the sun was ushering us into a magical, new, watery realm, as we stepped aboard Mr. Grif’s glistening yacht, a forty-seven-foot Sea Ray named AgenSea.
I don’t recall the exact particulars of when I first laid eyes on Grif – I’m sure I was too self-consciously caught up in looking “cute,” despite excessively sweating through my coverup. Grif had warm brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he laughed. He had surprisingly thick lips that parted to reveal an infectious smile. And he had brawny arms, tanned dark from the sun and salt. A yacht captain through and through.
“So how do you know my new assistant?” Grif asked me from behind the wheel of the boat. I sat perched in my blue bikini in the plush, white leather seats of the boat’s flybridge, perfectly positioned adjacent to the captain’s chair. As we talked, Grif had a directness and nonchalant confidence that I liked. Hundreds of times he had cruised the New River, a naturally formed waterway that wound through downtown Fort Lauderdale, to the man-made Intracoastal, and that then merged with the salty ocean beyond. With one foot casually propped on the helm, Grif pointed out the sights to us along the river, like a proud papa entertaining his rowdy kids. I popped out of my seat to refill my cup of Prosecco, and to not appear quite so infatuated with Grif’s every word.
We reached our destination about an hour later and dropped anchor at South Lake. This body of water was not a lake in the traditional sense. Instead, it was a brackish widening of the Intracoastal that led to a sinuous network of canals. Unlike the popular local sandbar hotspot, South Lake was deep enough to fit yachts of Grif’s size.
After checking the anchor, Grif walked back to the stern and broke out the water floats and inflatables for his now tipsy passengers. I jumped at the chance to take out one of his paddleboards. With my gym closed for going on seven months now, I had to get a little more creative with my fitness, and outdoor paddleboarding was one of my substitute pursuits. Before setting off, I doused myself with SPF fifty sunscreen, determined not to burn my ridiculously pale skin. “I can apply it on your back,” Grif volunteered. I stood before him with my arms spread, as tiny goosebumps appeared on my skin despite the heat. The chemistry between us was palpable. Oh! The captain likes me! I thought to myself as I hurriedly dove onto the board and paddled away, all hot and flustered.
When recounting this tale, this is the part where Grif says that his feelings for me became apparent to himself. Unbeknownst to me, for thirty minutes straight, Grif anxiously watched me paddle around South Lake. He wanted to confirm that I was still standing upright, while I teetered in and out of the other anchored boats on my paddleboard. After what felt like an eternity, I angled the paddleboard back to AgenSea, and Grif breathed a sigh of relief as he helped me get back aboard. “Phew! What a workout!” I passionately exclaimed, oblivious that I had put Grif in a state of extreme duress for the past half hour.
The rest of the day was a haze of sunshine, salt, and laughter, a perfect South Florida Sunday. Back at the dock, no one wanted the party to end, and an impromptu late-night dance celebration ensued on the boat, as we all shared swigs of Kraken spiced rum. By then, Grif was mesmerized by my siren song, and I was already caught under the spell of my captain’s charisma.
After our mythic boat ride, a few days later I learned that Grif’s real name was not Grif. As Oscar Wilde wrote, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” His first name was really George, a stuffy, outdated name that did not suit him whatsoever. My lips trembled as I braced for the impact of this terrible news. And then he told me the truth – that Grif was a nickname for Vandergrift. His full name was Mr. George Vandergrift Blackstone III. My heart leapt with joy again! Forget the movie star stage name – I now had English royalty between my bedsheets! A very regal name indeed! I never expected that five years later I’d become Mrs. George Vandergrift Blackstone III, or better known as Mrs. Grif Blackstone.
love, Lexy
