Chapter 9

"Guess what I've got!" my princess asked, holding the envelope in front of her.

Oh, ho, game time!

"I don't know, is it bigger than a breadbox?" I asked with a grin.

"Ah ... yes!" she answered, her grin getting bigger.

"Hmmm, bigger than the house?"

A nod and an impatient little bounce that caused all sorts of interesting secondary motions in her glorious torso.

"I know ... a pair of tickets to some exotic, far away place!" A stab in the dark, I really had no idea, but I could see Beth getting impatient with my answers.

"How did you know?" she pouted.

"Huh? You mean that's what you've got?"

She nodded, handing me the envelope. I opened it and found a pair of tickets to the Bahamas. But why?

"We're going back to the Bahamas?" That got me a bigger nod and a sun-rivaling smile.

"Are we going to stay with Bob and Sue?"

That earned a head shake.

"Then where?" This was getting old.

"Oh, a little place my folks bought."

"MATT'S?!" Could it be?

Beth's vigorous nod got those secondary motions going again and I almost forgot about her revelation. Almost.

"Your folks bought Matt's place? Oh, sure. Next you're going to try to convince me they bought his boat too."

"No, unfortunately, he sold it to someone else." Her smile turned into a mock pout as she grabbed the envelope from me and rolled to the far side of the bed. "My folks buying his place was supposed to be big news! Maybe I'll just have to go without you!" she said, waving the prize in front of me.

With a growl, I pounced on her. As I tried to snatch the envelope back I managed only to knock it out of her hand. As it flew across the bed, another ticket folder fell out. What was this?

"Is somebody going with us?"

Before I could grab the envelope and look Beth was off the bed, prize in hand, and an absolutely evil grin on her face.

"Yeah, and I'm not going to tell you who!"

"Not our parents, I hope." What a damper that would put on things. Beth just shook her head.

"Cindy and Greg?" Now that could be fun, but another negative shake.

Who else would she invite? Wait, I knew! "Val and Brad."

"Not even close," my lady taunted.

Who else was there?

No. Couldn't be. "Gail and my brother?"

"Bingo!" she chortled.

"Yeah, but they're too young! They're just kids!"

"Only a year younger than we were our first time! And they'll have us as chaperones."

Only a year? I guess the Pest was growing up. But Beth and I as chaperones? Maybe the Pest wasn't too young to enjoy the island, but I was definitely too young to chaperone anybody. Hell, with the two of us alone, I couldn't even chaperone myself!

Her fun over for the evening, Beth put the envelope on the dresser and joined me in our traditional spoon. As I lay there, I thought about how I'd feel sharing Paradise with my brother. Of course, there was always the compensation of seeing Gail in a skimpy bikini—or less. Hmmm...

"Cut that out, you dirty old man!" was accompanied by a mild elbow.

"I'm not sure I can do that without some help." Hint, hint.

"Oh, I suppose, if I must, otherwise I'll never get any sleep," she said as she rolled over and straddled me.

The next afternoon I showed Dave one of my adapters.

"Tommy, this is almost perfect! Um ... is there any way to make it so I could move the camera up and down but have it stay where I put it? Kind of like a counterweight or something?"

"You mean something between free-fall and locked?"

"Yeah. Can you do something like that?"

"Well ... Hmmm ... I suppose some kind of a felt washer or something to add some friction to the movement. Or maybe a spring to offset some of the weight?"

"Yeah, that would work."

"Let me think about that for a while and I'll see what I can come up with."

"Great! I'll bet some of the other kids in the Video program would be interested, too!"

Looked like it was time to do some experimenting. And, I reminded myself, to ask Beth for help!

When she got home from school I described what Dave wanted. "We talked about washers and springs, Dave even thought of a counterweight, but that would mean extending the arm past the mount. I'd have to re-design the whole thing and I'm not sure I want to go that far."

"Hmmm. Well, regular springs won't work very well. The problem is the tension changes so much as they stretch. They make some exotic designs that overcome that, but Dad calls something like that using a thousand dollar fix for a five dollar problem. Maybe a Belleville spring would work..." She butted me off my chair, grabbed my pencil and a fresh piece of paper, and started drawing.

I could always tell when my princess was in her inventing mode—the rest of the world went away and her speech turned into mumbles with an occasional chunk of invective tossed in. I'd learned a long time ago not to interrupt her—it messed with her concentration and got me nasty looks.

Eventually she put down her pencil and looked at me. "Tommy, how about this. In place of the single Teflon washer on the locking pivot, add another washer with a Belleville between them. That should work better than the felt washer you mentioned."

I looked at her drawing. The spring she was talking about looked like a cone-shaped washer. I'd never heard of them, but if Beth thought they'd do the job...

"Okay, where do we get them?"

"Well ... let's run over to the shop. I'll bet Bud has some hidden away."

"Bellevilles, eh? Yeah, I might have some. Let me go look," Chuck and Bev's foreman said as he strolled back to his inner sanctum. I figured whatever his little back room was, it had to be something magical—larger on the inside than the outside. Maybe it was really a TARDIS, or perhaps a magician's hat—just reach in and pull out whatever you needed. Whatever it was, he came back a few minutes later with a handful of what looked like washers, but they were sort of like short cones, too.

"I've got these, but for what you're trying to do, I think a stamped flat disc spring would work better." He held up his other hand with another assortment of wavy washer-like things. Beth pawed through what he'd brought until she found the perfect choice.

"This ought to work, even better than my idea. Thanks, Bud! I knew you'd have the answer!" Beth exclaimed as she hugged her folks' foreman. I'd bet Bud would wear the resulting grin for the rest of the day.

"All right. Now we've got the parts. How do we put it all together?" I asked.

Five minutes later Beth had taken off the locking handle, put the special washer/spring and another Teflon washer between the two aluminum pieces and put the handle back on.

"Give it a try," she said with a grin. I took the adapter and, sure enough, depending on how much you tightened the handle it was possible to vary the tension from solidly locked to totally free—and everywhere in between. It worked!

"Beautiful!" I said as I gave my lady a hug. "This is exactly what Dave wanted. You're a genius!" I loved her little blush when someone praised her.

The next day I showed Dave Beth's fix.

"Tommy, that's perfect! Um, can I buy that one?"

"Sure, but I want to keep this one until later this week. I need to make up another one so I'll have a sample for the guys who build these for me. Will that work for you?"

"You bet! Wait until the other guys see this. You better make up a bunch!"

After my classes I drove to the photo shop to talk to Joe about my, er, Beth's, modification.

"Tommy, I've been meaning to talk to you about just that. A couple of guys have been in here and had done kind of the same thing, except they just cut some felt to fit in there."

"Great minds, I guess. That was my first thought, too, but Beth came up with the spring washer idea instead. Now, should I do this mod to all of the next batch, or offer two versions?"

"I'd make them all this way. It's a nice advertizing gimmick and that way you don't have to keep up with an extra product."

"And you wouldn't have to carry both of them, either," I kidded him.

"Well, yeah, there's that, too," he chuckled.

"Good enough. I'll change my drawings for the next run, but first I'll have to find someone who carries the springs!"

"What do you think of changing the twenty-five or so we've got left in the back room?" Joe asked.

"I suppose we might as well change them out, too."

"Great, send me some of the springs and washers and I'll take care of it."

I found a supplier who carried the springs and placed an order for enough to cover the adapters Joe had in stock and at least enough extra for the next run. At thirty cents each, I figured I could splurge.

One more thing off my before-we-go list. Woops! Almost forgot to e-mail Jim Wilson to modify my web page to include the upgrade.

The next morning I walked into Photography and spent the hour wishing it was over. Oh, not because I felt bored or that I'd learned everything already. It was because now that I knew we were going back to the island—our island!—I wanted to get there!

Finally the hour was over. As everyone made the usual scramble for the door, Mr. Nordstrom stopped me.

"Hey, Tommy, I want to see you."

Oh, oh, now what had I done?

"Look what I've got!" He reached into his case and pulled out a folder. "The Graphic Arts gang finally finished playing. Take a look at these!"

He handed me the folder and when I opened it, I saw the proofs for the Institute's catalog. The first thing that grabbed my eye was my picture of the big sculpture I'd spent so much time on.

"Holy shit, you gave me the cover!"

"Mr. Randahl, by now you should know we do not give anyone anything," a familiar voice intoned behind me. I turned and saw Mr. Grossfeldt standing there with a look of almost paternal pride deforming his face in an unfamiliar way.

"Mr. Randahl—or may I call you Thomas?—your image is on the cover because it earned the right to be there. Now, if you wish to argue with the entire committee..."

"Um, no, sir! I guess it just took me by surprise. I mean, there were a lot of photographs to choose from and I guess I just didn't expect to see mine on the cover."

"Do you feel there was a better choice?"

"Well ... I guess I'm not the best person to make that choice."

"Good. Artists often fall into two schools when thinking of their work—either feel they are the best in the world, or that their work is not worthy of accolade. Many mediocre talents believe too much of the praise they receive and become insufferably smug, refusing to recognize the fact that everyone can improve. The other extreme consists of the group who, although talented, fall into the habit of over-criticizing their work. Either extreme can be a trap. A good artist—and I remember you do not care for the term—recognizes there is always room for improvement, but is honest enough to admit when his work is the best he can produce given the conditions and his current skill level."

"Um, yes, sir. Like I said, I was just surprised to see that picture." I glanced at Mr. Nordstrom and saw a faint grin. Either he'd heard this before, or he agreed with what Mr. Grossfeldt had said.

When Beth got home that afternoon, I guess I was still riding the high Mr. Grossfeldt's comments had given me.

"So when can I see a copy?" she asked when I finally ran down.

"You know, I was so excited with the cover that I never asked when the actual books would come back from the printer. I suppose some time after break, but I really don't know."

I think I managed to get through the rest of the quarter just thinking of that cover. Finally all the classes and tests were done and our bags were packed, such as they were. I mean, when everything we needed fit in a backpack each it didn't take much. Well, a backpack and a camera bag for me.

The night before we were to leave my brother and Gail showed up just in time for dinner. Funny how that worked out. The next morning we loaded our stuff in Beth's Jeep and headed for the airport. I noticed our younger travelling companions had chosen backpacks, too. I had a feeling Beth had had a talk with Gail and clued her into how little we needed to make it through a week in the islands.

Getting through security was the usual hassle, but knowing what was waiting for us at the end of the trip made even getting the Government Grope tolerable.

Our flight landed at Grand Bahama International Airport in the early afternoon, after changing flights in Atlanta. When we'd left the temperature was several degrees below zero, so the seventy-five or so—okay, twenty-four Celsius—that greeted us was almost as welcome as seeing Bob and Sue Webber waiting for us. After Beth and I got hugs from our friends Sue turned to my brother. "You must be Kevin, right?"

Kev just nodded, having a hard time not staring at Sue. The hug that followed had him transfixed. Sue turned and was giving Gail a welcoming hug after her husband had given the girl an island greeting that left her in the same stupefied shape.

Hugs out of the way, we officially introduced Gail and my brother.

"Well, now that everyone knows who's who, let's get to the boat and get out of here!" Bob said. We grabbed our packs and followed the Webbers out of the terminal and to their battered old Vauxhall sitting in a No Parking area.

"I hope you don't mind crowding in the back," Sue chuckled. Kevin and I ended up with our ladies sitting on our laps for the ride to the marina where the Lady Suzanne was waiting.

"Bob," my lady asked, "could we stop and pick up some groceries? I know you keep things pretty well stocked but I want to pick up some fresh fruit and salad fixin's."

"Sure, no problem," he said as he pulled a U-turn.

Once the girls finished their quick shopping trip we continued to the marina.

"Wow," was all Kev could say when he saw the classic Chris-Craft cruiser tied to the dock.

"Climb aboard and let's get this show on the road!" Sue exclaimed, then proceeded to peel out of her shorts and tank top to reveal a skimpy lime green bikini.