Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir by Clint Hil (love letters to the dead TXT) 📗

day, when the waters were fairly calm. We were in the back of the boat—both of us in our bathing suits—when she turned to me with a glint in her eyes and said, “Mr. Hill, why don’t you ski with me? It would be a lot of fun.”

I had never been on water skis in my life and when I had seen her water-ski in Greece, it was the first time I’d ever seen this sport in person.

“Mrs. Kennedy, I hate to tell you, but I have never water-skied before.”

She looked at me incredulously. “Oh my goodness, I thought everyone water-skied.”

She was dead serious. I laughed and said, “There wasn’t a lot of water for such activities where I grew up, but after watching you, I really would like to learn.”

At the helm, Jim Bartlett was snickering, trying to pretend not to listen to our conversation. Mrs. Kennedy turned to him and said, “Mr. Bartlett will help you learn, won’t you Mr. Bartlett?”

Grinning, Jim said, “Well, I’m not sure that Clint is teachable, Mrs. Kennedy, but I’ll certainly give it a try.”

With that I became the student and Jim Bartlett became the instructor. After I was off duty for the day, Jim and I practiced and practiced. My first attempts were disastrous. Mrs. Kennedy made it look so easy, I had thought for sure I’d pop right up out of the water just as she did. When Jim put the boat in gear, however, instead of being pulled upright, I fell forward and ended up holding on to the rope for dear life, being dragged on my stomach, as the salt water hit my face like a fire hose. My feet came out of the skis, and when I finally let go of the rope, it was all I could do to tread water before Jim came around to pick me up. I wasn’t about to give up so I tried it again and again, but still I was unable to get up on the water and glide along like I’d seen Mrs. Kennedy do—and she did it on one ski. It was humiliating. Fortunately, Mrs. Kennedy was not a witness to my learning experience.

Jim had been patient for a long while, starting the boat, then stopping and coming back around when I let go of the rope and slapped down in the water, my arms flailing as I tried to remain afloat, with the skis feeling like awkward, heavy appendages. Finally, his frustration started to show.

“Clint, damn it! Keep the tips of the skis above the waterline when you start, or you’re going straight to the bottom.”

Somehow, something finally clicked. It was a great moment when I finally got the gist of it, popped up out of the water, with my two skis gliding along behind the jet boat.

“Way to go, Clint!” Jim yelled from the boat.

“Yee ha!” I yelled as I edged in my skis and cut across the wake, the speed picking up dramatically as Jim turned the boat. I loved the feel of the wind on my face, the adrenaline pumping through my body as we sped around the cove. It was thrilling. I couldn’t stop smiling. Now I understood why Mrs. Kennedy enjoyed it so much. It was just plain fun.

The next time we went out, I attempted to ski on one ski. I assumed that since I’d mastered two skis, getting up on one would be no problem. Wrong again. Poor Jim Bartlett. He was so patient with me, working overtime trying to teach a Secret Service agent to water-ski. I finally managed to get up on one ski and was able to hold my own.

I tandem skied with Mrs. Kennedy several times, but I was no match for her. I fell far more frequently than she did and I finally told her that, as the person responsible for her protection, I was probably better off staying in the boat. I sure as hell didn’t want to get in a situation where she had to come rescue me.

Every so often Ethel would come and ski with Mrs. Kennedy, and on one occasion the astronaut John Glenn skied in tandem with her, as the president—and the press—watched with delight. But usually, when we were water-skiing in Hyannis Port, it was just Jim, Mrs. Kennedy, and me.

During the weekdays when the president was in Washington, Mrs. Kennedy spent a considerable amount of time with Ambassador Kennedy, the president’s father, who was then seventy-two years old. Joseph P. Kennedy had been the U.S. ambassador to Great Britain during Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s administration, and while he no longer served in that capacity, as is customary, he was still referred to as “Ambassador.” He was a jovial man, with a great smile, and while he had plenty of enemies, he and Jacqueline Kennedy had a tremendous fondness for each other, a special relationship of mutual respect and admiration. They would spend hours sitting on the big porch of the ambassador’s residence talking and laughing, just the two of them.

On noon Friday, the whole routine changed. For the next forty-eight hours, activity on the compound was at its maximum. Almost like clockwork, President Kennedy would arrive at Otis Air Force Base on Air Force One. From there he would transfer to an Army or Marine helicopter—military green with a white top denoting it was a presidential chopper—and fly to Hyannis Port, landing in the front yard of Ambassador Kennedy’s residence.

The helicopter arrival was a huge event for the children. What a thrill to have a helicopter land at Grandpa’s house! They also knew what would happen next. The kids would all come running when they heard the distinctive sound of the rotors getting louder and louder overhead. We would have a golf cart waiting in the driveway. As soon as the chopper touched down, the door would open and the president would bound down the steps. Caroline would be first in line, followed by all her cousins, running