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

conversation, while soft strains of music wafted throughout the yacht. Shortly before midnight, she retired to her stateroom. Alone.

The following morning, as the Christina, escorted by two Turkish gunboats, passed through the Dardanelles into the Sea of Marmara in the area off Istanbul, a launch pulled alongside. An external ladder had been lowered so that I could make the transfer between the two boats. It was a windy day, and there was a steady chop in the water, with such a strong current that the operator of the launch could not keep his craft very close to the bottom of the ladder. The gap between the two vessels was about five feet, and there was no choice but for me to jump.

The launch was bobbing up and down, a constantly moving target. I knew if I jumped and didn’t make it, I would be sucked under the Christina and that would be the end.

I knew Onassis was watching from above, probably with sinister delight. It was my first test.

I gathered all the energy I could and hurled myself across the gap with one giant leap. The Turkish crew grabbed me as I plopped into the launch. It wasn’t graceful, but I made it. All in one piece.

I heard a whistle from above, and there was Paul standing on the top deck, smiling, giving me two thumbs up.

The launch whisked me ashore, where I met with Turkish authorities and the U.S. consul general, Ben Brown. While the Christina cruised through the Bosporus into the Black Sea, across which are Ukraine and Russia, and turned around, I got a quick tour of the area.

A few hours later, Paul Landis accompanied Mrs. Kennedy and a few of the other guests as they came ashore on one of the Christina’s tenders. Consul Brown and I were there to meet them with several cars, and a low-key police escort. Meanwhile, scores of plainclothes and uniformed Turkish police scattered throughout the tourist areas we were about to visit.

As we approached the Blue Mosque, the wailing sound of the muezzin calling the Muslim faithful to prayer sounded from high up in the minaret. Mrs. Kennedy dutifully placed a pair of loose slippers over her shoes, as did everyone else, before entering the mosque. A guide had been arranged to explain the history of the mosque, and Mrs. Kennedy listened with rapt attention as she admired the intricately tiled walls. At one point, she sat cross-legged on the Persian carpeted floor, along with rows and rows of Muslims who were praying, as the guide explained the religious rituals.

Even though the trip was unannounced and so spontaneous I had only found out about it a few hours earlier, word spread fast, and soon there were mobs of people clamoring around our little entourage. I was surprised at the number of American tourists there, and they seemed to be the most aggressive in terms of trying to get close to her. The Turkish police didn’t put up with any nonsense, though, and they did a great job of keeping the people from crowding us too much.

From the Blue Mosque, we went to the museums within the Topkapi Palace and the St. Sophia Byzantine church, the Hagia Sophia. Still more tourists swarmed around us, but Mrs. Kennedy largely ignored them, focusing instead on the exquisite pieces in the collections—emeralds and rubies the size of eggs, a two-foot solid gold elephant, and a throne of solid gold encrusted with emeralds. Needless to say, she was impressed.

The three-hour shore visit was capped off with Turkish coffee in a private reception room, and then we were back to the Christina via the Hacker tenders.

I was relieved this little sojourn was over, but I also realized this was probably how it was going to be wherever we went. Too many people, too little time for preparation, too many of them, too few of us. At least when we were aboard the Christina, there were no unknown outside influences.

We traveled through the night in heavy rain through the Dardanelles, down the coast of Turkey, and anchored off the coast of Lesbos. By morning the storm had passed, and Mrs. Kennedy went for a swim in the crystal clear sea. A short time later we were moving again, this time on the way to Crete, some three hundred miles away. Everybody was in a relaxed mood, and the daylight hours on board were spent sunbathing, reading, and enjoying lively conversation. Mrs. Kennedy spent most of the time chatting with her sister and Princess Irene.

Onassis kept largely to himself in his suite near the bridge. I spent a lot of time on the bridge with the captain, and it seemed that Onassis was constantly on the phone. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but even through the closed door, you could tell that he was rattling off orders to somebody. He would emerge for lunch and then again at cocktail hour, and would intermittently be on the phone barking orders and spending time with his guests, paying no more attention to Mrs. Kennedy than to anyone else.

We arrived in Crete under a cloudless sky and blazing sun. Mrs. Kennedy wanted to tour the Palace of Knossos, so I quickly went ahead to make arrangements. Viewing the frescoes and exploring the ruins of this ancient Minoan civilization, Mrs. Kennedy listened intently to our personal tour guide, and barraged her with questions. It was clear that Mrs. Kennedy knew much about the history already.

About halfway through the cruise, Mrs. Kennedy said she needed to talk to me. We went to the top of the ship near the smokestack for absolute privacy.

“Mr. Hill, I know I told you that King Hassan of Morocco, when he was our guest last spring, had extended an invitation to me to visit Marrakech. I’ve decided to take him up on it. I have already cleared it with the president and we will be going directly there from Athens.”

So now we were adding Morocco to