Marie's Day in the Park

Do you have a hero? Someone whom you look up to, perhaps when the proverbial chips are down, when life seems to have dealt you a tough hand? Well, my lovely sister Marie does. And that hero's name is Ellen—Ellen Macarthur. Or, better yet, Dame Ellen as she is now properly known.

Let Old Ken bring those of you States-side up to date here, as I understand that you may not have the same proud tradition of yachting as we do in "ye olde countree." Perhaps y'all back in the States think that yachting (which totally destroys golf, by the way) is just some kind of activity that a bunch of rich people with nothing better to do spend a lot of money on. No, no;we here in Britain know that people on yachts aren't rich swine; they're heroes! And it's especially heroic to dispense with the regular hired help on a yacht and go for a long sail all by yourself, as our Ellen did. Not only does this kind of self-sacrifice raise you into the glistening firmament of British cultural heroes—right there alongside Tony Blair, Wayne Rooney and dancing sensation Bez—but it can even separate you permanently from the great unwashed, should the Queen herself be tempted to introduce you into the peerage. Congratulations Ellen!

So, on a cold, grey afternoon not so long ago, Marie and I made our way down to that great center of English maritime history, Greenwich. There, beneath the prodigious historical shadow of the famous Cutty Sark, Dame Ellen disembarked from her well-traveled yacht and thrilled the crowd with a fascinating account of how she had entertained celebrities, prepared peacock-liver pâté and managed a rigorous fitness regiment while circumnavigating the globe. Marie, always eager for a little lime-light, tried her best to catch Dame Ellen's eye. But, as you can see from the jubilant faces of the rapt audience, Ellen was too busy working the crowd like a master magician; Marie and I were certainly worked up into quite a frenzy.



To cool things down a bit (but only a bit), Marie and I made our way down to the waterfront itself, where Ellen's boat lay at moor. Marie remarked that it seemed smaller than she had expected. We reminisced a bit about our childhood on our own humble craft. I mused a bit on where Dame Ellen must have housed the orchestra for her fancy-dress ball. Canary Wharf, that majestic home of commerce, smiled down on us from a distance. By the time we got home, Marie was ready for a nap—she was plum-tuckered out after all that excitement.