The summer of my thirteenth year was my last in California before swapping baggies and tie dye for jackets and school ties back east. I was determined to make the most of it. My diving friend Dave Thompson was a forty-something wiry leprechaun with a boat that just barely managed to stay in its preferred orientation, that is, on top of the water. Nearly every weekday that summer I helped Dave paint houses to earn money for the fuel his boat needed to make it to Catalina on the weekends where we would dive. Other diving friends of mine often came along.

On one such weekend the boat’s engine sprang an oil leak after our morning dive and a school friend and I had nothing to do while Dave scoured the island for a part. We decided to throw on our tanks and swim around Avalon harbor to see what kinds of junk lay on the bottom beneath the boats at anchor. Nothing unexpected. Cans and bottles, the occasional folding beach chair, a bicycle, a rotted-out dinghy, some fishing tackle. It wasn’t that interesting and the excursion was made a little less pleasant by a two-foot leopard shark that wouldn’t leave us alone. They had a reputation for being curious and taking an occasional nip, just to see if something was worth eating. I always carried a spear gun in those days, and I usually ate what I speared. That day, the leopard shark was getting a bit too frisky, so I speared it.

I had no idea how many other sharks might be around but now I had a bleeding dead shark to deal with. With no desire to eat it, I swam to the surface to see where the closest point of land was so I could dump the carcass. I came up next to a large white powerboat and there was a man in bathing trunks and a terry-cloth shirt leaning over the railing, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He said, “I want to thank you for getting rid of that shark. It’s been swimming around under the boat all morning and I’ve had to keep my grandkids out of the water.” I pulled up my mask to look at him and said, “No problem!” Only then did I realize it was John Wayne. He said, “Well, come on up and have some lunch.”

I can’t remember what we talked about. I was so overwhelmed by sitting aboard the Wild Goose talking to the screen legend that the mere fact of it dominates my memory.

I saw him one more time, eight years later, in January of 1974 when the Hasty Pudding club invited him to Harvard to receive an award. A staunch conservative hawk, he arrived in Cambridge riding atop an armored personnel carrier as it slowly made its way up Mass Ave through a dense crowd of students who were both cheering and booing. I was in the crowd and called out to him. He didn’t recognize me. Aw shucks. The procession was followed by an award ceremony and a ‘roast’ by the staff of the Harvard Lampoon on the stage of a packed auditorium. The Duke was good natured about the whole thing and had the perfect retort for every jab, delivered with smiles and laughter.

Many years later, when I was looking to buy just the right boat, The Wild Goose came up for sale, its home port still Avalon, and it was in my price range. I was sorely tempted to buy it. It would have meant a major upheaval of my life; I would have had to relocate to California. I didn’t have the means to bring it east nor was it the right boat for northeastern waters. California was the place it ought to be. But then I found Neeltje and the rest is history. Still, now that I’m back in California, I sometimes fantasize about what it would have been like if I had chosen the Wild Goose.

I was eighteen and living in Amsterdam, but it was time for me to spread my wings and travel around. I had thought about buying an old, beat-up van or car, but I had become enamored of the many very cool-looking motorcycles I had seen in the Netherlands and had set my sights on a magnificent Moto Guzzi. I was walking to the dealership to plop down my money when something happened I hadn’t thought much about. The first heavy rainfall of spring came pouring down upon my head. I did an about face and headed for Garage Kost, the VW dealership my girlfriend’s father had recommended.

I was directed to the occasion – the used car – department, where a neatly groomed young man in a long blue lab coat greeted me and asked how he could be of service. I explained that I was looking for a used car or van and that my funds were extremely limited with an absolute cap of $500.

He frowned and thought for a moment, then said, “Hmm, Mr. Marshall, I am sorry, but I have no cars or vans for $500.”

I nodded knowingly and was about to leave when he said, “But! I do have a very nice car over here for $400!” I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. I said, “You mean for less than I want to spend?” He said, “Well, that is the price of the car. It is a ten-year-old VW 1500 sedan in excellent condition, right over here.”

I looked at the car and is did appear to be in excellent condition, both inside and out. Much roomier than a beetle, it was a model never sold in the U.S. It was the sedan version of the VW station wagon.

I took it for a test drive and was impressed. Back in the dealership I asked, “So, what kind of warranty are you offering?” The young salesman said, “Well, of course, it is not the same as for a new car. The car is ten years old. Everything is covered for the first thirty days. After that, all labor is free for as long as you own the car, but you must pay for the parts.”

Labor is usually the most expensive part of any car repair and VW parts were cheap. I had him repeat the terms a few times before I accepted I was understanding correctly. I bought the car.

I drove that car throughout Britain and Europe; I drove it back and forth from Amsterdam to wherever I was going to be working around the Mediterranean for the next five years, leaving the car in storage in the fall before I returned to the States for college and picking it up again in the spring before heading south, always by a different route. Garage Kost honored the warranty to the letter, for as long as I owned the car. I finally sold it in Greece for the same price I had purchased it, $400.

Many years later, when I was again in Amsterdam and having dinner with my old girlfriend and her husband, she told me about the spectacular funeral of our mutual friend Viktor IV. While we were on the topic of funerals, she also told me that the young used-car salesman from whom I had purchased my first car had risen to become the Director, the European equivalent to CEO, and that when he had died a few years earlier, over two hundred of his former customers has attended his funeral.

And that’s what customer service should be all about.