Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

13

Another Summer in Hyannis Port

After the Fourth of July weekend at Camp David, Mrs. Kennedy and the children spent the rest of July 1962 in Hyannis Port, with the president joining the family every weekend. Having a separate residence in Palm Beach away from the hubbub of the ambassador’s house during the winter months had worked out so well that this summer they had rented the home of singer Morton Downey, on Squaw Island, which was just about a mile away from the Kennedy compound. Squaw Island wasn’t really an island, but was connected to Hyannis Port by a narrow beach road that was used only by the small group of residents who lived there. The Downey home was larger than President Kennedy’s own house on the compound, was much more secluded, and with little or no traffic between the two locations, it was ideal.

Lunch on the Marlin or the Honey Fitz was almost a daily routine. But frequently the president would sail the Victura, the twenty-six-foot Wianno Senior sailboat that his parents gave him on his fifteenth birthday. He loved that boat. He could maneuver it with such grace and ease that it was almost like it was an extension of himself.

One day at the end of July, the president and Chuck Spalding were sailing the Victura close to shore, just off the dock from the ambassador’s residence. It was a cool summer day, and both were dressed in chino pants and cardigan sweaters. They were in the midst of a deep conversation and didn’t realize they were coming upon some rocks. Suddenly the boat stopped dead in the water, as it got wedged in between the rocks.

I was in a jetboat nearby, watching the scene unfold, fully expecting the president to get the boat moving again with ease, but the boat wasn’t budging. President Kennedy dropped the mainsail to let the wind out of it, stood up, and turned toward me.

“Hey Clint, can you give us a little help? We seem to be stuck.”

“I’ll be right there, Mr. President,” I said as I jumped into the water.

We were so close to shore that the water was only up to my thighs, so I waded over to the stuck sailboat.

There was a glare on the water such that you couldn’t see the problem from above, so I took a deep breath and went under the boat. Sure enough, the hull was jammed into some boulders.

“Looks like you’re wedged in between two big rocks, Mr. President. Let me see if I can rock the boat to get it moving. You may want to sit down.”

The president laughed and said, “Good idea. But I’m more concerned about the boat than Chuck and myself.”

I placed my feet on top of one of the boulders and squatted with my back against the bottom of the hull.

“Hang on, Mr. President,” I said. “Here we go.”

I began to rock up and down and as the boat started to move, I gave one big thrust upward with my body while simultaneously pushing down with my legs. As I did so, the Victura slid off the rocks, causing my feet to slip down each side of the rock on which I was standing. The rock was shaped somewhat like a cone, and that final thrust caused me to go straight down, with the cone-shaped rock crashing into my groin area.

I gritted my teeth to keep from yelling out in pain, as the president immediately raised the sail and turned the tiller.

The boat began drifting away.

“Thanks, Clint!” the president called back to me, completely unaware of what had just occurred under the water.

“No problem, sir,” I replied. “Glad I was able to help.”

I walked gingerly through the water back to the jetboat, and as I climbed over the side, I noticed blood running down my legs. I had almost crushed a very important part of my anatomy. Pained and bloody, I continued on for the rest of the day.

I was completely unaware that Cecil Stoughton, one of the White House photographers, happened to catch the ordeal on film, and apparently word got back to the president that I had been injured. A few days later I received an 8x10 photo of the president and Chuck Spalding standing on the Victura as I waded through the water toward the stuck boat. The president had signed the photo with the inscription:

For Clint Hill

“The Secret Service are prepared for all hazards”

John F. Kennedy

It was a very nice gesture, and that photo is a treasured memento. The Victura and her passengers were unharmed, and while I did walk a bit funny for the next couple of days, I healed without any permanent damage.

It was easy to see why the Kennedys loved Hyannis Port so much. It was quaint and comfortable, and despite the big houses on the ocean with the boats and yachts, it was unpretentious. The Kiddie Detail agents—Bob Foster, Lynn Meredith, and Paul Landis—and I were there the entire time, and we really began to feel like part of the family. If things needed to be hauled onto the boat, we’d grab the baskets of food or towels or whatever needed to be brought aboard. There always seemed to be dozens of children around, and they all knew us by name—it was always “Mr. Hill” or “Mr. Landis.” I often wondered if the younger ones thought we were just a few more uncles. Every Friday afternoon the president would arrive in the helicopter, with even more Secret Service agents, and more activity, and then by Monday morning he would return to Washington and we would return to our more casual routine. Summer in Hyannis Port was a very special time.

Clint Hill holds John, watching Mummy and Daddy aboard the Marlin

In between the constant activity, I was working with Mrs. Kennedy and Secret Service headquarters on plans for her upcoming trip to Italy. Once again I needed to assemble a team of agents to handle the advance, perimeter coverage, vehicles, travel arrangements, and boats, as well as to assist with the personal security coverage of both Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline.

When President Kennedy was in Hyannis Port, he tried to spend as much time with John and Caroline as possible, even though so many others were always vying for his attention. Caroline was now four and a half years old and the president seemed to want to share his passions with her more and more. They had a very close father-daughter relationship and it was precious to see the two of them together. The Saturday prior to our departure for Italy, President Kennedy spent all morning with Caroline. He took her to Hyannis Country Club to watch the golfers tee off, shopped in the pro shop, and then, walking hand in hand, they went to visit the ambassador at his residence. Because we had secured the perimeter of the property, the Secret Service agents tried to give the president and his family as much space as possible when they were on the compound.

As was typical, a lunchtime cruise was planned aboard the ambassador’s yacht, the Marlin. I was down on the dock with a couple of the Navy aides getting the jetboats ready when the president came walking down with Caroline.

His tan had deepened after spending so much time outdoors, and dressed in a golf shirt, trousers, and sunglasses, he looked like any other father with his daughter out here on the Cape. Sometimes in this casual environment you could almost forget he was the President of the United States.

“Clint,” he said as he walked toward me, “Mrs. Kennedy will be coming out shortly with my father to go on the Marlin. But first, I’m going to take Caroline for a short sail on the Victura. Just hang close and when I give you the signal, you can come pick us up and take us to the Marlin.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” I answered.

Once Caroline and the president were on the small sailboat, the Navy aides untied the dock lines and gave the boat a push-off. As I watched the president hoist the mainsail, I could see the pleasure he took in this simple, hands-on task. Aboard the Victura was one of the few places where the president could fully relax, his direction determined solely by the wind.

They sailed gently away from the dock and from a distance I could tell that the president was explaining to his four-year-old daughter how the sailboat worked—how to trim the sails to take full advantage of the wind, how to manage the tiller. He was so intent on sharing his love of sailing with her, and she just adored him.

After they had sailed for a while the president pulled in the sail, dropped the anchor near shore, and signaled for me to come pick them up.

I sped over and tied the jetboat loosely to the sailboat for the transfer. I stood up and the president said, “Okay, Buttons, I’m going to hand you to Mr. Hill.”

The president picked up his daughter and held her toward me. I grabbed her firmly by the waist and said, “Okay, Mr. President, I’ve got her.”

Transferring kids and dogs from one boat to another seemed to be a constant activity itself, and Caroline knew the routine. As the president stepped into the boat with us I said, “I was watching you, Caroline. You did a good job with that sailboat.”

She looked up at me with her big blue eyes and grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Hill. But my daddy did most of the work.”

The president and I looked at each other and laughed.

It was a beautiful day on the waters off Cape Cod, as the president, Caroline, and I sped off to join Mrs. Kennedy and the ambassador on the Marlin for lunch.

“Clint,” President Kennedy said to me, “I wanted to mention a few things to you before you leave for Italy.”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“You know we aren’t sending staff over with Mrs. Kennedy to handle the press, but obviously there are going to be photographers there and they will be constantly trying to get pictures of her.”

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately that seems to be the case no matter where we go.”

“The beach is not secluded and I don’t want to see photos of her at luncheons with eight different wines in full view or jet-set types lolling around in bikinis. Do what you can to remind her to be aware of that.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. President.”

“Jackie has invited Benno Graziani and his wife, Nicole, to stay with her and Lee in Ravello,” President Kennedy continued. “Benno is a lot of fun, but he’s always got his camera in his hand.”

The Italian Graziani had become good friends with Mrs. Kennedy prior to her marriage, when she was a photojournalist for the Washington Times Herald, and now he had become a well-known photographer for Paris Match magazine.

“Do not let Benno talk Lee and Jackie into letting him take pictures for the magazine,” the president said emphatically. “And above all, no nightclub pictures.”

I had met Benno Graziani several times before. He was a lot of fun—always clowning around—and I think he was a relief from the political types that dominated their circle of friends. He was one of the few people with whom Mrs. Kennedy let her guard down, and because they had known each other prior to her becoming the wife of John F. Kennedy, she trusted him.

About this time we reached the Marlin, and transferred the president and Caroline into the bigger yacht from the jetboat. As I slowly pulled away, the president’s words played over and over in my head and I realized that while he wouldn’t be joining his wife on this holiday, he was going to be aware of everything she did. With no other staff or press people on the trip, it was clear that he was counting on me to protect Mrs. Kennedy’s image as well as her physical safety.