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MAINE DELAYAxe-Swinging, Cannon-Shooting, Boat-Building, Naked Flights Of Fancy, and Miscellaneous Horsing Around
BY BENJAMIN POPPER PHOTOS BY ANDY VERNON JONES AND KRISHNA ANDAVOLU ![]() City folk typically build country houses to relax. They fill them with soft colors and soft cushions and nothing to do. They paint theses houses in pastels and go out there on the weekends to "escape" to the good life. "That's all a bunch of horse shit," says Peter Rittmaster, champion boat racer, inventor, and artist. "A house should challenge you, it should excite your guests, and it should provoke you to new experiences." That’s the mission of Maindelay, his sort of anti-country house, located half an hour from the sea coast in Maine. The small property is stocked like a Hemmingway novel: 27 boats, 3 vintage motorcycles, elephant rifles, African fetish art, antique French flare guns, Helmut Newton nudes, hundreds of knives, and the coup de grace, a 20-foot-wide buffalo skin teepee. “I like the house to be a game,” says Rittmaster. “Guests should pick up and play with whatever calls out to them, and every piece has a story behind it.” I recruited a bunch of friends to spend the weekend under Rittmaster’s direction: shooting guns, swinging axes, taking drugs, and generally engaging in whatever mischief he cooked up for us. “I’m a bit like Werner Herzog,” Rittmaster modestly declared over lunch Saturday afternoon. It’s a pretty fair description, in that Rittmaster pursues excitement and originality with a despotic, occasionally delusional fervor. Just imagine Herzog as your summer camp director. Born to wealth and power as the son of one of America’s first corporate raiders, Rittmaster made his own fortune by the time he was 30 by racing and then designing high speed boats. From there his life became a collection of tall tales, most true, all exaggerated. He says he shared a flat with Mick Jagger in London in the 60s, pumped iron with Schwarzenegger while living in Luxemburg, and hauled Joe Cocker out of a pile of his own piss and vomit just so he could hear him sing. Now, at 68, Rittmaster has been forced to accept that the glory days of his youth are behind him. But he loves to keep young people around to listen to his stories and to carry out whatever new adventures he can dream up. Like Sunday morning, when he explained he would be directing us in a movie, Artillery S’more, and that I would play the part of the target. There was a bag of marshmallows, a muzzle plug of Hershey’s chocolate, three feet of fuse, a graham cracker, a ramrod, a motorcycle helmet, a condom full of gunpowder, and a 25-pound naval cannon. As we loaded the supplies into a canoe Rittmaster grinned from ear to ear. “You realize, of course, that no one on earth has ever done this before.” It’s hard to say if that’s true, but it makes a good story.
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