Next Day: It's Gonna Be A Great Summer
Dash Sailing: Journal & Photos
Summer 2002
Eamon, Roman & Neil, Sailing On The Sound
Sat. May 25:
My cell phone rang at 7:25am as I was headed out the front door. It was Neil.
"I'm in the cab."
"I'm on the street."
A minute later I was climbing into the back of a yellow cab, headed for Penn Station & the LIRR for a day of sailing on Long Island Sound. A strong cup of joe, raisin muffin, and quick 30 minute ride later and we were out at Little Neck where Neil's pal Chris picked us up after his own drive in from the Hamptons. We stopped for cold cuts while Neil's other pal Roman was getting water and beer. Eamon, whose boat we would be sailing, met us on the docks and we all jumped into cars and headed down the road to a private beach for some reconstructive therapy on the harbor launch, which had sprung loose from its mooring during the night and drifted down the inlet to a neighbor's beach. We hopped and pushed and pulled and lurched and together the six of us somehow cajoled the thing back into the drink, even without the tide. After that, Neil and Chris and I were waiting for Roman to arrive, so Eamon went for some coffee and Neil and I had some fun with Chris, a newcomer to sailing:
"Neil, which one are we sailing on?" I asked.
Neil looked out across the bay. "The one with the red sail cover," he said, pointing straight out across the harbor, nearly to the channel.
"Okay, I'll go first," I said, stripping off my jacket. "Unless you want to go. Or Chris, you can go first if you want. Are you a strong swimmer?"
Chris's face went blank, and for a second we had him going, before he realized we were putting him on.
Anyway, half an hour later we were out on Eamon's boat "Dash," raising the mainsail, unfurling the Genoa, releasing the jib sheets and tiller, and heading up into the wild blue.
We sailed upwind and tacked a few times, just to shake out the sheets, and then Eamon found a line and we sailed along for a while, just digging the sun and the waves and the vibe. Eamon was at the helm--a tiller in the case of this wonderful, mid-80's J-35. Roman was to starboard, tailing, and Chris was to starboard (closer to the companionway) winching. I was tailing to portside, and Neil was below decks, tending to his instrument panel. All was calm and peaceful, the sun burning down through a tall, cloudless (and, sadly, mostly windless) sky, with air temp in the mid-60's. I was gazing off into the distance when suddenly I heard something hit the deck and, before I could even look up, the unmistakeable "plit" of some object going into the drink. Across the cockpit sat a statue of Chris, his face wearing a mask of horror and disbelief, looking for all the world as if he'd just dropped...well, imagine this:
A young man works and saves seven years to buy his girl the biggest engagement ring he can afford, and it's as big as the hope diamond, like three carats of the finest diamond money can buy, we're talking thousands of dollars, here, a stone the size of a cell phone ladies and gentlemen. Now, he's never been sailing before but his pals invite him to crew this summer out on the Sound, he'll love it they assure him, come on out, you're gonna have a great time. Well, so far so good. But the man has not sailed before, is unaccustomed the the unforgiving nature of the sea. He is laying back up on the starboard deck, his feet on the cockpit bench, his shoulders layed back on the lifeline. The helmsman is steering a steady course upwind, there is a temporary and misleading lull in the action. His friend Roman is beside him, so the man decides what better time to show him the ring, which he has brought with him in the pocket of his shorts. He reaches down into his pocket, feels with his fingers enough to open and grasp the ring out of the little snap case all such rings come in (doesn't want to get the little velvet case wet, naturally), pulls the ring out ever so gently between his thumb and forefinger just as the boat rises on the wake of a motor boat that sped by a minute earlier, the hull crashes down with a thud (as sailing vessels will do), his grip is jarred, the ring falls to the deck and (as he is sitting to starboard on a starboard tack and the boat is heeling well to starboard) slides along the deck, clearing the grab rail by half an inch and slipping quickly and irretrievably into the murky brine, the man's bewildered hand reaching after it in vain, and the expression on his face...that's the look I'm talking about.
Can you imagine, people, that expression? Well, that is the expression I saw on Chris's face when I heard the telltale flep and looked up. He stayed that way a moment longer, like the chagrined lover on Keats' Grecian Urn, reaching after a prize that was destined to elude him for eternally. Then he awakened to the moment.
"I just dropped my phone in the water," he said to us, wondering (a) if it would float and (b) if we could go back for it, the answer to (b) being yes if only the answer to (a) were also yes, but, of course...
(You thought he actually dropped a 3-carat diamond into the drink, didn't you. Well, people, I was just searching for the proper experssion, I mean, I just met the man, I don't even know if he has a girlfriend, let alone a fiance. Of course, we assured Chris that if he had dropped a 3-carat diamond into Long Island Sound he could have used what every sailor gets: one, non-refundable, "drain-the-pond" call to the harbormaster. But we explained that cell phones do not qualify for the drain-the-pond exemption.)
Well, Chris took it exceptionally well. The color eventually returned to his skin and he was able to breathe without the aid of the respirator. We called the Coast Guard and they arranged for his friend to fly in from Chicago to stay with him. We sailed back to the Yacht Club to drop him off, and he waved to us from the launch as we headed back to sea, the red tube from his I.V. waving back and forth over the waves like a pendulum clicking toward a dial tone as he faded from our sight beyond the horizon.
"He didn't take the beer, did he?" someone said.
"I don't think so, but you better check the lunch meat."
So back we went, out onto the Sound, and the rest of the day was spent sailing wonderfully through the harbor, lying on the deck when the wind was resting, and testing the sails when it was playful. And though I do not mean to suggest that we sat around poking fun at Chris's episode of The Twilight Phone, I do believe we counted a final tally of 36 punch lines involving the demise of said electronic device.
Anyway, Eamon had to get back ashore, so we headed for the harbor (just as the wind picked up) and Neil, Roman and I stayed aboard the boat after Eamon went in, just enjoying the water and the sun. Neil made huge sandwiches for the three of us with the rest of the supplies, and we cranked up C.S.N.Y's "Deja Vu" to the legal limit and just dug the vibe and the company for another hour on the water. After that we called for the launch, Roman drove us to the station, and we caught the LIRR backa to the city, cabbed it to Mo's Caribbean for a quick visit with the home crew, and that was the finishing touch on a wonderful day on the water with a great boat and crew, and the beginning of what looks to be a fabulous summer of sailing.
Check back every week on 2 Idiots In A Boat (the Dash Sailing Journal & Photo Pages), I will post journal entries and photos after each day of sailing.
Posted by cronish at May 26, 2002 10:36 PM