That Good Night (14 page)

With making way in and out, ships anchored, water taxis zipping around like swarms of gnats, bright orange-painted Staten Island ferries chugging by with myopic captains steering straight no matter what, and of, course, pleasure boaters meandering here and there without a care in the world, I decided to furl the sails and kick on the engine. I didn't have a chart plotter or radar or a GPS the last time I was here. I did have a compass, charts, and my eyeballs connected to my brain. In other words, I sailed by observing what was going on around me. Approaching New York Harbor, I clicked off my chart plotter, sailed from buoy to buoy, avoided nutcases, treated every crossing and
meeting situation according to regulations, and thoroughly enjoyed the controlled chaos of a busy commercial port.

It's hard not to be moved by Lady Liberty.
Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor
built this nation. Just upriver is Ellis Island. I had plenty of opportunity to hire immigrants, legal ones, although I could never be entirely certain. They worked like mules. A sick day to these guys meant they couldn't get out of bed because if they could, they'd crawl to work. Great workers and good people.

Nearing Morris Basin, I looked to my right and saluted. I miss the Twin Towers. Like a lot of folks, I cried the day they went down.

Approaching the entrance to Morris Basin, I headed
That Good Night
into the ebbing Hudson River, kicked the engine to dead slow, set the auto-helm and took the short bit of time needed go forward on deck to prepare the docking lines and attach the fenders. Back in the cockpit I switched off the auto-helm, increased engine speed and headed in. Whatever concerns I had about entering the Morris Basin were for naught. The few boats plying its waters were courteous and fully in compliance. Stopping forward motion, I quickly went forward to kick out the fenders then returned to the cockpit. A nudge of the bow thruster, a prop kick forward and
That Good Night
gently kissed Liberty Marina's fuel dock and that was that. No docking boy, no help. It turned out to be self service. I tossed the docking lines to a fellow who was walking by and eager to assist. He chocked the lines then kindly made sure that I safely made it down onto the dock. I thanked him and he was on his way.

My legs were wobbly and I had trouble walking the few steps to the diesel pump. My instability concerned me until I
realized that this was the first time I stood on an immovable surface since leaving Annapolis just four days ago. It felt so much longer. Only ten days had passed since the escape; yet, that felt like it was a lifetime ago. When I was back there, days went by so slowly that time seemed to stop

After topping off my fuel and water tanks, a docking boy showed up. “D-Dock,” he said, pointing in a westerly direction. “Slip number six. Four boats in. I'll meet you there, sir, and help you with your lines.”

“What's your name, lad?” I asked.

“Elgin, sir.”

Current was slight but noticeable as I made my way up D-Dock slipway heading for number six. I'd have to go dead slow into the docking space. The architect that designed this place obviously also designed airline seating. I saw Elgin standing at the end of the dock waving. Easing
That Good Night
into the slip, Elgin grabbed my lines and chocked them down. “You're all set. Is there anything more that you need?,”

I answered, “No, Elgin.” Then reached down and handed him a fifty.

“Thank you, sir,” he said and left.

“Amazing,” a fellow yelled down from a Hatteras Motor Yacht tied up across from me. “Damn good for an old man, sailing solo, to boot,” he declared.

To which I replied, “And I can piss a steady stream, too!” He disappeared rather quickly.

I thought about running into the city, taking a water taxi that berthed just a few docks down, but quickly dismissed the idea. I'd been there enough times, seen the sights, enjoyed the hustle and bustle, gone to concerts, the opera, and went to Broadway shows when actors sang and not yelled, like they do today. I can't get past the need for young people to sacrifice their hearing for the sake of pop culture. Cat's earphones were turned up so high that I could hear the music like he was a human stereo set. I didn't care for the music either, but who's to say. Back at Sunset, people just loved the big band stuff. The Beach Boys were icons. One lady played excerpts from the
Sound of Music
day in and day out. I mean, just how much do, re, mi can a person stand!

I discovered Bach in my thirties thanks to one of my machinists, named Helmut. He might be running a shaper or turret lathe with his radio broadcasting a Bach fugue. In sync with slapping of the machinery, things would just sound right. For fifty years I've been listening to Bach and I hear more stuff in it every time I listen. I used to think that it was Bach's genius at play and to some extent it certainly is. But as I age, I realize that Bach's genius is manifested in the music's innate ability to remain relevant to my changing perceptions of myself and my world. The music grew with me as opposed to sticking me in some time or place. I have to admit here, though, that whenever
I hear “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation,” Lori comes dashing forth to join me in a slow dance.

I departed Liberty Harbor Marina at 0430 hours to catch the slack tide at Hell Gate. The East River, which connects the Hudson River with Long Island Sound, can toss a boat hither and yon, especially with the Harlem River adding to the confused current. I used to think that Hell Gate referred to the hellish whirlpools that dip and swirl anxiously at the river's narrows. But I learned from a fellow at the South Street Seaport Museum that in fact the term comes from Helegat, a Dutch term for bright passage. Before the East River became shadowed by skyscrapers, the sun would play on the rippling waters creating sparkling delights, hence the term. Put that on Jeopardy!

The fact is, with power galore, today's crafts can plow through these eddies without a hitch and they do so with abandon. I preferred to pay attention to the rules of nature, so slack was fine with me. Besides, I love sailing according to the tides. This natural flow feels like time slows down. I don't wear a watch anymore; I stopped doing that back in Sunset. What the hell does it matter what time it is when you don't have to be anywhere at any time? I do have a chronometer down below that dings according to a watch schedule: four on, four off. At Sunset, there was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That was the clock. There was no need for any watch, but every wrist had one, some residents had one on each wrist. Mine was on the top of
my dresser. Here, I have no deadline. I eat when I'm hungry, I look for an anchorage when the sun passes through the meridian, I sail according to the winds and tides. Old folks use the phrase,
my days are numbered
. Whose aren't?

Just past South Brother Island, Rikers, the citadel of criminals, lies to starboard. Foreboding to say the least. I wonder what memories lifers have. Guilt and regret, would be my guess or at least I would hope that's the case. When I was in my darkest moods back in Sunset, I envisioned myself as a prisoner. A lifer. And for good reasons. I really didn't have much to look forward to. Life in a nursing home is not much of a seedbed for memory building. I don't think it has to be that way. I was a skilled craftsman but did anybody care? Did anybody ask me to fix things or get involved in any way with things that had to do with my living there? No. I would have enjoyed having something productive to do. People in nursing homes are people first and patients second and people need to feel productive. I just bet some of the ladies committed to Sunset could cook up a storm. Why not let them?

If you had one pleasant life experience that you could live over and over, what would it be? I've searched my memory bank for one and except for having Lori in my life, I came up empty-handed. But now there's the escape, buying
That Good Night
reconnecting with Bob, being here right now. That's what old people need, reconnecting with life. The lucky ones have an extended family where life is a continuum rather than a life disrupted.

Before Lori died, she got into scrapbooking. Every photograph we ever took was neatly glued in place, labeled, and packaged so in the end we could waltz down memory lane
with a flick of pages. What shocked me was how many photos didn't include me. There were lots of photos with the two boys and their mother, the boys playing sports, on stage, at the playground, going to church. So where was I? Doing business is my guess. When I bought the machine shop, it became my life. Sales, competition, my workers, regulations, and updating machinery took over my life. Helmut and the rest of the crew were family for me. My clients were like cousins, my banker a buddy. So, is that the epitaph I want carved into my grave stone: Solid businessman, Machinist? Lori's has her name, birth and death dates and the words
Caring and Loving
Mother. I would like something similar, maybe
Devoted Father and Sailor
. It may be that my sons are just pissed off at me for not being there. Still, that's no reason to shit-can dear old Dad. After all, the machining business bought a good life for them. But kids need a dad, not just a caregiver. Maybe I'd have been a hell of a grandpa or can still be. Maybe I need to forgive my kids.

A low-flying jet out of LaGuardia rattled the rigging. Time to get back to being helmsman.

I anchored in a cove just off Manhasset Harbor at around 1500 hours. Entertainment: Watching harbor police in high speed boats trying to catch some kids on jet skis. No contest. The kids disappeared into the far reaches of the Sound while the police boat lumbered along at only about 60 mph. Damn kids. Gutsy, mindless risk takers, emotional blobs. God, I envy them.

Last night a boat came into the Manhasset Cove and anchored on top of me, that is, they set their anchor over mine. This means, of course that when I raised my anchor in the early morning hours, I got wrapped in their anchor rode. Thankfully, the seas were calm, but still this meant going forward to untangle the mess which I didn't want to do so I blasted my horn until the owner came bleary-eyed on deck ready to do battle. It was 0500 hours.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but you anchored over me.” I said. “I'd appreciate your untangling the mess so I can be on my way.” (I was thinking
jackass
and maybe it showed).

Portly to say the least, the fellow was dressed in boxer shorts with tiger imprints, and arrogant. His reply, “You must have dragged anchor. It's not my fault!” Let's just say that I was dealing with a four year old here.

“As you wish, lad,” I said, unsheathing my Myerchin serrated cut-any-damn-thing six-inch knife. “I'll take care of it.” I left the cockpit, carefully making my way toward the foredeck.

“You're not going to cut my line?” the guy protested.

“Yes, son, that's exactly what I'm going to do.”

Joining irate husband on deck, his wife squeaked, “Do something, honey!”

I reached the foredeck. Brandishing my knife, I said, calmly, “Last chance.”

The guy sprinted forward, hauled in his rode, untangled his line from my anchor and scolded me. “Satisfied, old man?” Returning to the cockpit, I engaged the winch, weighed anchor, shifted into gear, and motored out of the cove.

I sailed to Long Island's North Shore and headed for West Harbor, Connecticut. On the chart, the harbor looked to be a secure place to drop the hook and, sure enough, it was. The problem was the place was blanketed with mooring balls. On each one was printed PRIVATE followed by the name of the boat to which it belonged. There were plenty of empty ones. Small yellow floats declared,
No Anchoring
. The shore line was an architect's dream and a landscaper's money trough. Situated at the end of the harbor was a modern stone building. A flag pole with a yardarm flew the American Flag, the Connecticut State flag, and a fancy burgee: a yacht club. Tidal waters are up for grabs, money or no money. I decided to anchor. I edged my way back to the harbor entrance, respected the channel, and let my plow find the bottom eleven feet below. I played out fifty feet and secured
That Good Night
. As I had expected, it didn't take long before a launch came shooting out of the yacht club. A white clad youth was at the helm. In the bow stood a fellow dressed in enough gold braid to make Admiral Nelson take notice. The launch drew alongside.

“Excuse me,” the Commodore declared, “but this is a restricted area. No anchoring allowed.”

Go fuck yourself, according to regulations I am legally anchored off a channel in tidal waters
. I played the game. “Yes sir, thank you for that information. Is there a mooring that I could tie up to for the night?”

“As you may have noticed, all moorings in this harbor are
private. May I suggest a nice cove about ten miles to the east?”

“Actually, sir, you may, but I'm not going to it. I'm within my rights to remain right where I am. Have a nice evening.”

Commodore Whoever proceeded to give me a dressing down when a well-used dinghy came alongside. A man about my age dressed in raggedy shorts with a t-shirt that read, “Suck” on it in red letters, was at the oars. In the bow stood a Portuguese Water Dog at full attention. “George,” the man addressed the Commodore, “what's going on?”

Commodore scowled, “Yacht Club business, Ernest. No concern of yours.”

Dismissing George, Ernest turned to me. “Where are you from?”

I had to think about that. At Liberty Harbor Marina, I had given my address as PO Box 126, Clear Valley, Pennsylvania. “Ah,” I hesitated, “The Chesapeake.”

“Good place to be from during the summer. Hot as a honeymoon down there. Humid enough to drown a barracuda, too. I was stationed in Norfolk. Medical Corp. What about you?”

“Not WWII?” I asked incredulously.