Care to take the helm?
I blame the women.
That's a lie. Of course I don’t. It is, after all, a poor captain who blames his Crescent wrench for ruining his manicure. But there were Deb and Jan, gabbing away on the high side with an unobstructed view of the western horizon: the picturesque lighthouse at Stepping Stones, a burnt umber (I'm not really sure if that's accurate. I just like the Crayola name) sun setting over the bridges of Throgs Neck and Whitestone, and the glittering metropolis of New York City beyond.
Did I say unobstructed? Perhaps there would have been one obstruction for someone paying a modicum of attention: a rapidly approaching freighter the size of Rhode Island.
Did you see something? Nope. Ever been to Country Curtains?
I think the women were discussing window dressing for the saloon. In any event, the real culprit was yours truly. Jan’s husband Ron had offered me the helm of their Alberg 35, which I’d greedily accepted. Hell yes, I’ll steer your dreamboat too if you’ll let me. And I did okay for a while, poised at the pedestal like a Praetorian guard, alert to any possible oceangoing threat. Assume the helm, sir, and you assume some serious responsibility.
After a while of that nonsense I assumed a posture more conducive to the collective vibe, a slouching tuck in the aft corner of the cockpit along the leeward rail. From there I had a duck’s eye view of everything directly ahead and to port, as well as what was left of the topsides not buried in sea spray.
Ron and Jan’s boat has a nice big wheel that lets you to hang out in Ted Turner fashion, one hand on the wheel and and the other available for whatever else one might wish to grip. The problem with this arrangement is that one can easily become comfortable, and so I stayed there. With a good breeze up, my view to windward was obscured by our well-heeled hull, which was capped by the aforementioned chatting silhouettes. Ron was facing me on the low side, protecting our flank, I think, from a surprise flying fish attack. A little traffic help to starboard from the women would’ve been, well, nice.
But then it’s the guys who insist this is the way we all ought to have fun together, right? Come on, let’s hop into a painful plastic bucket, when an arm and a leg (not to mention a well-placed boom to this reporter’s noggin) could have been spared and we could all be enjoying a lovely harbor view from beach chairs. Still, just a little help?
The captain of the behemoth didn’t see any of that coming to the hazard crossing his path. Using whatever stealth technology they employ these days (a pair of eyes, I suspect) he must’ve figured if we were up to anything, it was a game of chicken where nobody wins. I’m thinking of all the paperwork the poor guy would have had to fill out.
Part of me would like to have been a fly on his cabin wall as another moron conspired to send him to Rite Aid for more Grecian Formula. On our big boat trip to the Bahamas, Deb and I would stand alert for days on end, occasionally listening to the VHF execrations of container captains as they were forced to deal with oblivious hoards of casual day sailors. More than once we heard the five blasts, and watched as recreational boaters narrowly avoided annihilation at the hands of floating bulldozers.
I think the women were discussing window dressing for the saloon. In any event, the real culprit was yours truly. Jan’s husband Ron had offered me the helm of their Alberg 35, which I’d greedily accepted. Hell yes, I’ll steer your dreamboat too if you’ll let me. And I did okay for a while, poised at the pedestal like a Praetorian guard, alert to any possible oceangoing threat. Assume the helm, sir, and you assume some serious responsibility.
After a while of that nonsense I assumed a posture more conducive to the collective vibe, a slouching tuck in the aft corner of the cockpit along the leeward rail. From there I had a duck’s eye view of everything directly ahead and to port, as well as what was left of the topsides not buried in sea spray.
Ron and Jan’s boat has a nice big wheel that lets you to hang out in Ted Turner fashion, one hand on the wheel and and the other available for whatever else one might wish to grip. The problem with this arrangement is that one can easily become comfortable, and so I stayed there. With a good breeze up, my view to windward was obscured by our well-heeled hull, which was capped by the aforementioned chatting silhouettes. Ron was facing me on the low side, protecting our flank, I think, from a surprise flying fish attack. A little traffic help to starboard from the women would’ve been, well, nice.
But then it’s the guys who insist this is the way we all ought to have fun together, right? Come on, let’s hop into a painful plastic bucket, when an arm and a leg (not to mention a well-placed boom to this reporter’s noggin) could have been spared and we could all be enjoying a lovely harbor view from beach chairs. Still, just a little help?
The captain of the behemoth didn’t see any of that coming to the hazard crossing his path. Using whatever stealth technology they employ these days (a pair of eyes, I suspect) he must’ve figured if we were up to anything, it was a game of chicken where nobody wins. I’m thinking of all the paperwork the poor guy would have had to fill out.
Part of me would like to have been a fly on his cabin wall as another moron conspired to send him to Rite Aid for more Grecian Formula. On our big boat trip to the Bahamas, Deb and I would stand alert for days on end, occasionally listening to the VHF execrations of container captains as they were forced to deal with oblivious hoards of casual day sailors. More than once we heard the five blasts, and watched as recreational boaters narrowly avoided annihilation at the hands of floating bulldozers.
I’ll bet this guy never bothered trying the radio. As if the clowns in front of him knew how to use one. And he was right. Back in our home waters Deb and I rarely turn ours on anymore. He could only have been hoping we’d all figure out how to don our Coast Guard-approved water wings prior to deboarding our soon to be minced vessel.
No, that captain went straight for the airhorn. Nor did he give the standard five-note alarm recognized by accomplished seamen. Nope, he just laid on one long hard “Get the hell out of the way, you stupid, son-of-a-bitch” salute. Which worked, I might add.
Our crew tacked, with plenty of time to spare so that we could compose ourselves and gawk, like a herd of cattle at the fence as the semi rolls down the road loaded with merchandise for some far-off Walmart.
It wasn’t really that close, but I’ll bet that’s not how the other guy saw it. We see these monsters rumble through all the time, and they really have no defense against us other than an angry growl of the foghorn, if you discount their looming visual presence. If we’d kept coming, a lovely sloop named “Weeble” would now be an underwater obstruction near Can #27. Which is why “limited ability to maneuver” always trumps “vessel under sail” in the rule book.
Do you feel lucky, punk? Do you?
