Beached Sailboat

Beached Sailboat; Early Street, City Island

November

"November always seemed to me the Norway of the year."

EMILY DICKINSON

Hauling a boat is a ritual that I often try to postpone. When the calendar reaches November, a strain of denial seems to overtake me. I become convinced that there will be plenty of warm days ahead. I try to remind myself of the years when I sailed on Thanksgiving weekend. A few peppers still growing in the garden reinforce this delusion. Unfortunately, the calendar and the thermometer do not lie. Sailors, like aging starlets and men with bad combovers, need to acknowledge the passing of time.

The sail from Noank to the Connecticut River boatyard is an easy one. It is the preparations that are most consuming. I needed to make sure the yard had a dock space available. I also had to make arrangements for getting back to Noank to retrieve my car. Finally I had to dig through my bedroom closet for gloves, a wool hat, and the rest of my winter wardrobe. A gentle autumn day on land can sometimes feel like January just a few miles from the shoreline.

November is lonely on the water. An occasional commercial boat is the only other vessel you may see. The shoreline in the distance seems deserted too. Gone are the crowds that flocked to these beaches just six weeks ago. Waterfront homes that overflowed with guests, look empty and silent. Their awnings and Adirondack chairs have been removed from the lawn. Only an occasional whiff from a fireplace tells you that someone is home. A lighthouse that seemed like a quaint image for artists and tourists in June, becomes a utilitarian navigation aid in November.

November is also a sad month on the water. No matter how enjoyable the time might be, you know the days are numbered. This year is no different, as my day is spent looking back in time, rather than forward. I think of my trip to the Thimble Islands, and a starry night anchored in West Harbor. Any sort of thought to suppress my approaching winter ashore. The seasons of the year have come full circle.

I arrived in Saybrook without a hitch, and made my way to the train station the next morning.

It was a spectacular fall day with sunny skies and temperatures in the 60's. As the train passed through Niantic, Long Island Sound came into full view. There were several boats in the distance, taking advantage of the lovely weather. For a brief moment, I started thinking that I should drive back to Saybrook and take one more sail. There would certainly be enough time, and it would be a shame to waste such a nice day.
Eventually I realized that this would not be possible since I had already removed the sails from the boat. My sailing season was over, and there was no way to delay its inevitable end.

But in spirit, it never ends.

 

This was originally posted in November 2008; but I had no readers then.

An Occurrence At Old Lyme Bridge

No matter what the calendar and thermometer may read, it is the Old Lyme Railroad Bridge that marks my seasons . When I sail north of this span in November, the bridge closes behind me, and my winter begins.

For the past several years, Carina has spent her winter months in a boatyard a few miles above this bridge. I still sail her occasionally in late fall and early spring, but always north of the span. Until I venture to the other side, it all seems like an exhibition game to me. It doesn't really count. 

This 1907, truss-style, bascule bridge is my Checkpoint Charlie; my San Ysidro. Passing beneath her is my spring and autumnal equinox.

There is something that feels very unnatural when a boat passes under a bridge. The charts and signs all show that there is plenty of clearance, but I still find myself second guessing the dimensions. I envision the mast being too tall, hitting the bridge, and then falling down. If only Freud were aboard to diagnose and explain my  mast-envy, and dismasting anxiety.

But there are no mishaps, and the bridge operator gives me a wave as I clear the opening. I turn to wave back and immediately realize that I am south of the bridge. "See you in November" I yell to him.

Ahead of me I can see the two lighthouses at Saybrook Point, and I smell the salt water in the breeze. A small wave rolls in from the Sound and smacks the hull broadside, spraying my face lightly. It's a brisk and salty reminder that Carina has been released from her winter stall, and is now free to roam in what F. Scott Fitzgerald called "the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound". 

Saybrook-Old Lyme Bridge

Soundbounder: November

Soundbounder: Ferry Landing Park

Farewell To The Knickerbocker

The Knickerbocker Yacht Club is now vacant. The clubhouse with its hipped roof and second story deck silently looks out over Manhasset Bay. Resembling a foreclosed home, several No Trespassing signs are now taped to the large bay windows. After hearing the news that the 135 year old club had closed, I stopped by this month for one last goodbye. A utility worker making a phone call in the parking lot was all that broke the silence.

Yacht Clubs certainly do not inspire any populist imagery, but stereotypes of Buffy and Thad sailing in white slacks while maintaining a stiff upper lip are not entirely accurate. On Long Island Sound, yacht clubs tend to fall into one of three categories:

There are the exclusive clubs that do their best to hold on to the Guilded Age. These are often easy to spot with their clubhouses resembling some gold coast mansion, and their staff dressed like butlers. At the other extreme would be the working clubs whose membership often includes a high percentage of firemen, teachers, and tradesmen. These are normally do-it-yourself places where members volunteer their time along with paying dues. When the grass needs to be cut, it is a member mowing the lawn, not an employee or a landscaping company.

 The Knickerbocker belonged to a group that is somewhere in between these two extremes. These clubs often navigate a foggy channel between controlling expenses and maintaining a certain aura of exclusiveness. Members may own an expensive boat, but they also have tuition bills and a mortgage.

For years I belonged to a working club that was about a two hour sail from Manhasset Bay. I only sailed to the Knickerbocker a handful of times, but the visits were always special to me. I would motor my old banged-up 1968 Bristol 24 into the mooring field, hail a launch, and be welcomed to the club. It did not matter that my boat cost less than a used car, while the surrounding boats were priced similar to a starter home. I may have not met the financial or social requirements to be a member of the club, but I was accepted as a guest providing I followed their rules (proper attire in the dining room, no tank tops on the premises, no spitting).I could hobnob with the doctors and architects in a mahogany trimmed bar until I turned back into a pumpkin on Monday morning. Reciprocity between clubs was the great leveling field, if only for a weekend.

When the recession hit, it was easy to question my club's chances of survival. The rundown building, the old boats, and even older membership all suggest that the best days were at least 40 years ago. The Knickerbocker did not seem to have these problems. The model ships and half hulls adorning the walls seemed to suggest an immunity to changing times. But beneath the mahogany and cherry wood paneling, the Knickerbocker was struggling with the same difficulties as every other club. Higher expenses coupled with an aging and declining membership were a disturbing trend that every club from Watch Hill to Throgs Neck faced. The prosperity of the last 25 years helped suppress the symptoms, but the current financial crisis brought them to the forefront.

At one time or another, I think we have all secretly admired yet resented people in better places. A neighbor or colleague may be someone we desperately want to be, yet we begrudge their good fortune. When bad times strike, their failure becomes some sort of "moral to the story". But I felt no sense of schadenfreude when I walked along the empty dock at the Knickerbocker this month. The club had survived two world wars, the Great Depression, and September 11, but now it was gone. I thought to myself that if it could happen to the Knickerbocker Yacht Club, then it could happen to any of us. I leaned against the peeling white handrail, looked out over the harbor, and wondered "who's next?"

Map

This post is the first draft of a story which appeared in Newsday, 12/09  IF IT COULD HAPPEN TO THE KNICKERBOCKER

Sailing With Cancer

"Death kept following, tracking us down "

I don't remember much about the first time Monica came sailing with me. I do know it was about a decade ago aboard my old banged-up Bristol 24 I kept in City Island. She was no sailor or boater, but she carried a natural affinity for the water, and felt right at home. There were no mishaps or complaints that day from myself or her; perhaps that is why I do not recall much about it.

In 2006, Monica was diagnosed with bone cancer. It has been a roller coaster ride ever since: months of relatively normal life interrupted by periods where it did not seem she would survive another week or two. It is the latter that we are going through right now.

I do not want to turn this into a political post, but those of you who think you are insured, need to think again. Fighting with the insurance companies has been just as large a battle as the sickness itself. We may have the greatest medical treatment in the world in this country, but it is a private beach, reserved for club members and waterfront residents only.

Monica worked at a hospital in White Plains for twenty years; she thought she had great insurance. Most of the cable-TV jockeys seem to frame the argument around the insured versus the uninsured. There are large numbers of insured Americans who are not as insured as they think they are.

Long Island Sound has been a respite from all this morbidity and corporate nonsense, providing us with an outlet that is sometimes the greatest therapy.
 And most of all, she has been a good sport:

  " Hey Mon, instead of going to that swanky marina with the pool and tiki bar, would it be alright if we anchored near Bridgeport so I can photograph the oyster boats returning to port?"

photos: Shelter Island Ferry (top)

Stonington

Long Passage to Block Island (bottom)

The Catboat

Long Island Sound

Long Island Sound

I see it as it looked one afternoon In August, 
by a fresh soft breeze o'erblown
The swiftness of the tide,
 the light thereon A far off sail,
 white as a crescent moon
The shining waters with pale currents strewn
The quiet fishing shacks, the Eastern cove
The semi-circle of its dark green cove
The luminous grasses,
 and the merry sun
In the grave sky, 
the sparkle far and wide
Laughter of unseen children,
 cheerful chirps Of crickets,
 and low lisp of rippling tide
Light summer clouds
 fantastical as sleep
Changing un-noted,
 while I gaze thereon
All these fair sounds and sights
 I made my own

Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)

NPR: Poet Of the Huddled Masses
Poem Hunter: Emma Lazarus 
Jewish Virtual Library Biography

Sports Illustrated Cover Story, 1954

In an era when sports athletes are celebrities, and tabloids are sometimes indistinguishable from from the sports pages, it is hard to believe that a sailboat race on Long Island Sound would be the cover story for a national sports publication. This 1954 Sports Illustrated issue came long before advertisers and the board of directors played a major role in editing, and terms like target market were not so scientific and strict. Browsing through old issues of Sports Illustrated, I found stories on fishing, canoeing, and scuba diving, alongside stories about Willie Mays and Johnny Unitas. They wrote about all sorts of sporting activities, not just the big dollar spectator sports. This consolidation has been happening for at least 30 years in all forms of media and marketing. But targeting a specific demographic or niche has not provided a more in-depth result. Radio stations for example, have become less and less eclectic, while at the same time narrowing their play lists to a small sample of songs that we hear over and over again. Boating magazines seem to run the same generic articles every year about some tycoon in the Mediterranean. Skiing magazines often ignore the large numbers of skiers who do not board a jet to go skiing. Hiking magazines have taken a page from VH-1, and devote every issue to lists of the "Top Ten Boots" or the "Top Outdoor People On Twitter" (I kid you not). It wasn't my intention but this is starting to sound like a rant. Perhaps it is a sign of getting older, but I constantly feel as if nothing is targeting me. Even in pastimes that I am passionate about, I often feel as if the marketers are ignoring me. In the rare instances when they are not ignoring me, they are trying to convert, rather than cater to me. Does this happen to anyone else? Am I part of a demographic that Madison Avenue views as too much trouble? Maybe I should be careful about what I wish for. I may be disappointed with the role that target audiences play, but that doesn't mean I want to join them. There are benefits to not being targeted, and I think I would be uncomfortable if it were any other way. Sports Illustrated: Cover Archives photo credit: Richard Meek, Sports Illustrated, 9/6/1954

Race Day On Long Island Sound

THE YACHTS Brilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sails they glide to the wind tossing green water

from their ship prows while over them the crew crawls

Ant-like, solicitously grooming them, releasing, making fast as they turn, lean far over and having caught the wind again, side by side, head for the mark

William Carlos Williams

The LIFE Magazine photo archives are now available online. (Thanks to Good Old Boat Redwing for the link) The photographs above are entitled Race Day On Long Island Sound. These photos immediately sparked a memory of a poem I first heard in high school English class. I did not remember much about the poem except that it was about a sailboat race, and there were similar pictures on the textbook page opposite the poem. There were also pictures of fruit opposite a poem about someone eating plums. Why I remember that, I have no idea. Thanks to the wonders of Google, I was able to track it down. It is funny how memory works. LIFE Magazine Photo Archives William Carlos Williams: The Yachts (complete poem) photo credits:(top to bottom) Alfred Eisenstaedt 1947, Bob Gomel 1960, Alfred Eisenstaedt 1947

November

"November always seemed to me the Norway of the year."

EMILY DICKINSON

Hauling a boat is a ritual that I often try to postpone. When the calendar reaches November, a strain of denial seems to overtake me. I become convinced that there will be plenty of warm days ahead. I try to remind myself of the years when I sailed on Thanksgiving weekend. A few peppers still growing in the garden reinforce this delusion. Unfortunately, the calendar and the thermometer do not lie. Sailors, like aging starlets and men with bad combovers, need to acknowledge the passing of time.

The sail from Noank to the Connecticut River boatyard is an easy one. It is the preparations that are most consuming. I needed to make sure the yard had a dock space available. I also had to make arrangements for getting back to Noank to retrieve my car. Finally I had to dig through my bedroom closet for gloves, a wool hat, and the rest of my winter wardrobe. A gentle autumn day on land can sometimes feel like January just a few miles from the shoreline.

November is lonely on the water. An occasional commercial boat is the only other vessel you may see. The shoreline in the distance seems deserted too. Gone are the crowds that flocked to these beaches just six weeks ago. Waterfront homes that overflowed with guests, look empty and silent. Their awnings and Adirondack chairs have been removed from the lawn. Only an occasional whiff from a fireplace tells you that someone is home. A lighthouse that seemed like a quaint image for artists and tourists in June, becomes a utilitarian navigation aid in November.
November is also a sad month on the water. No matter how enjoyable the time might be, you know the days are numbered. This year is no different, as my day is spent looking back in time, rather than forward. I think of my trip to the Thimble Islands, and a starry night anchored in West Harbor. Any sort of thought to suppress my approaching winter ashore. The seasons of the year have come full circle.

I arrived in Saybrook without a hitch, and made my way to the train station the next morning.
It was a spectacular fall day with sunny skies and temperatures in the 60's. As the train passed through Niantic, Long Island Sound came into full view. There were several boats in the distance, taking advantage of the lovely weather. For a brief moment, I started thinking that I should drive back to Saybrook and take one more sail. There would certainly be enough time, and it would be a shame to waste such a nice day. Eventually I realized that this would not be possible since I had already removed the sails from the boat. My sailing season was over, and there was no way to delay its inevitable end. But in spirit, it never ends.