The air tasted like salt and diesel.The Statue of Liberty was coming up on my left.This was the summer before my freshman year.
We were delivering a luxury yacht from South Jersey all the way to Old Port Montreal. I was the deckhand. I’m pretty sure the job was just a favor to my stepfather. But maybe not. Like most things in my life, this wonderful opportunity came through relationships. Looking back, I’m not sure how I got so lucky.
We brought her up the Jersey coast and around the bend. Just past the tip of Manhattan, the captain had us pull over. Fenders out. Stark white against old wooden pilings.
He said he could feel a light shimmer when we were on plane. “On plane” is when the boat comes out of the water and rides on top instead of pushing through. He suggested maybe he’d hit something along the coast. A buoy, maybe. A ding in the prop. “That would do it”, he told me.
He handed me a mask and told me to check the props. I looked at him. I looked at the water. And looked back at him. Behind him, the Twin Towers.
This was the nineties, and it was the Hudson. I was pretty sure humans weren’t supposed to swim in this anymore.
I can still feel the artificially rough deck under my feet. He had me tie a rope around my waist. A bowline, really the only knot I knew. He nodded with approval. I sat on the edge and eased myself into the water. I wasn’t afraid of hepatitis. I was afraid of the monsters under the dock. I’ve always been that way around docks. Still am.
The water was cold. And murky. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. A green-brown gradient haze. I ducked under the stern and kicked my way to the props, heart pounding. They came out of the murk. I couldn’t find anything wrong. But if we’re being honest, I didn’t look that hard. I was more concerned with what might eat me. No logic there, just fear.
I still wonder if the captain really felt a shimmer. He was probably just doing what some captains do to brash eighteen-year-old deckhands.
We kept heading north. Up the Hudson and into the Erie. Everything you might imagine. Small villages. Trees hanging over glass-like water. Kids in canoes. Almost the entire way, these waters were meant to be taken idle or just above. Go it slow. Not up on plane. And definitely not for a boat of this size.
When we made it into Canada, the owner joined us. I’ll save you his name because you’d know his company. Maybe your kids play with his toys. This was his new toy. He wanted to drive. The captain obliged, but asked: “please, go easy. This is a no wake area. These waters aren’t meant for our kind of wake.”
He looked up at the captain with a smirk. The kind of “whatever, I’m in charge” smirk. He grabbed both throttles in one hand and pushed them all the way forward.
The propellers bit. The stern dug down. She pushed forward and picked up momentum. Soon several million dollars of fiberglass, steel, and ego were up on plane.
I like to think those waves were six feet high, but I know that’s not true. I tend to exaggerate things when I look back, good or bad. They were easily three feet though, and they did what you’d expect. Fanning out on both sides, they rolled docks, tossed canoes, and sent people on shore into a rage. Some just stood there in awe of the audacity. This was not what you do here. He didn’t care. This was his time.
The Mounties were waiting for us at the next lock. We could see them as we approached. The captain was almost in a panic. This was his license on the line. It turned out okay. We got off with a fine. But the lesson was real.
We move through the world and through people’s lives, and behind us is a wake. It spreads out. The energy helps or it hurts.
I’ve been thinking about my wake. Not necessarily slower. Or less. But intentional. Or at least aware.
Take care. Be good.
–Kelly
