The memorable day took its first turn when the sailors George and Bobby both didn’t show up, and we had a usual sail planned from Sag Harbor to Block Island, with about 10 guests.
The captain that day was a very young, very talented guy named Robbie who had gotten his GRT 200 commercial captain’s license at a very young age.
“Captain—no guys today, just me.”
“No problem, we’ll be fine.” Hmmmm. Maybe.
We had the guests to help raise the main and foresail, and the winds were low that day, so the run to Block was—-yes—-very smooth sailing. That wasn’t the problem.
The sun was just starting to set as we motored slowly through the forest of anchored boats in New Harbor on the way to Payne’s dock. I am standing in the bow, holding the bowline to throw, as Rob-
[Several important notes here: Everything on a schooner is supersized. Even a fairly small amount of line on a schooner is very heavy. Lines are usually thrown overhand, to get the distance needed between ship and dock. I, alas, did not yet have much upper body strength, being fresh from two years of English majorness, compounded by sophmore mono. George and Bobby always do this part. Narrative resumes. . . ]
bie is piloting the 86-foot schooner toward the dock under a low engine. He brings the ship in at an angle, to get me as close to the dock as possible before he has to straighten it out. And in that flow of motion, I throw the dock line with as much might as I have. But---SPLAT!!!—--right into the water. Without the bowline to anchor us, Robbie has to swing away from the dock, and I have to haul the now wet, heavier, line back into the ship.
Robbie circles us around in as tight a radius as the size of the ship will allow, and we are headed again straight for Payne’s.
The Appledore coming into port is a majestic sight—it often attracts a crowd. Chug, chug, chug--we are close again---again I pick up the line, and throoooooow it with all my might.
OHHHHHHHHH the crowd roars, as the line once again falls into the water, and Robbie has to peel off, again.
I was horrified. I was exhausted. I was scared. What if I can’t get this line onto land? Isn’t this how the Ancient Mariner’s world went horribly wrong?
I can barely write this, but my throw fell short a third time. We were entering Monty Python territory now. (I built a castle, but it fell in. So I built another castle, and it fell…), but it wasn’t funny.
Robbie is beginning to lose his patience. For insurance reasons, the guests are not allowed in the bow during docking, so I am on my own. Once again, I coil the evil line. Robbie shouts that he is going to come in even more slowly, which means he can get even closer to the dock.
Chug-chug–chug. There is now a very large crowd gathered, many rows deep, waving, shouting, pointing to our ship. Mercifully, they are a blur to me. (I should have never left the safety of the library.)
Several resourceful, Frat-looking guys are forming a human chain to hang out as far as possible over the dock. Someone yells at me, “Throw it underhand.”
We are now close enough that I can lob 2 feet of this cursed line to the guy at the end of the human chain. He cleats us, Robbie goes into reverse, cuts the engine, and we are home.
I didn’t have time to be too mortified at that moment. I help the passengers off the boat, dress the deck as usual, and take myself into town.
After dinner I go to Captains Nick’s, a friendly place where the sailing crowd dances.
I am relaxing at the bar, when a very good-looking man starts the “what brings you here” conversation with me. Now, during this summer, I was not above aggrandizing my job a little--tall tales are the way of the world on the water--but that night, I say, “I’m an apprentice sailor, learning big-boat sailing.”
He looks straight at me and says, “I know.”
“I tried to catch one of your dock lines today.”
I thought it was the funniest situational line, ever. I laughed away all the tension I had built up over the defeats of the day, and then walked away, in case he or I should say something that would spoil such a perfect moment.