I’m anchored in Barnegat Bay. Assuming that I could sail from Henlopen Harbor to Sandy Hook in one day was biting off more than I could chew. The promised 15-to-20 knot westerly wind turned out to be more like ten knots once it made an appearance at around 1100 hours. Translated, that meant my boat speed was in the five knot range, not fast enough to make Sandy Hook until well after nightfall. When I dropped below four knots, I let the engine take over. I wasn’t on anyone’s schedule but my own, so I decided on my alternate, Barnegat Inlet. Luckily, I approached the Inlet just as flood tide was making an appearance. I had some late afternoon on-shore breeze but not enough to threaten That Good Night’s entrance. As it was, I joined a line of weekenders making their way back to port. I had no choice but to gingerly follow not only a narrow channel, but a shallow one as well. That Good Night’s keel stirred the sand more than once, but we made it through without embarrassment. I found an anchorage in the Bay with nine feet of water. I had been at sea for fourteen hours, which made my nighttime glass of Scotch taste all that much better.
I had just raised the main and unfurled the jib when my eye caught two boats heading in my direction. White foamy water sprayed from their bows. They were coming at a high rate of speed, like they were intent on T-boning me to the bottom.
Moving to avoid one brought me into line with the other. My choices were prayer or get their attention. I chose the latter. I yelled, blew my claxon, cursed, and watched as they bore down on That Good Night like laser-guided missiles. My guess is that these guys were either sitting in the back swilling beer or cleaning some poor fish or maybe both, but I sure didn’t see anyone at the helm. The presumption is they had their boats on auto-helm: it’d be like driving down the highway on cruise control while playing cards in the back seat. Anyway, at the last minute I swerved That Good Night as they barreled past—one to port the other to starboard. The idiots actually waved.
Abusive technology: set the GPS in line with the auto-helm, crank up the RPMs, go have a beer, screw everybody else, and believe that you alone own all you survey. The argument is that it’s never technology; its people. Did the invention of the telephone create gossip? Did the invention of the telescope give birth to voyeurism? Maybe not, but they sure did advance the cause of the nutcases. We used to look at a great ass and remember it. Cat clicks a button on his electronic wonder and photographs it. Is that bad? Maybe not, but I think it’s a bit over the top. Not like it was years ago.
Years ago—now there’s a term. It’s like back when or when I was a boy. Same as used to, I guess. After about a week’s time living at Sunset, these opening phrases would signal repetition. Not like Emma’s stuff. She was stuck; her mind ran a constant loop. I’m talking here about repetitive stories that old people get into. I’d run like hell whenever someone started a conversation with did I ever tell you the story…? Yeah, about a thousand times. There was nothing new to build on. Lots of gossip, though gossip isn’t memorable. Sunset gossip circulated around errant body functions, so-n’-so’s new wig, or sometimes some inane tidbit about Lance Lordell whipping his manhood out at breakfast. Maybe my escape has them talking, hoping, vicariously embracing adventure. If I could give the folks back in Sunset a gift, it would be a tomorrow to look forward to.
There’s not much tide in Barnegat Bay, but enough to make the difference between grounding out and floating. My Garmin chart-plotter told me that the best hope of safely getting out of the bay was for me to leave at 0530 hours the next morning. “Fine with me,” I said aloud to no one but myself.
Restudying the charts, I decided to enter in a route directly to New York Harbor rather than ducking into Sandy Hook. If things went well, there’d be no problem adding some extra miles.