I’m not much of a racer. Years back, I crewed as a mainsail trimmer for races on Lake Ontario. Racing skippers are another breed entirely. If they have a lot of money, their boats are bedecked with every conceivable electronic gizmo on the market. They’ll buy sails worth more than a modest house. Their wives seldom go with them. Racing sailors yell a lot. And as far as safety goes, they might as well have their crew walk a tight rope over alligator pits. After a few of those races, I promised myself never to go near those nutcases again. But, I have to admit, more often than not, they know how to handle a sailboat.
From what I had observed so far, Ernie would be more collected and respectful of crew, boat, and wind/water conditions. As it turned out, he was, except for one thing: he appeared to literally hate every other skipper out there.
It wasn’t a matter of winning for Ernie; it was more a matter of belittling every other sailor. Ernie knew tactics like a navy admiral and used them to out maneuver his competitors. Like at the start of the race. Once we had the five minute warning, Lamecuf went into stealth mode, zipping among boats like an Australian sheep dog, herding the boats into an ever tightening pack; adhering to rules for racing sailboats becomes much more difficult in close quarters. Ernie enjoyed the mayhem he created.
Once the cannon roared to announce the start, Ernie held back, letting his competitors crunch across the starting line. As the pack broke loose, old Ernie trimmed Lamecuf’s sails and off we went on a journey of harassment. Ernie’s favorite was to saunter up to a boat’s stern, hang there a second then go windward around the boat, stealing his wind. And never did we go by a boat without Ernie saying something sarcastic and, at times, giving a one finger salute. At the end of it all, Ernie neither won nor did he ingratiate himself to any member of the club. It was enough for Ernie to let everyone know that he could have won the race if he had wanted to.
I shared crewing duties with a young fellow named Steve McIntyre. Steve ran the foredeck which essentially meant setting and managing the spinnaker. He was a good guy, nimble and very focused on his job. Steve, thirty-five years old, was a fireman with the West Harbor Fire Department. Ernie handled the helm, I trimmed the main and Steve did all the rest. I envied his agility; Steve just zipped and zagged around that foredeck like a cheetah chasing an antelope. I, on the other hand, had painful spasms in my neck from looking aloft to find the right sail trim. The three of us left the Yacht club right after dinner in time for Ernie to avoid the award ceremony. We took a slow walk back to Ernie’s place, sat on the deck, drank beer, talked and waited for dusk and the annual yacht club fireworks. Steve bid adieu after the last boom. Ernie broke out a bottle of Sandeman Founders Reserve Port.
“I’ve been putting something off,” Ernie said, pouring some of the garnet red liquid into my glass. “Yesterday, when I told you about naming my boat LAMEKUF, I didn’t mention that after retiring, I kept an old couple on as patients. I’ve been doctoring Doris and Ivan Heller for over fifty years. Late last night, Doris called me to tell me that Ivan passed on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Did he die at home?”
“He did. Nice way to go. In fact, he’s still there. Doris called to ask me if I could arrange a burial at sea. Are you interested?”
“Wait, you mean to tell me that this old woman is staying in her house with her dead husband?”
“Damn it, Charlie. What’s so wrong about that? I went over and took care of things. Now are you interested or not?
I wasn’t certain what interested meant. “What do you have in mind?”
“Ivan was in the merchant marines. He lost a lot of friends in the war. Picking off Liberty ships was like shooting skeet to the U-Boat guys. Anyway, Ivan had a streak of guilt a mile wide. He was one of these guys who just couldn’t understand why he was spared and his friends weren’t. I guess he wants to join his friends.”
“So, what do you mean by interested?”
“Your boat. We can’t take my boat. Too small for a few overnights.”
“Overnights?”
“What are you thinking, that we can bury the guy in Long Island Sound? We need to take the body out into the Atlantic.”
“I assume that you’ve looked into this. And why not cremate the guy and scatter the ashes?”
“Ivan was very clear. He specifically said that he did not want to be cremated. He wants to join his buddies for a game of cards and Ivan didn’t believe that ashes can play cards. And, yes, I have looked into burial at sea: At least three miles out in water no less than six-hundred feet deep. The closest spot is off Long Island Sound by thirty miles, so I’m guessing three overnights.”
“And you want me to do this on my boat?”
“It’s the perfect boat. Doris will come along. That makes three, four going out if we include Ivan.”
“Whoa, Ernie. Slow down. Why Doris?”
“Why not,” Ernie answered. “This is a funeral. She needs to have closure. For God’s sake, Charlie.”
“Ernie, you are a true pain in the ass.”
What the hell. Go with the flow and yes, pun intended. That’s what sailors should do. Anyway, I had no schedule to keep.
“Conditions,” I declared. “First, his body must be prepared by an undertaker for an at-sea burial, weights and all. Second, he’s got to be in a box and kept on deck. Third, the box must be padded on the outside so it doesn’t scratch the deck. And last, you’re in charge of Doris—I don’t want to have to take care of a grieving widow.”
“Agreed, except for one thing, the box. Ivan wants to go over the side like his buddies did.”
“Look Ernie, what are we supposed to do, fling him overboard like tossing a kid in a swimming pool?”
“Maybe. Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to. Simple as that. You solve the problem.”
“How about we flip over the box. You know, just dump him overboard.”
“How much does he weigh?”
“No more than eighty pounds—he was pretty far gone when he died. And when the mortician gets rid of the fluids, he’ll be down to maybe seventy or so. Plus, don’t forget the weight needed to take him to the bottom.”
“We can do that from the stern platform. Did good old Ivan express having a problem with being dumped off the stern?” I asked sarcastically.
“He never mentioned it. Sounds good to me. Can we leave tomorrow?” Ernie asked with the enthusiasm of a four year old about to get his way.
“Depends on the weather,” I replied.
“I’ve already checked: Southwest wind 15 to 20; high pressure for the next four days.”
“We need to take on stores.”
“Mildred is making up meals for three days.”
“Jesus, Ernie. You had this all planned out. Why didn’t you bring this up yesterday?”
“Because you weren’t ready.”
“What does that mean?”
“C’mon, Charlie, let’s just do this and enjoy ourselves. When Doris called, I was looking over at your glorious boat and thinking that Ivan deserves to go out in style.”
“My boat looks like a Cadillac hearse?”
“Hell no. It’s a magnificent sailing vessel that speaks of pride and love of the sea.”
“Ernie, you are the biggest bull-shitter I’ve met since leaving Sunset.”
“Sunset?”
“Forget it. Okay, I agree. We leave tomorrow at 0930 hours.”
Acquiescing to Ernie’s plea came rather easily. There are but few opportunities for old folks to find new friendships. So many of the old ones have disappeared either through death or illness or just moved on. Meeting Ernie was like a visit to the fountain of youth.
Sinking Ivan in six hundred feet meant that we had to sail out to the Atlantic Canyon, which is off Long Island, a distance of about one hundred nautical miles from West Harbor. Given good winds, it would take fifteen to twenty hours to get there and an equal amount of time to get back. That meant night sailing, limited sleep time, and two-hour watches. We’d be flirting with the big boys, freighters that could mow us down without knowing it. Two tired old men and a ninety-two year old lady as frail as a dried leaf.
Our sail plan called for heading to Montauk, then bearing southwest until the depth sounder registered six-hundred feet. I noticed on the chart that the Canyon was filled with unexploded ordinance; I hoped Ivan wouldn’t wind up cuddling up to an old torpedo for eternity.