by Erik Orton
On land, we’re insulated. We have our lives, our work, our locked doors. We invite people in, sort of. Sometimes we go out for dinner with another couple, or host a party or take someone a meal when they’re sick. But it’s never the same. There’s something intangible about two or three boats anchored near each other, sharing the load of living on the water, raising children and seeing to the necessities of daily life. I think it has something to do with time and creating more of it.
On land we work our time hard. We squeeze every ounce of productivity out of it. Or we fritter it away on stuff that doesn’t matter. Or we think things matter a lot that don’t matter at all. I’m looking at you, internet. I think it has something to do with being outside.
On the water, the elements and weather are close. It’s like being a farmer. What happens in the sky affects what happens on the ground. It doesn’t happen behind two-by-four walls and sheetrock. It’s close, always on hand. On a boat, the protective walls are thin, for better or for worse.
Little Wing needed to get south. Once again, they sailed south and we prepared to sail north. We would miss them.
The rain poured for one day, and then two days. The dinghy was resting on the water but it filled up with enough rain that we had to go out twice a day to pump it out to keep it afloat. We read and puttered, waiting it out. We ate breakfast and lunch and puttered some more. We put out bowls to catch the rain that was now leaking through our watertight hatches. This was a lot of rain. The temperature dropped, so we pulled out all the layers we could find to stay warm.
“This is miserable,” I said while I washed the dishes. It was something to do.
“What if we got out of here?” Erik said. He gets this mischievous alertness in his eyes whenever he’s about to do something impulsive.
“Where would we go? It’s raining everywhere,” I said.
“It’s not raining in my parents’ house,” he said.
“I love it,” I said. “Who wants to go to Grandma’s?” It was like a good fairy had woken up the whole kingdom at once.
“When?” Karina asked. It would take us days to sail there, but only hours to drive in the car we were borrowing.
“Right now,” Erik said. There was some waffling. Reasonable concerns were mentioned, but the kids were already squealing, cheering, and packing.
“It would be so awesome to show up on their doorstep,” Alison said.
“We should probably give them a little warning,” I said. They had lives. They worked, traveled, and occasionally had houseguests. Seven people couldn’t be completely cavalier.
Everything went into our waterproof sack. We locked all the hatches, slid the salon door shut, and lowered into the dinghy. In a moment everyone was completely soaked. The rain pounded without a sign of letting up. We motored ever-so-slowly the short distance between Fezywig and the dock. The dinghy was riding low in the water. With the cooler temperature the tubes deflated slightly, but we all made it. We threw ourselves and everything in the truck and sped up I-95.
“Hey, Mom,” Erik said into his cell phone. “How you doing?”
“Fine. How are you?” she asked, a bit wary.
“We were wondering if you guys were home.”
“Are you standing outside our door?” she asked. She knew Erik well.
“No. But we’re on our way. Is that okay?”
“Oh, yes! We’d love to have you!”
It felt like cheating. I could count on one hand the number of nights I hadn’t slept on Fezywig over the whole year. Eli always referred to Erik’s parents’ house as the “mansion of happiness and joy.” In truth it is a well-maintained home, but pretty typical for the suburbs of DC. To a little kid who grew up in a two-bedroom/one-bath apartment in a sooty city and now lived on a cramped, soggy boat, it did feel like a mansion. At Grandma’s we enjoyed warm beds, a dryer for all our wet clothes, a big TV, and a couch from which we watched countless movies. Grandma stuffed us full of warm foods both salty and sweet.
There’s so much to love about being on the water. And there’s so much to love about being on land. I liked being amphibious. There’s a beauty being exposed to the elements. There’s a reassurance being protected from them. There’s so much meaning and purpose to being out and isolated, yet equally as much being gathered in and together. I think there’s a balance that depends upon and requires a shifting from one to the other. Perhaps it’s a cycle or rhythm more than a place or location.
When we got back to Fezywig the rain had stopped. The dinghy was still tied to the dock and, thankfully, the outboard was still above the water line. The dock was practically submerged because the water had risen so high. It took half an hour to pump out the dinghy, but sitting—essentially—in a tub of fresh rainwater was its own kind of luxury. We were all thrilled to see Fezywig again. We’d had our time to sit still. Now we were excited to be on the move.
* * *
1.I should note here that I’m not an idiot. Every half-savvy cruiser knows that there’s a plug at the stern end of a dinghy that is pulled whenever the dinghy is hoisted out of the water. I know this. However, because the dinghy we could afford was not a hard-bottom dinghy, the bottom of our dinghy was supported by a stiff, inflatable pad. This pad covered, and consequently made it difficult to remove, the drainage plug at the stern. It was easier to just lower the dinghy into the water and tow it behind rather than deflate the floor pad each time we wanted to pull the drainage plug. There. I’ve made my case. I’m not an idiot.
Chapter 20
Unsinkable
Hampton, Virginia, USA
7 Months, 2 Days aboard Fezywig
ERIK
We were ready to be home. It was about three hundred miles to New York Harbor. We were rested and refreshed. We had our full crew and the weather was beautiful. We motored into the wind as the river widened, passed the Chesapeake Bay, and continued out to sea. Once we were far enough out to point north, we raised the sails.
We sailed for two straight days and were heading into our second night on the water. Fifteen miles offshore we passed the Delaware Bay. The outcoming tide pushed us even farther out. The rain returned and the seas got rowdy. I didn’t feel well. No one felt good. We had gone soft. All the days motoring up the ICW, being at anchor in Hampton, and the days at my parents’ cost us our sea legs. Seasickness returned. Around midnight the lights of Atlantic City came into view and I asked everyone if they wanted to head in. They did. Karina joined me on watch and we motored, finally making it to anchor after 1:00 a.m.
After a long sleep and broody weather all night, we woke up to a clear blue sky, wispy white clouds, and a breakfast of Nutella and bread. The season had turned and the weather cooled off considerably, especially on the water. While at my parents’ we had pillaged our stash of clothes under their stairs and come away with several scarves and hats. We put them to full use now. The dinghy sagged because of the cold air. We inflated it with more air, and that solved it for the time being.
Everyone was layered up in fleece pullovers, windbreakers, and stocking caps. We dug deep into our cabin closets and found our socks. Those went on, and then we pulled out the almost-forgotten deck shoes lost under piles of flip-flops and sandals.
The final leg of the ICW started at Atlantic City and continued up to the Manasquan Inlet. I proposed the idea of going slow and easy on the inside, heading back out to sea at the Manasquan Inlet, and then running up to New York Harbor. Everyone thought I was a genius.
As we moved north on our final leg, I couldn’t help reflect on the two worlds that sit strangely side by side yet remain so completely separate. There’s a thin divide between here and there; land and sea. We use different maps. Land maps don’t show water depths, submerged rocks, or shipping lanes. They show malls, neighborhoods, and freeways. Sailing charts don’t show roads, town names, or restaurants. They show buoys and channels an
d marinas. They’re two separate worlds.
As we passed through the coastal towns of New Jersey, we knew nothing about them except what color the light was on top of the water or radio tower. Car drivers crossed bridges oblivious to the crucial relationship between the height of the bridge, the height of a mast, and the tide. On land, the world was faster and insulated. On the water, we moved slow and exposed.
We motored all day, snuggled against the crisp air in our sweatshirts, hats, and jeans. It made for perfect end-of-summer sailing. We passed Toms River. I couldn’t help but laugh at our first, chaotic family sail there. We’d bounced off channel pylons, dropped sail ties into the water, and generally bumbled around while Eli and Lily screamed their heads off. We still had our issues, but now we more or less had our act together. That first sail felt like another life.
As we moved farther north the channels narrowed and shallowed. I stayed at the helm all day with Emily at my side. We ended up fighting currents, which made for slow going. I took a wrong turn and wound us back into a dead-end inlet. I retraced our wake back to the ICW. I was getting tired and we were running out of daylight.
Each drawbridge required a radio call to coordinate an opening. Some of the bridges were fixed. Either we fit under them or we didn’t. If we didn’t, we’d have to wait for low tide. The last fixed bridge bent the VHF antenna. We held our breath and cleared it, but we knew we were cutting it close. We would get to our last bridge, the Manasquan Inlet, after midnight. The next day was forecast for rain. I called the crew together.
“Hey guys, we’ve got a decision to make,” I told them. “We’ll need to decide whether we push on through the night or anchor, get some sleep, and keep going in the morning.”
“Do we have to decide right now?” Karina asked. The sun was getting low in the sky.
“Not yet. We can get through all the bridges and then decide. But we should think about it.”
We continued passing through bridges. I realized around 8:15 p.m. that we had to call four hours in advance to schedule the last bridge opening. We were going to get there around midnight, so we were already late. We called and the operator, thankfully, obliged. I felt bad when we got there closer to 1:00 a.m. thanks to the opposing currents. We were grateful he’d waited for us. I hope he got paid for overtime.
Now was the time to decide. There was a marina on our left and a small basin on our right. The marina was lit with big stadium-like fluorescent lights that blinded our night vision and made it hard to see anything on the water. I pulled over into the basin and did a small loop while our eyes adjusted.
“So what do you ladies want to do?” I asked. Emily and the Big girls were on deck. The Littles were soundly sleeping.
“I think I want to keep going,” Karina said.
“Me too,” Alison concurred.
“I’d like to get home,” Jane said.
“If we can make it work, it’d be nice to be home by morning. Maybe beat the rain,” Emily said.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m really tired and need a break. Here’s what I propose. We head out this channel, out to sea, and get some distance from shore. Once we set the sails, we’ll turn north. At that point, I’ll go below and get some sleep. I’ll probably need to sleep from two to six. Can you guys take those watches?”
The girls and Emily nodded.
“Okay, then I’ll get up at dawn and sail us into New York Harbor.” It was going to be boat rush hour on the water, and I didn’t want Emily or the girls to be responsible for that section. That one was on me as captain.
“’All right, everyone clear off the tables and stow everything. It’s going to get bumpy.” We put away coloring books, boxes of crayons, leftover dishes, the laptop, a bag of pretzels. It had been a flat day in the ICW. That was about to change. This was no Oyster Pond, but we’d gotten savvy. Emily and Alison unzipped the lazy jack and made sure the lines were properly flaked for raising the sails.
I pointed Fezywig toward the channel and headed out to sea one last time.
EMILY
We had about twenty-five miles to New York’s Lower Bay, then another twenty-five miles to the Upper Bay; then up the Hudson, under the George Washington Bridge, and tuck in at the Dyckman Marina. I’d been dreaming about pulling up to the Dyckman Marina. Once we unloaded the boat our local friends could hang out, dance, maybe play some music. They could see where we’d been living. We’d close the loop. We’d bring our two worlds together. Erik was obviously exhausted, but if he could push through one more hour, Karina and I would take over and he could sleep. We’d be home by 9:00 a.m.
We cleared the breakwater walls and Erik pushed down the throttles. The wind whistled through the shrouds. We were pounding into the oncoming seas, running both engines, our sails aloft but luffed. The rigging rattled like the whole thing was going to come apart, and the slack sails slapped and thrashed with the slippery sound of Dacron. The deck pitched. Then something broke loose, silently. The heavy end of the dinghy, the end with the outboard, broke free. The dinghy was now dragging askew in the ocean behind us, dangling from the engine chain clipped to the lifting line. The contents of the dinghy gradually spilled into the night sea: the oars, the bench seat, the water pump. This was Norfolk all over again but much worse.
“Get a spotlight on that stuff,” Erik shouted. It looked like he was going to try to retrieve it in the dark in those pitching waves. I didn’t think it was a good idea to chase down the dinghy flotsam. We’d be more likely to retrieve whatever showed up on shore the next morning. I wasn’t going to argue under the circumstances. I grabbed the spotlight and stepped up to the transom. Fezywig pitched again. My whole body hit the mainsail rigging, and it flung me back on the cockpit table. I scrambled to my feet. If I hadn’t hit the ropes, I would be in the water with the oars and the bench seat, drifting away.
“We’re turning back,” Erik said. We’ll regroup and then figure out what to do.” Nobody wanted to go back to the inlet. It was only a couple of miles to retrace, but it meant anchoring for the night in the rain and delaying our homecoming another day. We were all exhausted. We all knew it was the smart thing to do. We’d sleep aboard one more night. Erik turned downwind and headed straight back for the rocky entrance to the Manasquan Inlet.
We crossed through the open train bridge, picked a spot in the tight inlet, and dropped anchor. Erik didn’t like our spot—still too in the way of traffic—so we pulled anchor and tried to reset ourselves farther out of the channel. With the anchor out, he bore down on the port engine to set it. We heard a quick thud and the engine stopped hard.
“Great,” Erik said. “I’m wasted. I can’t do one more thing today.” He set the anchor with the starboard engine. Then he sat down near our port stern swimming stairs, leaning back against the step where the decals spelled out “Fezywig.” I sat down next to him as he stared off into the blackness of the night. Karina went to bed.
“I’ll take care of the dinghy,” I said. I went to work sorting out the chain and lines and collecting everything that hadn’t spilled into the ocean. My right foot was suddenly wet. I was standing on the bottom step of the starboard side and my foot was underwater. “That’s weird.”
“What?” Erik asked.
“Why is my sock getting wet on the steps? It is really warm, though,” I said.
Karina called from below, “The bilge is really full.”
“Turn on the pump,” Erik said.
“It’s coming up really fast,” she said with some urgency. “I can hear water gushing.”
“Okay.” Erik slowly lifted himself from the stern steps and lumbered below. “I’ll come take a look.”
“It’s not good. The floorboards are floating,” Erik said. “Water is spilling over the door thresholds into the cabins.” I went straight to the cupboards and bench seats to pull out bowls, buckets, and whatever could hold water.
“It
’s coming from the port engine compartment,” Erik said. He opened the compartment lid. “It’s like there’s a spring in here. Water is rushing in. Start bailing!”
Alison came up to grab a bowl and immediately jumped into the engine compartment with a bucket. Karina started bailing in her room. Jane came out to get a bowl as well. I started pulling books and clothing from their lower shelves. I dumped it on the salon seating. Some of it was already soaked. I don’t remember who started it, but the girls and I were singing “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift as we bailed. Then we launched into other favorites. I love my singing family. Alison dumped straight overboard, but Karina and Jane brought their full containers to me. I’d dump them overboard and leave an empty container at the top of the stairs for them to grab. We’d established a solid system at lightning speed. Even in the moment I was proud of my cheerful crew.
“We’re pulling anchor,” Erik said. “Alison, stay put. The rest of you, I want docking lines and fenders on the port side.” The boat was now listing deeply on the port side. A fuel dock stood 100 yards behind us. “We going to lash the boat to those pylons so we don’t sink.”
Erik got the starboard engine running and edged forward to take tension off the anchor chain. Karina, Jane and I got everything in place quickly and precisely. Eli and Lily stumbled out into the starboard hallway to see what was going on.
“The boat is sinking,” I said. “You can sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s bed.” There was no fear or reassurance in my voice. I simply stated the facts. Eli took Lily’s hand and they crossed the hall into our berth.
Erik moved the boat over the anchor and we pulled it up. With one engine, he spun the boat 270 degrees counterclockwise to get momentum and the right approach angle.
“Okay everyone, we’ve got one chance to get this. As soon as we touch, I want you off the boat and on the dock. Jane, you go and find help. Anyone. Tell them, ‘Our boat is sinking and we need help,’” Erik said.