The Cure for Anything Is Salt Water: How I Threw My Life Overboard and Found Happiness at Sea

by Mary South

  Shinnecock was so close to Sag Harbor by car that it was hard not to feel we were practically home when we tied up for the evening. We were now in a neighborhood that a Los Angeles realtor would call "Hamptons-adjacent," and if we hadn't realized it before, we certainly did when dockhands in white uniforms arrived to help with the lines. The sun was just starting to sink, and the restaurant above the docks was jammed with women in Capri pants and big sunglasses and tanned men in golf shirts with booming voices. The tables were littered with cosmopolitans and Judith Leiber handbags, and the restaurant overflow spilled onto the deck, shouting over the sounds of a steel drum band.

  We decided not to battle the crowds and found our way to the deserted inner bar. We toasted an amazing trip and our most successful day, and ordered the best crab cakes I've ever had. I tried to pry the recipe out of the chef when he came out to the bar, but he could not be bribed.

  John and I were now becoming very nostalgic about the end of the trip. We even looked back at the purgatory of the middle week with fondness. What would our voyage have been without at least a little bit of suffering-and we'd gotten off so easily! I had to admit, I was ecstatic about the Bossanova. Not only had she seen us through some really rough weather, but she'd made her very first trip with me, over a thousand miles, without a single mechanical problem. (I didn't count the two batteries we'd replaced partway up-that was more of a maintenance issue.) Even though we weren't home yet, we were now close enough. On the off chance that we suffered some massive failure the next day, John would still make his fight and I was only a phone call away from a bed at a friend's.

  In the morning, we pushed off a little bit later than usual, around 0900 hours. The skies were gray, the clouds looked stuffed with rain. We motored through the approach to the Shinnecock Canal and wondered what it would be like. As we approached the lock, I looked up at Route 27, the highway that passed above it. Over many years of driving that road to the Hamptons, I'd developed a little ritual about looking to the left, right there, toward Great Peconic Bay. It was always the first glimpse of water after driving out of Manhattan, and seeing the boats arrayed at the marina below made me feel happy and excited. I had never realized that this was the Shinnecock Canal, that there was a lock here, or that I would one day bring my own boat beneath the highway and out into the bay.

  Since we'd taken the Atlantic route, we'd had no need to use the systems of locks that link many inland waterways.

  They're designed to convey boats from the level of one body of water to a connecting body of water at a different level. I'd heard they could be really harrowing but had no idea what to expect. Up ahead, we saw that traffic was divided into two lanes. To port were Atlantic-bound vessels, to starboard, boats headed for Great Peconic Bay, Gardiner's Bay and Long Island Sound. A Boston whaler coming through to the Atlantic side fishtailed wildly as it exited the lock. The skipper looked like he'd lost all control as he veered toward the retaining wall, then fishtailed back away from it and recovered the middle of the channel.

  "What the hell happened to him?" John asked.

  A green light ahead of us indicated that the lock was open and we would not have to wait. Excellent! But as we pushed toward the gates of the lock, we felt the amazing force of the current rushing against us. I throttled up from the gentle 1,000 rpms we'd been running at as we approached. We were being pushed back. I kept pushing the throttle up, past 2,000 now, and we were still being forced ever so slightly back. As we hit 2,500 the engine's growl got deeper, throatier, and the boat finally stood still. We were trapped squarely between two concrete walls 15 feet away from either side of the Bossanova, with another boat not far behind us and we still weren't making any headway.

  "Oh, my god, John. I can't believe this. I'm not sure we can make it." I was perhaps more panicked than I had been at any other moment of our trip. Turning around would be very difficult against this current. At the same time, I wasn't sure I could control the boat if we had to back out-and the vessel waiting behind us added to my nervousness. I did not want to tangle with it. I gave the engine one more blast of throttle, pushing her to her limits, and-hallelujah-we surged forward.

  Of course, now we knew why the boat exiting the lock toward the Atlantic had been swinging around-he had the force of the current on his stern pushing him out. This close call at the locks was something we hadn't anticipated, but once we were through, we were a little giddy. We knew it was likely to be the last adrenaline rush of our journey, and we were almost glad for that final taste of challenge.

  As we cleared the canal and chugged around toward Sag Harbor, I watched the coast for landmarks. But everything looked different from out here. I wouldn't have had a clue where I was without a nautical chart.

  We rounded the point into Sag Harbor around noon. I can't possibly explain how happy I was, how exhilarating it felt to tie up at the town dock and climb onto a pier I'd walked down a hundred times before. One summer I had belonged to the gym near the wharf, and I'd never been more diligent about working out. The view of the docks, stacked with superyachts, as well as the view of the harbor's more humble moored fleet, always filled me with a sense of peace. That was only a few years ago, yet I had never once looked out at those boats and thought I might actually own one, live on one, pilot it over a thousand miles through the Atlantic.

  The major accomplishment of what we'd done had really escaped me until this moment, but now it was sinking in. I had brought my boat all the way up from Florida in under three weeks, on $600 worth of diesel, with no breakdowns and no disasters. We had stepped aboard in Stuart, Florida, and here we were, disembarking in Sag Harbor, New York. The trip was over. We'd done it.

  John and I went immediately to Dockside to celebrate. We had lunch and toasted an amazing journey. John said, "Mare, I gotta tell you. It was a great trip. It couldn't have been better. I actually feel sad that it's over. And I've gotta admit, the ole Bossanova is a hell of a boat. Thank you for asking me to come with you. Really, it has been one of the best experiences I've ever had."

  I hardly knew what to say.

  "Hey, I don't know why you're thanking me, John. I never could have done it without you. Truly. And even if I had found someone else to come, it wouldn't have been the same. There's no one I'd rather have done it with." And much to my surprise, that was absolutely true.

  I was too wound up to sit at the bar and drink all day, so after lunch, I left John and walked around town. I knew I had a ridiculous grin on my face and my feet felt like they were hovering above the sidewalks. I was giddy, positively high. I simply could not believe that I was in this town, which I thought of as my second home, and that I had made it here in my own boat.

  Let's face it-it's been done a couple hundred thousand times before. It was a lot bolder than coming up the ICW, as most people do, but it wasn't nearly as daring as climbing Everest or sailing solo around the world.

  But the joy I felt today had nothing to do with risk-taking or daring. It especially had nothing to do with what anybody else thought of my trip. I had finally done something that was intensely meaningful to me. More meaningful than good grades, scholarships, speedy promotions, bestsellers everything else I had done right in my life, all my other "accomplishments." I had gone from knowing nothing six months ago to coming up the East Coast through the Atlantic as captain of my own boat, and it was the greatest thing I'd ever done. No doubt about it.

  The next morning, John and I got up early to drive to the airport. It was pouring rain, but we had a head start, so I wasn't worried about missing the fight. Silly me. We were trapped for what seemed like an eternity on the Long Island Expressway, in the 30s exits that have been under construction since the dawn of man and probably still will be when the last star fades from the sky. The minutes ticked by, and it began to seem like there was absolutely no way John was going to make his fight. We laughed about how funny it was to come all this way and then screw up something this simple. I dropped John at LaGuardia feeling lousy that he'
d probably have to wait around for the next fight.

  Forty minutes later, he called me from his cell. Apparently Poseidon was still watching over us. The rain that cascaded from the heavens had delayed all departures. John was sitting on the plane, preparing for takeoff.

  The trip was over.

  CHAPTER EIGH T

  Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.

  -WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Well, I thought the trip was over. There was one more leg from Sag Harbor to Maine that I planned for the end of summer, and there was still the unknown experience of truly living aboard a boat waiting ahead for me. But I imagined that the biggest surprises of my voyage were behind me. But I failed to consider the real meaning of my journey. There were still one or two things I would learn about myself.

  After I'd enjoyed a couple of luxurious days at the expensive town dock, I relocated the Bossanova to a cove, just under and beyond the bridge to North Haven. It was free, and, better than that, it was a quiet, sheltered spot away from the flashy superyachts that thronged the town's waterfront.

  While I was tied up in town, I'd made friends with Matt, the guy who ran the Sag Harbor launch, so any time I needed to get to land I'd call him up on the VHF and he'd make a quick pickup for $3. He was also great about bringing me back after hours on the few occasions I stayed ashore for dinner. I'd give him a call and he'd come down and meet me at the docks-I gave him a big tip on these trips. Of course, I'm sure that a big gratuity from the owner of the Bossanova was not quite the same as a big gratuity from the owner of a super yacht-although, come to think of it, you never know. It's not the size of the boat that matters.

  Naturally, I had my own dinghy aboard the Bossanova, but the cowl that covered its outboard engine had broken off. It smashed against the deck when we tangled with that first storm in Georgia, and the next day it slid into Charleston Harbor when we almost capsized. I'd have to track down a new one, but in the meantime, the town launch was much faster, and it was an easy way to bring the dogs to shore for exercise. The three of us in my little 9-foot inflatable would have been a little bit fur-raising.

  Life on the hook, as salts call anchoring out, was fantastic. I had all the amenities of a rich resort town nearby with none of the hassles or expenses. I'd bring groceries back and grill, sit and watch the sunset with a glass of wine. It was wonderful. Every time I was in the water taxi and rounded the marker just past the bridge, I looked eagerly for a first glimpse of the Bossanova. There she was, sitting majestically in the cove, looking like an ex-navy boat and a fish out of water in the polished Hamptons.

  A few days after I'd anchored in the cove, I noticed the VHF signal petering out to nothing. Although I ran the engine for an hour every morning and evening, the batteries just weren't holding a charge for very long. I knew I was going to have to figure something else out. Though I was loath to spend any money on a berth when it was so nice at anchor, I knew it would be easier on all of us (that is, me and the salty dogs) if we could plug into shore power and get on and off without a VHF call and a 20-minute wait. The real difficulty would be finding a slip. I'd already phoned or visited all the marinas, and there was nothing available for the rest of the season at any price, never mind within my laughable budget.

  One evening, when I'd decided to spend a quiet night on the boat with the boys, I was sitting in the salon reading. Almost all of the power was off to conserve energy, and it was getting so dark that I struggled to see the page. Suddenly, I smelled something. Smoke? I jumped up and ran below, throwing on the engine room lights as I entered. How could there be smoke coming from down here? I thought I must be imagining it-the engine wasn't running, almost nothing was on. I cast a glance at the starboard side of the engine, which looked fine, and circled quickly to the port side. Oh my god-fire!

  Fire on a boat, even a steel boat, is every captain's worst nightmare. More boats are lost each year to fire than they are to the sea. It seems odd, since fire's natural enemy should be an aquatic environment, but a boat has a hot engine, a large fuel supply and an electrical system-all of which are constantly exposed to the unrelenting corrosiveness of the marine atmosphere.

  I grabbed a fire extinguisher off the bulkhead, pulled the ring, aimed and squeezed. The fire sputtered but didn't go out. I took another extinguisher down and tried again, shooting carefully for the base of the flame. Same results. This wasn't working. Trying not to panic, I turned both battery switches in the engine room to OFF, then ran up to the pilothouse and threw the main circuit breakers-just to be safe. I filled a small bucket with water and hightailed it back down to the engine room. I heaved the water and watched as the flames instantly died a smoky death.

  I breathed an enormous sigh of relief and gratitude.

  Thank god I happened to be at home that evening, otherwise, the dogs would have been alone and the fire would have gone unchecked. Disaster. And I couldn't quite believe that I'd summoned the presence of mind to throw the battery switches and circuit breakers off before I tossed the water on the engine. It can be a deadly mistake to use water on an engine fire. If the fire is electrical in nature, it's a great way to be electrocuted. I was also really glad this had happened here in Sag Harbor, instead of when we were in the middle of nowhere on our way up.

  After sitting in the dark salon for a few minutes listening to my heart rate return to normal, I took a flashlight and went below again to see the damage. It looked worse than it was, thanks to the crusty yellow-white powder left by the extinguishers. After I brushed the residue off, I could see that the burned area was quite small and the damage minor.

  I thought back to those dull hours at Chapman, learning about engines. What was this, I wondered, and why did it catch fire? I traced a couple of wires, several of which had melted, and pieced together an idea. I went back to my stateroom, pulled down Nigel Calder's excellent book on diesel engines and found a diagram that I needed to confirm my suspicions. Yup. The wires connecting the solenoid starter to the alternator had somehow caught fire. Those wires would obviously have to be replaced, and it looked like a portion of the solenoid, the cap on top, was melted.

  I have never harbored any illusions about my mechanical ability. While I wished I could learn to repair my own engine, I was realistic about the likelihood of that happening. I decided early on that I'd be happy if I could articulately describe to a mechanic what was wrong. But even my victorious identification of the problem didn't clarify what had caused this fire. The alternator wasn't running, the engine was off, most of the power on the boat was shut down. . .

  In the morning, when Matt picked me up so I could do a few errands, I asked him about local boatyards. He recommended a place called Ship Ashore that was just a stone's throw from where I was anchored. I should ask for Rick. I called when I got home that afternoon, but Rick said they were closing at 4:00 p.m. and were pretty busy until then.

  They'd have to come on Monday.

  Monday! That was three days away-and since I couldn't start my engine, the batteries were going to run all the way down. I would be completely without power for most of the weekend. The lack of amenities didn't bother me much, but I didn't like the idea of floating in 30 tons of steel without a way to maneuver. What if I dragged my anchor, for instance?

  Although I had described the problem to Ship Ashore, it was still reasonable to assume they'd show up on Monday and tell me they had to order a new solenoid-it was unlikely they would have one in stock. Then I'd be without power for several more days while we waited for it to arrive. All right-there was one thing I could try to do: find and order the correct solenoid. Maybe I could even install it myself before Monday.

  There's a guy named Bob Smith who is something of a legend in the trawler world. Rumor has it he can disassemble and reassemble a Ford diesel engine in less than 30 minutes. I dug out a back issue of Passage Maker magazine and found his small advertisement. I called, described the problem and got the kind of great service that's become practically extinct no
w. Bob wasn't there, but some patient soul coached me through finding the part number on the solenoid. It wasn't easy because it was located in an awkward spot and had been partially burnt. But several phone calls back and forth, and my replacement solenoid had been located and shipped for overnight delivery. I felt very proud of myself.

  The next afternoon, I got down underneath the engine with a series of wrenches, trying to be very butch about it. I may even have let my jeans hang down a bit, flashing my "Deer Isle smile," as a friend of mine calls it. I was determined to give this my best shot.

  It didn't look very complicated. Five minutes, three scraped knuckles and at least fifteen expletives later, I gave up and decided to drink an alcoholic beverage with my pinky extended. It's healthy to be able to acknowledge both one's limitations and one's gifts.

  On Monday, a guy with a tool kit showed up. He had longish blonde hair, a baseball cap with an unbent brim, a deep tan and a Long Island accent. He looked like a typical guy who messes about with boats, but his name was Moishe. I loved that. Moishe and I chatted while he effortlessly removed the solenoid.

  We'd already met. He had come by in his dinghy a few days before and circled my boat admiringly. He'd asked me a lot of questions, and we'd talked about the former Russian pilot boat he lived aboard.

  I'd always been a little reclusive by nature. However, something about life aboard the Bossanova changed me. Now, whenever somebody admired my boat, I asked him if he wanted to come aboard and have a look. It didn't matter what I was doing-in the middle of dinner, reading a book, just out of the shower. It started as pride in my vessel and an affinity for anyone who liked her. But it grew into a general openness to new people. Most boaters are friendly and good-natured. They are invested in their relaxation. After all, you have to be pretty comfortable with yourself to spend all that time offshore doing nothing but looking at the changing colors of the sea.