I didn’t think any of this when I anchored, but let me be clear, my experience at Sunset lies just below the surface of my consciousness, and now and then it bobs up to take a gulp of my freedom. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is.
Once the anchor was set, I patted myself on the back for my first day solo sailing. No one knew where I was, no one cared—except the damned insurance company. I was in command of my life and I felt like I would live forever. I went down below, poured a glass of scotch, went back up to the cockpit, and toasted the sailing gods.
I slid back into the old sailing routine of years past: Anchor, switch on or off appropriate electric panel switches; drink a scotch in the cockpit; go below and do tomorrow’s navigation; check the weather report; check the boat’s essentials; have another scotch; and make dinner. The galley in this boat is full-blown. My other boats had an alcohol two-burner stove top. That Good Night has a four burner stove and an oven all fired by propane. A few clicks of switches and knobs and the galley stove fired up, just like at home. Unlike at home, I’m paying particular attention to turning the thing off when I’m done cooking.
I thought about uncorking Baxter’s gift of champagne, but decided to wait until I had someone to share it with. Maybe Bob, once I reached Maine. Thanks to Evan and Carol, I was able to select a handsome tenderloin, some canned potatoes that I fried in olive oil, and a can of corn. For dessert, I dug into some fresh sweet cherries. Accompanying it all was a glass, or maybe two, of Cabernet. Cooking, eating, and clean-up took about an hour. I ended my first night sailing sitting in the cockpit watching the sun slip away, then retired down below.
Here might be a good place to describe the head, or bathroom, as it is referred to on land: vanity, shower, toilet, Corian counter top, hot and cold running water. Did I miss my old boat with a tiny sink, small toilet, cold water only and no shower? No, I did not!
I lay in bed looking through the clear hatch at a star-filled sky. My mind wanted to take me on an anxious ride about being hounded by that insurance investigator. But those dark thoughts disappeared once the fireworks began. Kicking off with booms, cracks, and thunderous roars, lighting the sky with flurries of colorful falling stars, this pyrotechnic show was just what I needed. For old Charlie, for all us octogenarians who can still smell the roses. I missed Lori. Very much. While she wasn’t much of a sailor, when she was onboard, she was a great companion to have on board. We’d snuggle after a day sailing, our bodies sharing the stored-up warmth of a sunny day, our minds softened by the gentle rocking of the boat, wearing love like an old woolen sweater. I have my photograph of Lori hung from the starboard bulk head where I can see it every time I come below. I had my wallet sized photo blown-up and framed in Annapolis. Sometimes she appears so distant, so faraway that I have to work at it to get her back. Other times, she’s just there, right in front of me, smiling, and content with being together. But we’re not together. She’s dead and I’m close behind. When she appears to me, I go on as if she’s right there next to me. I even talk to her. But the sadness lingers, like a low-lying, soft, dark cloud.
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 5, 1852 hours.
Spending July 4th weekend driving from Upstate New York to Annapolis, Maryland is no way to celebrate our nation’s independence. But duty calls. When I get near water, I start shaking. I hate the stuff. Nearly drowned in a YWCA swimming pool when I was eight. Give me a Kansas cornfield any day. But work is work. Annapolis is all about water. There’s got to be fifty marinas, thousands of boats, plus the Naval Academy. The big question of the day was how does an old man with apparently no money get to Annapolis, buy a boat and sail off on the briny sea? Or maybe just buy a boat and live life dockside. Many do.
I took a room at an inn in the center of town. I’d let my fingers do the walking. Be it a fugitive or a grandma, there are three things that everyone needs: people have to eat, they need to have clothes and they need to find shelter. Real basic stuff. If Lambert was in Annapolis, he’d have had to stay somewhere. I made a pot of coffee and started calling. Given what his son told me about Lambert’s business travels, I started by calling hotels. Third call was a hit.
Charles Lambert and Robert Liscome stayed at the Annapolis Marriot on July 1st. Now I had a last name for “Bob from Maine.” Paid in cash. Liscome stayed one night, Lambert, two nights. License plate number Maine 6492 HT. Bingo.
I spent the morning day visiting marinas. Fancy as some of them were, it was boat after boat nestled together like floating house trailers. Living aboard one of these things was not my idea of Shangri-La, but it would be better than bedding down in Sunset. No one so far seemed to know of any Lambert nor did anyone recognize the photograph of him that I got from Sunset. In early afternoon, I visited an upscale marina just off the main drag overlooking the harbor. Inquiring about recent boat sales, I was directed to a salesman named Baxter.
Whatever image I had of a yacht broker did not fit this guy Baxter: overweight, red kinky hair, thick black rimmed glasses and a shoe size that would have given that old woman a place and then some for all her kids. Right off the bat, Baxter started sweating even though the office was air-conditioned. At first he didn’t recall the name Charles Lambert. How could he not remember an old man looking for a yacht? We sat in a conference room overlooking the harbor. I took the seat with my back to the water. Baxter was going to drown in his own sweat by the time I got done with him.
“Nice place you got here. Business good?”
“Thanks. And, well, business is not all that bad considering the economy. I mean a lot of folks got it hard, but those with the big bucks seem to be in pretty good shape.”
“How about Charlie Lambert? Was he in good shape?”
“I’m sorry. Charlie Lambert?”
“You know, the guy that bought a big boat from you. Seems like folks on the dock remember him.”
“Oh, that Charlie Lambert,” Baxter chuckled.
“One and the same.”
“Got hold of an Island Packet. Great boat. Nice guy, Lambert was. He left though. Do you mind if I get a glass of water. Do you want something, maybe a Coke or Sprite?”
“Help yourself. I’m fine.” Baxter got up from the table to go over to a credenza. He opened one of the doors to reveal a small refrigerator and got himself a bottled water.
“You sure?” he said, turning back to me.
“I’m sure,” I answered.
Rather than return to the table, Baxter wandered about the room collecting his thoughts. I said nothing. He walked over to the window, his back to me as if he was trying to hide his eyes from mine. I had already checked online for recent yacht sales but came up with nothing. I suspected that this Baxter had made a sneaky deal and was about to wet his pants. I decided to play my ace.
“Look, Baxter, you obviously are in deep shit here. Selling a boat to an old man, a wanted old man. Now, I suppose that the government might be interested in where all the money came from. And don’t forget taxes. And other regulations. I warn you, I used to work for the FBI and I can cause you more trouble than you would ever want to know. Now, make a choice, either come clean, or cover for Lambert and I’ll nail your ass to the wall.”
Baxter slowly turned around. He looked like he’d gained a foot in height. Through pursed lips, he said as clearly as I’ve ever heard it: “Go fuck yourself and the horse you rode in on.”
In my days with the FBI I’d have this idiot squirming on the ground crying for pity. And if he kept it up, that’s just what I was going to do, toss the hulk on the floor, maybe break his arm.
“Repeat that,” I challenged.
“You heard me. And while you’re at it, pick up the phone over there,” Baxter said, pointing to his desk, “and call the FBI or the CIA or the goddamn local sheriff. If you knew anything about what yacht brokers do you wouldn’t even be here. All we do is put two people together that have similar int
erests. All the details are theirs. I don’t owe you or anybody else an explanation or even the time of day. Now get out of here before I’m the one calling security.”
Disrespect is something an agent of the government simply can’t tolerate. Retired or not, I’ve earned respect and I was going to get it. I moved on Baxter so quickly that he hardly had time to think. If I hadn’t tripped on the rug, I would’ve nailed him good. As it turned out, this Baxter guy got a hammerlock on me and damn if he didn’t toss me out of the front door.
It’s amazing what a brick sidewalk can do to a good pair of pants. That son-of-a bitch Baxter will pay for this. It’s just a matter of time before I nail that prick to a wall.
I got up and dusted myself off. Storming my way out of the marina, I saw a young couple heading for the docks. I calmed myself before calling them over. “Do you folks have a boat here?” I asked
“We do,” the young man said, staring at my torn pants.
“I’ve been looking for an old friend, a fellow named Lambert. He’s quite a sailor.”
The couple looked at each other, “No, the name’s not familiar.”
“He’s an old guy. White hair, in good shape, maybe six foot, give or take.”
The young woman responded this time. “What happened to your pants?”
“Never mind that! I’m the one asking questions, not you. I’m guessing you know this Lambert guy. Now, where is he?”
“Who the hell do you think you are? Bug off. We’re done here,” the man said. I apologized to these snips but it didn’t matter, they just ignored me and strutted off like two over-indulged kids. Screw this place. Sailors might be courageous and all that, but by damn, they have the minds of criminals with this covering each other’s asses. Bunch of hooligans, I’d say. So, the hell with them, I’m off to follow my next lead: Maine license number 6492 HT, here I come. Like I said, old men leave a wide swath. I’ll bet he’s off to visit his old friend in Maine.
THURSDAY, JULY 5
Cape Henlopen, a harbor of refuge on the Delaware side of the Delaware River’s delta is a perfect anchorage for That Good Night in preparation for my run up the New Jersey coast. A harbor of refuge is where you go when you need to duck out of terrible weather, like a hurricane. With a relatively narrow entrance the harbor is surrounded by a sturdy seawall. These harbors are not pretty tree-lined, dock laden places. They’re bare bones and mighty welcome when the wind’s up. If I wanted shore-lined restaurants, I’d have opted for Cape May, New Jersey, just across the river.
Last night was the first night anchored. A boat is never still. A subtle stir of the wind, or a bit of current or both in consort cradle the hull ever so gently. When trying to find sleep in Sunset, I would try imagining how it felt cradled in an anchored boat as I was last night. More often than not, I would toss and turn, trying to escape the weight of inertia. But, no, it was as if I was bound to that bed, to the rustle of the plastic clad mattress with every turn. I’d lay there dull to what might come in the morning because there would be nothing new, so surprises. But not now, I’m free to think ahead, to plan and wonder what the morrow has in store. Weighing anchor this morning and heading out into the Delaware Canal, my freedom took hold. Every turn of the canal, its sweep into the Delaware, meeting or passing other vessels presented endless ways to celebrate being alive.
Tomorrow, I’m aiming for tucking in behind Sandy Hook where I anchored some thirty years ago. Here I am sailing for two days and I feel one again with the sea. Like riding a bicycle, you don’t forget. Though That Good Night is full of technological devices, she’s much the same as Jason’s Argo: longer than she is wide, sails to catch a breeze, a rudder to steer her by and an old salt at the helm. The aches and pains I had in Sunset are sloughing off me like outgrown snakes’ skin. Back there, you couldn’t help but ache. It was all around you. Pain was a commodity, traded from morning until night. Back, knees, elbows, hands, neck, and shoulders all talked about and compared for levels of hurt. If you felt good, no one was interested. Out here, it’s wind and water, no complaining from them, some nastiness maybe, but no pain.
Tomorrow’s run is straight forward. Winds promised to be westerly so going north should be a breeze, pun intended. But it is, give or take, 120 nautical miles of coastal sailing, plus keeping a wary eye out for the big boys.
I have a rule of thumb for when I first spot a ship on the horizon: I have just eight minutes to determine if we’re going to pass or if the behemoth will roll over me like a runaway steam roller. Tracking with radar helps but, in addition, I plan to take sightings; there’s nothing like good old eyesight. I plan to leave at daybreak, hoping to make Sandy Hook at dusk. But, as any wise sailor would do, I fixed Barnegat Inlet as an alternate layover.
Just as I was about to go to sleep my phone rang. It was from a woman named Jennifer who asked for her little turnip. Obviously, a wrong number. I told her that I was a piece of celery and hung up. Cell phones are great gadgets but not when cruising and certainly not when you need sleep. I turned mine off and stuck it in the bedside table drawer.
FRIDAY, JULY 6
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 nothin
g 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.
SATURDAY, JULY 7
In preparing my course to New York Harbor, I consulted the charts for Morris Basin, a place I tied up decades ago. Consulting the chart plotter, I learned that Morris Basin now housed the Liberty Island Marina; a mega center for God only knows how many boats. The good news was that I could top off my fuel and water tanks. The lump in my throat was about negotiating a forty-six-foot yacht—plus three feet for the stern platform—single-handed in a crowded marina. This would be a first for me, other than the rather benign docking in Annapolis, but Baxter helped with that. I thought about calling the marina to ask for some help, but changed my mind in favor of taking it as it comes. I’d go to the fuel dock and go from there.
With making way in and out, ships anchored, water taxis zipping around like swarms of gnats, bright orange-painted Staten Island ferries chugging by with myopic captains steering straight no matter what, and of, course, pleasure boaters meandering here and there without a care in the world, I decided to furl the sails and kick on the engine. I didn’t have a chart plotter or radar or a GPS the last time I was here. I did have a compass, charts, and my eyeballs connected to my brain. In other words, I sailed by observing what was going on around me. Approaching New York Harbor, I clicked off my chart plotter, sailed from buoy to buoy, avoided nutcases, treated every crossing and meeting situation according to regulations, and thoroughly enjoyed the controlled chaos of a busy commercial port.
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