April 2009
By Tom Snyder
My 9-year-old daughter, Amy, and I experienced the perfect 10 days of sailing a few early Junes ago. For the first few days out, we were the only cruising boat in any of the coves we visited. Our days were exquisite. On Day 4, we spotted a sailboat anchored in the cove we were approaching for the night. Amy noted that it would be nice to share the picturesque cove with another boat.
Within minutes of anchoring, we were diving in wetsuits, searching for Amy’s favorite creatures in the world: crabs. Far below, on the rocky bottom, she spotted an outstanding battle between two crabs. After what seemed like an hour of pointing and exclaiming underwater, I signaled that we should be returning to the surface. Because I am not a seasoned diver, I was beginning to feel groggy and maybe a little edgy.
Back at the mother ship, the couple from the other boat waved to us sweetly and with maybe a touch of longing and loneliness. That’s the way I read it.
I told Amy that we should hop back in the water to do a drive-by – a swim-by hello. Since we did not want to heighten their sense of neediness and discomfort, we pretended that we were back in the water for some diving-related task. After a 10-minute charade of purposeful swimming, we glided past their boat to say hello and invite them over for a drink. The Smiths, which is what we shall call them here, were, I believe, touched by the invitation.
An hour later, I was proud to learn that little Amy was developing a taste for entertaining. Adorable! For example, as we waited for the Smiths to arrive, I set out a bottle of bubbly water, wine and crackers, and put my feet up in the cockpit. Amy asked, of her own accord, “Are you gonna wear that? And Dad, do we have enough hot water for you to shower? Seriously.”
Then she rearranged the platter so tastefully. She doesn’t get it from me, that’s for sure. But it turns out that good hosting is contagious. Inspired, I chose some “light-classical” music. Skitch Henderson. The Smiths arrived in their dinghy, reticent but eager to please. Amy and I were marvelous, producing a wine-and-cheese experience in its full Cambridge sense, with shared narratives, thoughtful silences, and meaning.
The Smiths stayed aboard for only a short time. I explained to Amy that they were probably reluctant to appear to be taking advantage of our hospitality.
“Also,” said Amy. “I don’t think they got your humor.”
The next afternoon, after a glorious day of brisk sailing, we saw the Smiths’ boat in a very secluded cove 20 miles further up the coast. As we motored by their vessel to drop our anchor, we exchanged hellos. From cockpit to cockpit, I shouted what a coincidence it was: There they are and here we are!
Ms. Smith said it was not that much of a coincidence because they had mentioned the night before where they were headed. I asked if they wanted in on a rerun of last night’s drinks, and they shyly said they didn’t want to impose. We wouldn’t hear it. We insisted. Really insisted. You know that old joke: “You’d better come over or we’ll be your worst nightmare . . . .?” I used that one.
Again, an hour later, waiting for Smiths. I put out the beverages and cued up the music while Amy did inspired preparations with tuna fish, pickles, and celery. And I swear to God, impressive little Amy said, “Dad, don’t put on the recordings of your high-school band.” So grown-up, that girl. So attentive to others. But she was right – there was no need to intimidate these poor folks.
The vivid memory I have of their second evening aboard with us is of how funny I was. As I pointed out to Amy later, I had been careful to share only my best material. Imagine how surprised the Smiths must have been since, the night before, the conversation had tended to the sober and reflective. That’s the fun thing about meeting new people – just when you think you know them, bang! More levels.
Two or three days later, we were far enough out to sea to release the holding tanks. (I mention this only so you’ll know.) In the distance, Amy spotted the Smith’s boat, sailing gaily away from us. Needless to say, we stopped the macerator and pursued with all canvas. How exciting to have a mission and a reason to really push the boat. (By the way, in retrospect, I still think “stalker” is too strong a term.)
The sad ending to this story is that the Smiths did not play foursquare with us. Why they felt compelled to cheat is not for us to know. When they recognized us from a distance they put on more sail. That was sporting and precisely what we had in mind – a bit of a regatta after which we could share tall stories. But then, as we began to close in on their enormous head start, they ran their engine.
They didn’t even have the grace to run it at a low idle. Their diesel was putting out the black smoke of an engine above the recommended rpm. There was no way we could possibly keep up. As I said before, just when you think you are getting to know someone, bang! More levels.
Tom Snyder stalks around Peaks Island, Maine and Cambridge, Mass.
