Winkin Blinkin & Nod

You might ask how I could end up in one of those infamous storms for which Cape Hatteras has earned the reputation ‘The Graveyard of the Atlantic’.

It was easy really. I’m a boat jockey— a “BN” for short. Don’t ask what the ‘n’ stands for. The deal is, when wealthy yacht owners move their precious vessels from one exclusive location to another, they hire people like me.

The yachts are luxurious. The food is gourmet. And no matter what your preference, the scenery can be stunning. It’s a great life, but just like any life, there are surprises.

My Cape Hatteras surprise came aboard a fifty-five foot sloop being transported from Newport to Boca Raton, during an otherwise beautiful autumn day on Pamlico Sound, just inside North Carolina’s notorious Outer Banks.

I keep a weather eye. Fast forming hurricanes happen! Then there is my personal favorite: the collision of an early arctic clipper with a hot southern air mass. Been there, did that going to Bermuda— but that’s another story.

My rough encounter with Hatteras began at dusk with the arrival of a late season warm front and mild rain.

For professional crew, like the captain and me, a little rain can be nice.

This rain became steady precipitation, which at times tumbled down, and accompanied several sudden wind shifts.

The captain planned to sail all night taking turns to rest, but there was no rest; wind shifts required sail trim; most taxing though, was lack of visibility.

I stood at the helm.

The captain switched off between checking our position and going forward to watch for trouble.

Rain poured down. Water rolled off the sails and drained right down my collar. If naked, I could not have been wetter.

Suddenly the captain became very animated. He was running back from the bow and frantically pointing to starboard.

I strained to see to starboard, but saw nothing but darkness.

The captain looked over his shoulder. Then I saw it too. Coming head on was gang of barges!

I spun the wheel to starboard, but I knew it was too late.

A rising black wall loomed above us. The yacht almost cleared the bow wave before going over. As the boom splashed I saw the captain lose his balance.

We were helpless.

In a miracle of hydraulics, the wake from the barges lifted the yacht and gently tossed it aside. The sailboat righted and rocked. Several times our mast banged the silently passing hulks.

I tried to steer away, but there was no wind in the lee. I looked up and saw a couple deck hands shouting down at us and shaking their heads.

Then I realized the captain was gone!

I scanned the water. As I managed to put some inches between the hulls, a massive spotlight from the push tug flooded our deck.

My captain clung tangled in the lifelines. He stumbled back to the cockpit looking like he’d just been in a fight. He asked me if I was all right and then told me we had to get the hooks down and rest. We needed to find an anchorage outside the shipping lanes without running aground.

The next moments felt like sailing off the edge of the world, but then it was done. We were safe. We dropped the sails and tied them to the deck.

I followed the captain down the companionway.

“Son of a bitch that was close!”

I couldn’t disagree.

We were soaked and shaken. There was nothing more to do.

I undressed, toweled off, and crawled into a dry bunk. A bed never felt more comfortable. It was warm and I was exhausted. My body ached for sleep, but my mind continued to race.

As I laid there, I started smiling. I can’t help it. I love storms and darkness.

My thoughts drifted to the first time a storm caught me in a boat after dark. It was August 1971. I had just turned seventeen.

“Take me up the lake.” She had asked. “Let’s watch the sunset!”

I still hear that voice.

My cousin arrived in Michigan that year with her best friend, Mississippi Mary. My introduction to Mary came at my grand parents lake house.

On a hot hazy afternoon, an old three horsepower Evinrude slowly pushed grandfather’s rowboat up Center Lake. It cruised barely fast enough to feel the air.

Clouds began massing. Near dusk, the haze broke and a darkening sky frowned a purple squall line.

“I don’t think we should be out here.” I told her.

Mary pointed to a bait and beer store on the far shore. There was a facility for boaters.

Night engulfed the lake as we motored. The front hit just before we tied to the dock.

I looked up at the glowing outline of an old unpainted clapboard fish camp hidden in the trees. Run off squished from my sneakers as I followed Mary up the steps. Droplets caught rays from a blue green neon clock. Warmly lit windows welcomed us with tournament posters and fishing gear.

Between us, we scrounged enough change for Mary to buy a bottle of wine. Casting off, I lamented how the storm had spoiled everything.

Big rain pelted us as the dock faded into the faint shoreline.

Mary turned in her seat to face me and handed me the bottle. I took a swallow while watching her silhouetted figure against the bow lights. Before taking the bottle back, Mary took off her shirt and exposed her breasts to the weather.

I wanted to say something, but the noise from rain and the drone of the ancient outboard made talking nearly impossible. Though it was still a long ride, the urgency I felt to get home, like the bait shop, had vanished in the gloom.

For just that one summer we had the lake house all to ourselves. In that place of sacred family traditions we burned incense and listened to our own kinds of music.

My cousin had journeyed north seeking relief from a troubled romance. As we sunned on the lawn between swims, I asked Mary why she came.

Mary held up the tanning lotion and pointed to her back. She laid on a towel and asked me to untie her bikini. The moment I touched her she spoke.

“I have four older sisters, all of them were teenage moms. I just knew I had to see more of the world than one small town in Mississippi.”

It was getting on toward midnight when Mary urged my cousin and me to go for another boat ride. We set out beneath pillow clouds like the voyagers of the mythical wooden shoe, floating through the twinkling foam on a river of crystal moonlight; we journeyed our way along ruffled waves of dew.

With the laughing moon casting a net of sparkling stars upon the water, we felt as though we were meandering through space, like Wynkin, Blynkin, and Nodd.

Mary’s favorite landing was an island surrounded by shallow water. Old stumps menaced our approach. To us the island seemed like an ancient and mythical place, totally at home among the trees and sky in the middle of the lake, a place at peace and far from the turmoil in our lives. We gathered sticks along the shore and set a fire in the hearth of a crumbling cottage.

More than once fog obscured our return passage. Mary laughed and yelled and listened. She pointed the way judging distances by the echoes from shore.

Only a single picture from that year captured the three of us together, standing arm in arm, shaded under the weeping willows beside the lake. It’s tagged: Winkin’, Blinkin’, & Nod.

Mary and my cousin went back to Mississippi, and my cousin eventually married happily, but it was to someone else.

I never thanked Mary.

Mary shared the wine that night, and my first storm in a boat, but the memories are all mine. A few months later, my cousin wrote to tell me that Mary had suffered an aneurysm and died.

Still, on nights when it storms or a mist crawls over the decks, my soul is thrown through time. I can’t tell you what it is like to see a cool dew sparkle beneath the shooting stars, but the feeling reminds me of those summer nights in 1971, and the voyages of Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod.

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Tags:

cape hatteras, sailboat, sailing, storm and twisted tournoi 03