erties with rules of any sort. I confess we might have taken our disappointment out on Helen, treating her less than warmly when her cockpit proved constraining and we grew tired of ducking the block attached to the boomless main’s clew, which threatened to bean us every time we tacked. We brought Helen back a bit before our hour was up, and tied her politely to the dock. I took one last long look out to where Fenwick tacked rather proudly back and forth on her way toward the drawbridge again. Te first mate and I then headed off to visit the whaleship Charles Morgan, then in the final stages of restoration. It’d be another year before the ship would sail again, and
though things on deck were coming right along, much remained to do. Te aſt com- panionway way leading below had yet to get a new coat of paint, and some of the work areas leading to the cabins had been partitioned off by dusty plastic sheets. But the crews’ quarters were open for viewing. As expected upon any whaler, what mattered was room for oil, and accom- modations were tight and hardly comfortable, even for the captain and mates. But the cramped confines of the fo’c’sle, with its crowding and crude bunks, spoke sternly of dashed romances and dreams cut down to size. On our third visit to the wooden boat show two years
fearful they won’t see shore again, they subscribe with all the fervor of religious devotees to any number of rituals and ta- boos. Tey don’t sail on Fridays; they don’t whistle on deck; they won’t change a vessel’s name. Te list goes on and on, and lest anyone think it possible to one day master the whole of it, he might have more luck memorizing the Haitian grimoire, as the seaman’s catalog of arcane prescriptions has no end of ap- pendices filled with personal incantations and spells. But who can blame the seafarer for hedging his bet? Te gods are oſten contrary. Poseidon is not easily pacified or pleased. Somewhere along the way, I must have offended the old man,
or failed to pay adequate tribute, because when the woman finally called us in and we asked for Fenwick, Poseidon poked me with his trident, hard. Fenwick had be en damaged the day be- fore, she said. Te boat wasn’t available. How could that be?
Te Breck Marshall
There the boat sat, in one piece, its sail neatly furled, floating qui- etly at the dock. What happened? How? Te boat looked fine from the shop. The woman said something about a col-
later, determined to secure our rightful claim to the elu- sive Fenwick, we made sure to arrive at the boathouse that Saturday morning an hour before it opened. Te first mate was confident we’d finally have our day, but I knew better the fickle ways of fate, and as we hurried past exhibitors still opening their stands, I kept my fingers crossed. “It’s been two years,” I said. “It might not be there.” “Why wouldn’t it?” she countered. “I don’t know. Maybe they rotate the boats in their collec-
tion. Or maybe it’s been damaged.” “How could it get damaged?” she asked incredulously. “I don’t know. Anything can happen.” Still, success seemed assured when we came round the
boathouse and saw Fenwick tied up to the dock. It wasn’t quite 9:00 A.M., and though the boatshop doors were open, we were told to come back at 10, when they would start letting the boats out. We stepped back outside the door, but went no further. Foiled by chance before, I looked wistfully over at Fenwick and waited, watching the first hint of the day’s wind feel its way up and down the river. Slowly but surely, a few other people arrived, and soon
there were half a dozen people on line behind us. Te late June sun rose quickly, and eventually the woman behind the counter waved us in. Nothing, it seemed, stood between us and Fenwick. Now, sailors have always been a superstitious lot. Forever
SMALL CRAFT ADVISOR
lision with a powerboat and a cracked rail, but I hardly heard any of it. Tis was our third try at Fenwick and we might not be back the next year. Or even the year aſter. Tis might be our last and only chance for a long time. Poseidon poked me again, and promised a dunking next time if I didn’t let it go. We took some other boat, I don’t remember which, but went over to look at poor Fenwick before heading out. Up close, the damage was easy to see. Te starboard rail was
cracked in three places amidships, and the top edge of the sheer plank, going on about two feet, chewed up where the rail had been attached. As far as I could tell, the boat was still seaworthy, if slightly compromised, but there was no arguing with the woman in the shop, no promising to watch out for splinters, or to bring Fenwick in gently on its port rail. I suppose I took some solace then and still do in the lover’s
bitter lament: if I couldn’t sail on Fenwick, neither, at least, could anyone else. I wouldn’t have to watch as it slipped past us on a different tack, or stood off among the moorings with someone else at the helm. Instead, Fenwick would be there whenever I returned—sails furled neatly, boom resting in its crutch—waiting quietly on the pier where I’d once been willing to wait for it. Poseidon could poke me all he cared. Nothing could change
that. •SCA•
Jim Papa, poet and essayist, is a professor of English at York College of Te City University of New York. He has lived in Bay Shore, NY and been knocking around in boats on the Great South Bay for most of his life.
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