Wilson is Dead

It is a sad day aboard Tortue. Wilson is no longer with us.

But more about that later. The day started out well enough…

It is a sunny Tuesday morning in Port Jefferson. We putter about the boat, performing our morning routines. The latest plan is that we will spend the day here because the tidal charts and the weather predictions point to Thursday as the day to go through the Race and land on Block Island. It will take us two days to get there, and the wind is supposed to be very strong from the wrong direction today, so we will head out tomorrow, probably for Duck Island. Neither of us is enamored of the harbor here, but the town is supposed to be nice, and we just might change our minds about the place if we spend a day in town. I do some research about museums, movies, etc..

As the morning progresses, the wind is actually favorable for leaving today. Rick keeps checking the predictions, but they don’t jibe with the actual. He finally decides that we need to leave now, and head over to the Connecticut side of the Sound to the Thimble Islands, skip Duck Island, and arrive at Block on Wednesday night. Apparently, this kind of last minute plan change is a big part of cruising. I have had to completely change my attitude about plans since the start of this trip; I am someone who thrives on predictability, and when plans change, I tend to sputter and whine for a while before accepting the new plan. Rick is a natural for cruising – he basically never considers any plan a done deal, and can pivot from pretty much any point. I must be evolving, because today’s back and forth doesn’t faze me in the least; I’m ready to go.

The wind is light and directly behind us, which is not great for sailing. It’s a bit counterintuitive, but for good sailing you really need the wind to be coming across your boat at an angle; you can then adjust your sails to fill with air. For most boats, sailing directly downwind is the least efficient, which is why we have… spinnakers. These sails always remind me of hot air balloons, with their typically bright colors, and their large bulbous shape. When you see one, you usually see a lot of them, since all the boats out on a given day are dealing with the same wind conditions. Ours is a bright red and white sail, and it’s beautiful against the blue sky.

There’s not a lot to do on a day like this. Now that my seasickness is under control, I can read or even go below if I want. I decide to do a little hand sewing on a quilt project that I brought along. Some months ago I went through a particularly obsessive EBay period, looking for a hand crank sewing machine that I might take on the boat. I wanted to work on quilts and other sewing projects while Rick was reading and doing academic work. A sewing machine that worked without electricity seemed a great thing for the boat, and I finally settled on a small German machine. In the end, we decided not to bring it because, although it takes up relatively little space, it’s very heavy; you don’t want a thirty pound sewing machine rolling around in the bottom of a sailboat in a big storm. Also, in my excitement about a self powered sewing machine, I forgot that I would also need an iron to press seams with – that takes a LOT of electricity. In the end, I decided to bring a little sewing kit and do some hand appliqué.

It is very hot, and a swim would be very welcome, but we would have to slow down the boat by lowering the spinnaker, and that will only add more time to our trip. Rick enjoys a number of seawater dowsings instead, using his faithful rubber bucket to gather up the water. He treats me to a couple of bucket showers as well; the water is cold, cold, COLD! I scream every time, but immediately ask for more.

This bucket is like an old friend for Rick; it has accompanied him to Maine and back for the last five years, and is useful for many purposes about the boat. We use it for gathering water for doing dishes and cleaning the decks, and for cool-off dowsing sessions on hot days. Rick has spoken lovingly about this bucket several times on this trip – it’s the perfect size and weight, it’s made out of a good quality rubber, the handle is perfect for boaters’ purposes, and it is expensive ($18 – I guess that’s expensive for a bucket).

We are only going about 4.5 knots, but even that moderate speed feels like nothing on the boat because the wind is behind us. The air actually feels pretty stagnant, and we get inundated with flies. These are the annoying little beasts that bite hard, mostly around your ankles. I don’t know how they find us; it’s as though the word got out that there is a meal to be had on our boat, and the flies come in a steady stream. Luckily, Rick has an assortment of fly swatters on board, and we while away the hours competing for the honor of Most Prolific Fly Killer. We start out feeling a bit sorry for the poor critters, but after experiencing a few too many painful bites, we become murderous fiends with exclamations like, “Take THAT you little f…ers!” and, “Die suckers, DIE!” The cockpit floor ends up covered with fly carcasses, and has to be watered down periodically to temporarily erase the carnage.

As we approach the Thimble Islands, the wind changes and we pull down the spinnaker and set the jib. Occupied with this sail change, we forget that the bucket is still perched on the afterdeck, and when we are hit with a sudden big gust of wind, the boat heels sharply, and over it goes. Rick sees it floating momentarily before it goes under the dinghy, and we make as quick a turn around as we can in order to try and retrieve it. We retrace our steps as carefully as we can, hoping against hope, but alas, the bucket is gone.

Rick is very sad over this loss; of course he knows that it is only a bucket, but he feels like he’s lost a member of his crew, and almost worse than that, he knows that he is responsible. It’s like that movie Castaway, when Tom Hanks’ character loses Wilson –  a soccer ball that becomes his alter ego, friend, compatriot and tether to sanity during his years alone on a deserted island. We take to posthumously naming the bucket Wilson, and make bittersweet jokes about the poor fellow for the rest of the day.

The Thimble Islands are an aptly named set if tiny islands, basically rocks with some vegetation on them. Some of the islands are “The Little Prince” sized rocks, with one little house perched on top, and maybe a tree or shrub as well. Others have a number of little cottages squeezed in together and a bit more greenery. I immediately fall in love with the place – some of the cottages are indeed large, but the whole set of islands has a strong community feel to it. I imagine that the inhabitants all know one another, and that the children grow up together summer after summer. I may be quite wrong about this of course, but I like the fantasy, and will keep it until proven otherwise.

We have a delicious swim in the water, and then make our dinner. The light at the end of the day is quite magical, and we sit on the deck of the boat and watch as the light slowly fades. It would have been a perfect day, but for Rick's poor, lost, beloved Wilson…