As I turn the boat back around toward uptown Manhattan in a tight leeward (away from the wind) spin known as a jibe, I narrowly miss the anchor line of a massive police boat patrolling the 34th Street line across the river. But all is well. We reach the slip with a light thud against the protective fenders, and I skip over the lifelines to secure Gemini’s lines to the cleats. Without the pressure of responsibility for the first time all night, I am relieved, but no part of me is hesitant to get back out on the water to return the boat to its mooring after the family says good night and departs. This is the thrill that I love. Being on the water is tense and unpredictable, and never boring. My quest of safe return for that family was a quest undergone by sailors long before me. Safe return may not have meant dodging barges and fishing boats for sailors in Melville’s time, but the relief of a boat reaching its dock is universal. While working on the Morgan, I was afforded the luxury of power tools and sunscreen, but I got at least a glimpse of what refitting in the 1800s must have been like. This is what I like most. I can connect in some small way to the history of this culture — I can feel what people have been feeling at sea for centuries. This is what sailors live for. This is what fills bookshelves with maritime literature and keeps children running back to the sea during summers. My Fourth of July was spent with a family of perfect strangers, and yet I felt a part of a community and connection that I wouldn’t have traded for anything.
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W. Mo rga n, u nder restora ) tion (Courtesy of Mystic Seaport
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