Deep Blue Dreams
Every summer on
every available evening Ellie sat at the end of the pier at Oswego Harbor and
watched the sailboats come and go.
Her eyes followed the tall white sails as they filled with wind, and pitched
to the rhythm of the waves. She thought
that there was nothing quite as graceful or as beautiful as a sailboat. Every summer she swore that she would someday
learn to sail. But twenty summers
would come and go before Ellie would fulfill her dream.
We had been dating only a few weeks when I told Ellie that I
had purchased a sailboat. Her eyes
lit up and her jaw dropped and she flushed with excitement. “You’re kidding, I love sailing!” She gushed.
I was heretofore unaware of Ellie’s long flirtation with
sailing, but as happenstance would have it, my status was immediately elevated
to rock star. I had purchased the
sloop from an old salt down on Seneca Lake and I had to sail it up to Oswego
before winter. I asked Ellie to
come with me on the three-day cruise.
She, of course, was thrilled.
As we drove up to the dock Ellie emitted a squeal of
excitement, burst from the truck, and ran toward the wharf. I went to the back of the truck and started
loading my body with gear; sea-bags of clothes, cooler, rain gear, and
possibles. I could hear the
ringing of Ellie’s ecstasy, “I love it,” she cried, “What a beautiful boat!”
As I approached the dock, laden with gear draped over my
back and shoulders, and hanging from my arms, I could see Ellie running up and
down the decks; fore to aft; port to starboard, twirling around the mast. I
understood why she loved this boat so much; it was a new forty-foot Tayana
luxury yacht, beautifully appointed with sparkling teak and loaded with
virtually every available option.
It was truly a magnificent yacht.
Only it wasn’t mine.
My boat was in the next slip. Looking all of her thirty-two years, the old sloop proudly
displayed a medley of chalky paint, duct tape, and several annual rings of caulking
around the ports. The aging
actress showed various shades of white touch-up paint on her more delicate
parts.
Ellie was at the helm of the elegant Tayana wildly jerking
the wheel side to side like a 5 year-old left in the family car. I was trying to gain her
attention to break the news when the owner emerged from the cabin brandishing a
handgun and threatening to ventilate poor Ellie. She stopped turning the steering wheel and thrust her arms
straight into the air, “Larry, we’re being robbed!” she yelled.
“No! Wrong
boat,” My voiced squeaked, barely audible. Starting toward the yacht, I dropped the gear on the dock. Two beer cans rolled in the direction
of the water, I stopped, and thought about it, but my passion to save Ellie
prevailed. “Wait, don’t shoot; wrong
boat, ” I waved my arms to the yachtsman.
Ellie then looked at me; looked at my boat; and looked back at the
owner. A bewildered look came over
her face. I had seen that look before, on my mother’s face the day my dog bit
grandma.
In her attempt the escape, Ellie’s ankle got tangled in a
halyard line. The owner grabbed
her other ankle, threatening to call the police. Now Ellie was suspended half on the yacht, half on the
dock. I grabbed Ellie’s arms,
trying to extricate her from the tangles of the halyard, and the clutches of
the angry yachtsman. Ellie was
screaming. The owner tightened his
grasp, still clutching the gun. He
was growling. I was pleading.
Ellie was suspended like Superman from all four extremities,
her body straddling the boat and the dock. The yachtsman growled.
Ellie screamed. I pleaded.
Just then the owner’s wife stuck her head out of the cabin,
“ Oh, you’ve invited some friends to dinner dear, how nice.”
We all stopped, turned and looked at her, a woman of a
certain age with heavy mascara and ruby red lipstick, she reminded me of my
boat. Ellie hit the dock with a
thud. The distraction gave me the
opportunity to untangle her leg and drag her to safety.
The grumbling yachtsman and his wife retreated to their
cabin. Ellie sat on the dock
sobbing. I dove for a teetering
beer can in time to save it from the dockside depths. All was well for the moment.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ellie sobbed.
“I was just getting around to it when…”
“I could have been killed,” Ellie proclaimed, her voice
handing down my indictment.
My tone waxed repentant, “Well, they say sailing can be dangerous,” I confessed.
She shot a stinging glance at me then turned her attention
to the little sloop, contentedly bobbing in its slip. “So this is your
boat?” She asked, not without a
hint of disappointment.
“Well, I have to admit she is a lady with a past, but I plan
to fix her up like new.” Hidden in
my sea bag were duct tape, touch-up paint, and caulk.
“Where are the sails?”
Ellie inquired. The sobbing
had abated and she was slowly edging her way toward the boat. “Why is the mast laying down like
that?”
“Well, I sent the sails out to be cleaned.” I said.
“You mean I waited all my life to sail, and now they’re at
the cleaner’s? Like a suit?”
“Well, I really hadn’t thought of it in quite that way…” I
stammered.
“How are we supposed to sail, with no sails?” The legitimate question sprang from her
lips while she shrugged her shoulders.
I shrugged mine too; my head lowered. “We can’t sail through the Erie Canal,
we have to use the motor.” My
voice was getting smaller; my guilt was getting larger; my rock star status was
diminishing.
Another summer had come and gone, and Ellie, sitting on the
dock, still dreamed of sailing.
