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I don't suppose that's actually the Scapegrace in the satellite photo, though it could be; I have pretty much the same mooring I had last year -- right in front of the Normandie apartment building, and less than half a mile from the 79th Street marina, which is convenient. Here's the Normandie building (not my photo):
Named, I gather, after the ill-fated luxe passenger liner which burned and capsized at Pier 88, now the Passenger Ship Terminal, in 1942:
I assume they named the building after the ship before it sank.
I hate to see pictures of sunk boats, though there is a certain gruesome fascination in it. And I may have mentioned that my own poor dinghy -- almost brand-new -- sank at Charlie's dock, sometime in the week between the day I inflated it and put it back in the water and the day I came back to take Scapegrace and dinghy back to the Hudson.
Naturally I thought the project of taking Scapegrace back had been scuttled by the loss of the dinghy; how would I get back from the mooring to the marina?
Fortunately I had enlisted the company of an individual more resolute than myself, a friend of some years' standing -- let's call her Ariela. Ariela is a keen sailor and a great problem-solver. Her brother Pete also keeps a boat at 79th Street, and Ariela, upon receiving my dismal email canceling the trip, called up and said, Don't be silly; when we get there, Pete will come and fetch us in his dinghy.
So last Sunday morning Penelope drove Ariela and me up to the Bronx, and I'm sure she heaved a sigh of relief, as she drove home, that she, at least, did not have to spend the next six hours or so on the boat. Ariela had brought much nicer provisions than I usually get for myself, and the day was warm and sunny. We managed to get the Scapegrace out of her temporary slip and out into the bay without mishap, and sailed pleasantly south down the bay with a ten-knot west wind.
Then of course we hung a right at the Throgs Neck Bridge and the wind was in our teeth -- and it had freshened, too. If I were single-handing, would I have tacked all the way to the Brothers, or would I have motored?
Who knows? But certain it was that with Ariela on board, there was no question of motoring. So we did tack from Throgs Neck to Brothers, Ariela at the helm and me working the lines, and I got quite a workout, particularly with that balky mainsheet traveller -- can't recall whether I've mentioned it before, but it requires some serious manhandling. All quite exhilarating though, heeling fifteen degrees and more, and spanking along at six knots plus.
The wind kept backing southerly, and by the time we got to the Brothers -- the gateway to Hell Gate -- I really didn't feel bold enough to tack through those narrow waters, particularly with the current running four knots or so. We furled the jib and let the main free and just motored through the tricky bits. Ariela had brought along some homemade Bloody Mary mix -- with fresh horseradish -- and the other necessities, so on the principle that the sun was no doubt over the yardarm somewhere, we hoisted a convivial glass to the East River, not ordinarily my favorite body of water, but much pleasanter with a cheering beverage in hand.
Down the narrow river, current strong in our favor but wind fluky and mostly foul, so we just idled the motor -- enough for steerageway -- and let the river take us down to the Battery. Needless to say, as soon as we cleared the last pier and headed west -- under sail again -- for the Hudson, my old nemesis the Staten Island Ferry leaned on its direful horn -- tuba mirum spargens sonum, as the song says -- and even though it was Sunday morning, leapt at us from its slip, fangs bared, seeking whom it might devour.
This was the first time Ariela and I had sailed together, so our attempt to do a few 360s until the ferry got well clear were highly comical -- missed signals, fouled sheets, a certain amount of decent profanity directed at no particular target. The jib managed to wrap itself fiendishly around the forestay, but we somehow got that sorted out, and once the ferry had gone its dismal way to Staten Island -- facilis descensus Averno -- we headed up the Hudson.
Encountered a blustery cold wet squall at about Canal Street which lasted maybe fifteen minutes and left us both drenched and cold but did no other harm. We were a little early for the turn of the tide, and there was a half-hour or so after the squall when the wind wasn't strong enough to stem the current and we had to motor again. But as the current slackened the wind picked up, and we ended up making our way up to the Boat Basin in fine style, under sail and looking very competent, I think.
Picked up the mooring without incident, and Pete came out in his dinghy and took us ashore. The sort of day that reminds you why you like sailing.
