[Stylist] nonfiction 500 words

[Ann Chiappetta]

Harbor Squall

By Ann Chiappetta

 

The unmistakable  sulfurous stink of  low tide thick with humidity and sea
smells brings me back to the fondest recollections of childhood. I developed
from a motion sick land lubber into a confident first mate, thanks to a
divorce,  cabin cruiser named Sea Luv and the wiles of Mother Nature.

 

New York is brutal in the summer. We  got a reprieve from the heat and
humidity on the boat, trolling offshore for  hours, pulling in blues and
hoping for stripers.      It would get roasting and Dad  would  slide the
boat into neutral and we'd plunge into the cool depths, pop out, and climb
back aboard. We would never admit the brevity of the quick dip was due to
the  fear of sharks.

Dad taught me the best way to finesse a fiddler crab onto a hook, mix chum,
and remove hooks and  so much more. We didn't water-ski often, it wasted gas
for fishing  

 

One of my most defining moments played out during an attempt to outrun a
squall. It bore down on us in minutes. We were heading back from a quick
run. There were six of us, Dad, me, my stepmother and  her sister-in-law and
her two kids. Dad watched the black  clouds, rising winds and white caps and
his face grew serious.  He made everyone secure  their lifejackets and sent
them all into the cabin.

"Stay calm and don't come up on deck unless I tell you,"

I got different instructions. 

"None of them can help me, they're all panicking. It's me and you. Hold on
and do what I say,"

He motioned to the wheel, 

"Don't let go,"

 

His arms tightened with effort, wrestling with the wheel, forcing the boat
to head for the little island, stern to the  screaming wind. I understood it
meant saving us from capsizing. Landing on the beach was better than
sinking. 

 

Before Dad lost control, he grabbed me, looked into my face, and said,

"If I get hurt, you make sure you send the mayday,"

I gave him a stiff nod, braced myself against the  console and held the
shuddering, uncooperative  wheel. Dad worked the  throttle and we both hung
on. The  waves  pelted us,  the deck pitched me like  a doll, slamming me
into the dash. The  sound was deafening. 

 

It was as if a watery hand grabbed and slammed us onto the beach, then it
was over, we were taking on water, and my ears were ringing. 

"Go check on them," said Dad, "

I opened the door and met  four pairs of frightened eyes.

"We're up on the beach, , it's over,"

I heard Dad sending the mayday and  some tension left me. 

 

In less than an hour we were towed off the shore, bailed out most of the
water, fired up the engine, and chugged back to the dock.   

Later, after a well-deserved clam strip dinner at IHOP, Dad said,

"Could've been worse,"   

Our eyes met,

"I thought you were going to be scared but you did great," he said.  He
didn't wait for a reply and went back to his dinner.

  

 

 

 

Ann M. Chiappetta, M.S.

Making Meaningful ConnectionsThrough Media 

914.393.6605 USA

Anniecms64 at gmail.com <mailto:Anniecms64 at gmail.com> 

All things Annie: www.annchiappetta.com <http://www.annchiappetta.com>  

 

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