Row Row Row Your Boat

Row, Row, Row Your Boat
By Casey Quinlan

It was late September on the Connecticut coast of LI Sound. I had, with a tag team of friends, been sailing up to Boston and back by way of Cape Cod, Newport, and Cuttyhunk. We were on my boat, SineWave, which was also my home.

The current friend on board could only be with me for three days, and this was day three. Wed enjoyed the sail from Stonington to Saybrook, then Saybrook to The Thimbles, a truly magical little chain of islands just east of New Haven. Wed sailed the short run to Milford during the late morning, and now my friend had to catch the train back to New York.

I decided I didnt want to pay a docking fee in a marina that night, so we anchored just behind Duck Island, over two miles from the mouth of Milford harbor.

We would take the dinghy in, and then I would row back out to the boat.

The sun was out. The wind was a gentle breeze. I didnt listen to the weather report with both ears.

Cue scary music.

We loaded ourselves and my friends luggage into the dink. Thats nautical talk for dinghy, which is nautical talk for what is essentially a floating teacup. If you have an actual small skiff with a motor, its called a tender.

We were definitely in a dink. A dinky dink.

I set off rowing. It didnt seem to take too terribly long to get to the harbor, only about 40 minutes or so. I tied up the dink, we walked to the train station, and I saw my friend off.

I saw a poster in the train station advertising a Mexican restaurant, saying that this place was the best Mexican restaurant in Connecticut.

Id been at sea for over a month, and everywhere Id stopped it had been seafood, seafood, seafood. I had a hankering for salsa, chips, enchiladas, and a Margarita.

I grabbed a cab outside the train station, and headed to the restaurant, which was much farther away than I had thought.

The cab driver gave me his card hey, sailor lady just call my dispatcher twenty minutes before you want to get picked up and Ill take ya back to the marina!

It was now 3:30. I figured Id get outside some Mexican food and be back at the dock by 5:00. Sunset was at 5:40 that night.

I was only half right.

Cue the scary music again.

I ate dinner. If this was the best Mexican restaurant in Connecticut, this place was proof there were no actual Mexicans in Connecticut. This was definitely Mexican food made by a WASP.

At about 4:15, I called the dispatcher, and asked for a cab. He told me one would be there in fifteen minutes. Twenty five minutes later, I called again. Hed be right there, I was told. I called several more times before a cab showed up. At 5:35.

The sun was disappearing. The cabs radio was tuned to an AM station that gave its weather report just as we were getting back to the harbor.

A line of strong thunderstorms was moving west at about 40 miles per hour over New York and Westchester County. Which was about 30 miles east of where I was. The wind was picking up as I untied the dink and started rowing out toward the mouth of the harbor. The last land feature I passed was the Milford Yacht Club folks were in the bar and the dining room enjoying themselves after a day on the water.

I rowed past, in the gathering darkness and increasing wind.

As soon as I was in the bay I knew I was in trouble. The wind had kicked up waves that were 1-2 feet, and building. I was pulling the oars with all the pretty-good-for-a-girl upper body muscle I had.

It was full dark now.

The wind out of the west was picking up.

Over my shoulder, against the western horizon, I saw lightning.

I was now very scared.

I had, as I left the boat that afternoon, turned and flicked the boats masthead anchor light on.

As I craned my head around, I could just make out, seemingly many miles away, a tiny point of light I recognized as SineWaves masthead light.

It didnt seem to be getting any closer.

I rowed on.

Wait! Is that a boat?

Hey! Hey there! Over here!

In that short time of not rowing, the wind and waves had pushed me over 100 feet back toward Milford.

And the other boat was too far away to hear me.

I had no signaling light.

Keep rowing.

The waves were over three feet now. I was soaking wet, and the dink had about 4 inches of water in her.

Keep rowing.

My hands were on fire.

Keep rowing.

My back was aching.

Keep rowing.

I begged my long-dead US Navy Admiral granddad to keep an eye on me and see me through this.

I heard his voice say keep rowing.

After what seemed like hours, I craned my head around and saw SineWave about 20 yards away. I rowed like I was trying to be an outboard motor.

15 yards.

10 yards.

5 yards.

Less than 10 feet!

A few more strokes and I grabbed at the ladder.

IT CAME OFF IN MY HAND!

The wind and the waves were sweeping me past and away from the boat.

I grabbed the dinghys painter, and grabbed the boats last starboard stanchion as it whipped by.

I dragged myself up over the bulwark, and fell face up in the cockpit.

I took a deep breath, and at that moment a lightning bolt hit the water about twenty feet away, and a downpour started that had me choking.

I tied the dink to an aft cleat, threw open the companionway hatch, and crawled below.

My hands were raw. I struggled to light the kerosene lantern in the main cabin.

I grabbed the bottle of rum out of the liquor locker, poured myself a giant slug (even though the pain of holding the bottle and the glass brought tears to my eyes), and tossed it down.

The thunder and lightning were still intense outside, but I was back in my cozy cabin home.

Soaking wet, with bleeding hands.

I gave myself first aid, and wrapped some gauze and surgical tape around my hands.

I gave myself a read the barometer and listen to the weather report with both ears lecture.

And I crawled into my bunk.

The next day was a perfect fall day crisp, clear, with a glorious northwest wind at about 15 knots.

It would have been delicious to sail that day.

But I couldnt. I could barely hold the tiller as I motored west toward home.

I heard my grandfather whisper you learned some valuable lessons last night, didnt you, girl?

I had.

First, keep a signaling flashlight with you in the dink.

Second, wear gloves if youre rowing more than 100 feet.

Third, and most important - a mariner ignores the weather report literally at her peril.

When Casey Quinlan was a little girl, she didn't dream of becoming a doctor, or a teacher - she dreamed of adventure. She's lived several lives already, and is only half-way through average life expectancy. Performer, network broadcaster, sailboat liveaboard for twelve years, scuba instructor, stepmom - she's taken on some of the tough stuff and lived to tell about it. Casey's company, Mighty Casey Media, a communication consultancy that works to bridge communication gaps, can be visited on the web at http://www.mightycasey.com

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