By Paul Knieste
One Friday night after work I announced our boating plans for the weekend to my girlfriend, Robin. I saw her frowning as I described a day of fishing, rafting up, and a sunset photography shoot at Silver Point. The frown became a pained expression when I added we’d be at the dock by 5:00 am.
“No!” she declared. “Why is it we must always be doing something on the water? Couldn’t we just drift?”
The concept of just drifting befuddled me. As far as I was concerned, boats are for rafting, cruising, and fishing.
Robin outlined her kind of boating day — it began late and involved a lot of nothing. She proposed that we go out of East Rockaway Inlet and let the tide take us where it will without assistance from direction-finding electronics. Then it was my turn to grimace, as she firmly prohibited me from fishing or engaging in a photography session. Given her disposition and insistence, I figured I would be boating solo if I didn’t comply, so I reluctantly signed onto the do-nothing plan.
After a leisurely lunch we headed out on our boat without bait, fishing gear, or photography equipment. I had no coordinates scribbled on charts and no planned destination. I simply hunkered down and piloted the boat out of the inlet.
A little west of the inlet, I cut the engine and shut down the electronics prohibited by my new captain. I reflexively broke out the anchor, only to be met with a command. “Step away from the anchor locker,” ordered Robin. I muttered “Aye aye” and took my seat.
I was first struck by the peaceful sounds of the waves lapping at the hull and the muted creak as the boat rocked to and fro. Next was the sound of rattling by the cabin door on its loose hinge. I grabbed a screwdriver to fix it, but my captain commanded, “Stow that tool, mister.” Again, I sat.
After a short time I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to drift. Robin and I were holding hands as we sat silently, listening to the plaintive cries of the gulls and the pleasant hiss of the wind as it formed cat whiskers on the water’s surface. The warmth of the sun slowly enveloped us. The world slipped away.
I peeked from under my hat just in time to see a flock of gracefully choreographed shearwaters flying above the water. A ketch under full sail slipped past us with the sounds of her sheets flapping and the rigging tapping on her mast. A bevy of terns began their swooping dives to feed on baitfish and a pair of cormorants joined the fray with their comical diving and bobbing. I was awed!
The boat was pushed by tide and wind in no particular direction. I fought the hard-to-suppress urges to switch on the GPS and glance at a chart to get my bearings. Robin apparently read my mind, saying simply, “It’s not important where we are. We are just adrift.”
I finally understood that we were achieving a nautical bliss — I no longer felt driven to do anything. We broke out a bottle of chardonnay and chatted about nothing as we sipped. We watched the sun ease downward to the west and saw the clouds become an iridescent red as we approached nautical twilight. Again, I was captivated.
Knowing full darkness would soon follow, the captain gave permission to crank the engines, fire up the electronics, and head into the inlet. The revving sound of the engines broke our quiet reverie.
In Reynold’s Channel I noticed a couple of successful fisherman. I grabbed a rod I had “hidden” in the cabin and explained I could catch our dinner in short order. Robin’s order trumped mine as she informed me that the only thing we would be making for dinner was reservations. Smarter now than ever, I agreed with gusto.
In all my time boating I was unaware about the joy of a day adrift. So often, we boat like we live the rest of our lives — driven to accomplish or achieve something somewhere else. Thanks to Robin, I now realize that being out on the water with no agenda offers the simplest of pleasures. Distractions can wait or be forgotten; an idyllic day on the water should never be taken for granted.
