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He'd never believed the tall tales of his fellow seafarers, but a mysterious green light that led him to safety in a storm made him reconsider.
Something about the sea can drive men mad. How else to explain all those stories of alluring mermaids, terrifying sea monsters and ghost ships? Like the legend of the Flying Dutchman, forever floating above the waves, its long-dead crew delivering dire warnings to the spooked sailors of passing vessels.
As a writer and sailor, I find these stories fascinating, but the name of my 35-foot sailboat reflects how I feel about them–Tall Tales.
My buddy Tristan was like me, which is why I thought he was pulling my leg when he revealed his own unlikely tale. He had been on a long solo voyage in his small sailboat, and was sleeping belowdecks with the boat on autopilot.
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Something awakened him in his bunk, and thinking he’d hit rough seas, he ran up on deck. “I swear to you,” Tristan told me, “at the helm was a guy dressed like a seventeenth-century sailor.”
“Come on.” I rolled my eyes.
“The guy yelled at me,” Tristan insisted, “in Spanish: ‘I can’t do everything... you have to do the rest.’” The mysterious sailor gestured ahead. A supertanker was bearing down on Tristan’s boat.
Tristan pushed the man aside and grabbed the tiller, turning the boat hard to starboard, narrowly avoiding a collision. The tanker’s bow wave heaved his boat over, and when it righted itself, the upper spreader and the boom were seriously damaged. “I was lucky to be alive,” Tristan said. “The tanker crew never even saw me.”
“And the seventeenth-century Spanish dude?” I asked.
“Gone.” Of course he was.
I thought about Tristan’s story while I got Tall Tales ready for my annual winter migration from New York City to Florida. Ted, the marina’s dockmaster, warned me that a nor’easter was churning toward the coast.
I wasn’t worried. My first stop was Manasquan, New Jersey, only 40 miles south. The predicted storm wouldn’t arrive until late that night–long after I would be safely tucked in. I’d spend a few days visiting friends and wait for a weather window for my next jump offshore.
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Tall Tales tugged at her lines as the first eddies of the ebb rippled the water. That tide would become a torrent flushing us down the East River, through New York Harbor, under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and out to sea. “You sure you’re comfortable with this, Stu?” Ted asked again.
“Sure. I’ll be in with time to spare. I’ll see you in the spring.” I gave a cheerful wave as I cast off.
New York was far astern when Tall Tales lifted to a steep sea, slid into a trough, then accelerated upward, climbing yet another white-capped wave. The seas were choppy but the wind was aft and that meant I’d arrive ahead of schedule.
Sure enough, shortly after noon I spotted Manasquan’s sea buoy and began angling in toward shore. The waves had become steep, sharp ridges, tops blown into spume by a howling wind.
Dark clouds hung overhead. The storm had outrun the forecaster’s prediction. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God I made it here in time.
A wave rocked the boat. I steadied myself and looked ahead. Instead of welcoming jetties lining a calm inlet, a column of roiling breakers smashed into the seawalls. The inlet’s entrance churned and spun like a washing machine. No way could I get in.
The sea morphed into a maelstrom–spray, crashing waves, the screams of a full-fledged gale. I had no choice. Forget Manasquan and run south, ahead of the storm–the only direction possible–to find safe harbor.