"I take full responsibility for the Paumanok and her crew, madam. I run a tight ship and I will not abide insubordination."
Susan shook a bottle of beer, popped the cap, and sent a stream of suds into my face.
Normally, this sort of horseplay between Susan and me is actually foreplay, but there were children present, so I just joined in the laughter. Ha, ha. But I was horny. Boats make me horny.
We played cards that night, talked, read, and went to bed early. Sailing is exhausting, and I never sleep so well as when I'm on a gently swaying sailboat. We rose at dawn on Monday morning and set sail for home. Out in Gardiners Bay, we sailed around Gardiners Island. The Gardiner family came to the New World about the same time as the Sutters, and the island that was granted to them by Charles I is still in their possession. The present occupant of the island, Robert David Lion Gardiner, has what amounts to the only hereditary title in America, being known as the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor. My father, who knows the gentleman, calls him Bob.
Anyway, the circumnavigation of the big island was a tricky piece of sailing, but the crew was up to it. As we sailed away from the north coast of the island, I couldn't help but reflect on the ancient idea that land is security and sustenance, that land should never be sold or divided. But even if that was true today, it was true only as an ideal, not a practicality. Still, I envied the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor.
We rounded Orient Point and lowered the sails, letting the Paumanok drift as we finally broke out the fishing gear. Susan, Carolyn, and I were going for bluefish, using as bait a tin of herring that we'd brought along for the occasion. Crazy Edward had brought a much bigger rod and reel with a hundred-pound line and was out for shark. He proclaimed, "I'm going to get a great white."
Carolyn smirked. "See that he doesn't get you."
Edward had kept a whole chicken in the refrigerator as bait, and he secured it to his big hook with copper wire. Bubbling with his old enthusiasm, he cast his line in the water.
We pulled in six blues, which we kept in a pail of seawater to be cleaned later by the captain. And indeed, Edward did tie into a shark, specifically a mako, which is prevalent in these waters in July, and I could tell when the mako broke water, and by the bend in the rod, that it weighed about two hundred pounds. Edward shouted with delight. "Got 'im! Got 'im! He's hooked!" The Paumanok has no fighting chair, which is a requisite if you're trying to land something that size, but Edward fought the fish from a kneeling position, his knees jammed against the bulwark. The shark was powerful enough to tow the boat and even to make it list whenever Edward locked the reel. Eventually, Edward reached the end of his line, literally and figuratively, and he was so exhausted he could barely speak. The fish, however, had a lot of fight left in him. I recall a similar incident involving me, my father, and a blue shark. I had refused to let anyone relieve me on the rod and refused to let anyone cut the line and end the uneven battle. The result was that after an hour my arms and hands were paralysed from fatigue, and I lost not only the shark but the expensive rod and reel as well. What I was watching now seemed like deja vu. A sailboat is not the ship you want to go shark hunting in, and there were a few times I thought that Edward was going to go over the side as the shark dived and the boat heeled. Finally, after nearly an hour, I suggested, "Let him go." "No."
"Then let me relieve you awhile."
"No!"
Carolyn and Susan had stopped fishing for blues and were watching Edward silently. Edward, of course, was not going to blow it in front of the women, or in front of me for that matter. I tried to think of a graceful way out for him but couldn't. Actually, it was his problem, not mine.
Carolyn poured a bucket of fresh water over Edward, then wrapped a wet towel around his head and shoulders. Susan held cans of cola to his lips, and Edward drank three of them.
I could see that Edward was not in good shape. His skin was burning red, and his tongue was actually lolling around his mouth. His eyes had a faraway glazed look, and I suspected he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion. His arms and legs were wrapped around the pole in such a way that I didn't think the pole could get away from him but would take him with it if the fish gave a long, powerful lunge.
I wished in a way that he would pass out, or that the line would snap, or even that the shark would take him over the side; anything rather than his having to let go.
Carolyn said to him, "Let it go, Edward. Let it go."
He could not speak any longer, so he just shook his head. I don't know what the natural outcome of this would have been, but Susan took matters into her own hands and cut the line with a knife. Edward seemed not to understand what had happened for minute or so, then he sprawled out on the deck and cried.
We had to carry him below, and we put him in a bunk with wet towels. It was an hour before he could move his hands and arms. We set sail for home. Edward was quiet and sullen for some time, then said to everyone, "Thanks for helping out." Carolyn replied, "We should have thrown you to the shark."
"Shark?" I said. "I thought he was fighting the dead chicken." Susan smiled and put her arm around her son. She said, "You're as stubborn and pigheaded as your father."
"Thank you," said Edward.
We sailed into The Seawanhaka Corinthian late Monday afternoon, sunburned and exhausted. A boat is sort of a litmus test for relationships, the close quarters and solitude compelling people into either a warm bond or into mutiny and murder. As we tied the Paumanok up to its berth, the Sutters were smiling at one another; the sea had worked its magic.
But you can't stay at sea forever, and most desert islands lack the facilities for a quick appendectomy. So we tie up our boats, and we tie ourselves to our electronic lifelines, and we lead lives of noisy desperation. I knew that the bond that the Sutters had renewed on the Paumanok, while solid in most respects, had a serious fissure, a fault line if you will, which ran between husband and wife. The children were not holding us together, of course, but they did draw us together, at least while they were around. But that evening, as I sat by myself in my study, I realized that I wanted this summer to end; I wanted Carolyn and Edward back at school so that Susan and I could talk, could connect or disconnect.
On Friday, the four of us drove out to the Hamptons, and I listed our house with the realtors for a quick summer sale. Alas, the summer was already a few weeks old, and most of the Manhattan turkeys had already been plucked. This, combined with a shaky stock market, high mortgage rates, and some nonsense about an income tax increase, was depressing the summer-house market. Nevertheless, I asked for a cool half million, which the realtor wrote down as $499,900. "No," I said, "I told you half a million."
"But -"
"I'm not looking for stupid buyers. List it my way." And he did. Even if I got the half million, I wouldn't see-much profit after I paid off the existing mortgage, the realtor's commission, Melzer, the IRS, and, of course, the, new capital gains. God, how depressing. More depressing still was the fact that I liked the house, and it was the only solid piece of the earth that I owned. So we spent Friday afternoon on our shingled bit of Americana, packing a few personal things that we didn't want around when the realtors brought customers through. Everyone was sort of quiet, and I suppose the reality of the situation was sinking in. Another reality, in case it crossed your mind, was that Susan could indeed come up with the money to pay off our tax debt. I don't know exactly how much the woman has (I'm only her husband and a tax lawyer), but I estimate about six hundred thousand dollars, which spins off perhaps fifty thousand a year for pin money. She doesn't spend that much, and probably it is ploughed back into the stocks, bonds, and whatever. But asking an old-money heiress to touch her principal is like asking a nun for sex. Also, I don't think Susan is as fond of the Hamptons or our house there as I am. There are some practical reasons why this is so, but I think there is a psychological thing going on there that she is barely aware of, which has to do with whose home turf is whose. Anyway, we took care of the house, shopped for groceries, then had a drink on the porch. Edward said, "If you don't sell it by the time I get back from Florida, can we come out for a few weeks?" I replied, "If I can spare the time."