The past few Sunday evenings, a friend and I have been taking Cerberus out for a sail. No matter how often I observe it, one thing consistently surprises me.
Dropping back from the mooring, the mainsail fills, and the sloop begins to push forward through the water. Hordes of dish-shape jellyfish slip by, otherworldly, inches below the surface. Two powerboats, each pulling a person on a wakeboard, are moving in the distance. Other than those, we are alone.
For all the boats in the harbors here, very few ever appear to slip their lines. In the early morning, of course there are the fishing craft headed out under power; after they are gone for the day, stillness reigns.
From the upper deck at home, I keep loose track of vessels’ comings and goings. On a clear day, the view goes to Plum Island or, to the north and east, toward but not quite as far as Fishers Island. Other than during the Devon Yacht Club races, few sails ever catch my eye.
The contrast on the water to where I had Cerberus refitted in Marblehead, Mass., is striking. There, I saw old men row across the harbor to see friends for breakfast at the Driftwood Restaurant. Hundreds of sailboats are moored there, and lobster boats come and go frequently.
On the South Fork of Long Island, most water traffic these days seems to be expensive luxury powerboats producing steep wakes as they are run between their berths in Sag Harbor to somewhere for a bit of day-drinking. It is impossible to guess why the waters here are so lonesome the rest of the time.
Last Sunday, a catamaran left Montauk Inlet right about the same time we did, headed east. After we tacked at Shagwong Reef, it kept going, eventually out of sight. Other than the Viking Starship making its way home, there was no one else for miles.