It has been some years since I pulled the iceboats out of the barn. The last time there was enough ice to sail was an early March, the third, I think. Late in the day, a friend and I took the old batwing boat out as heavy clumps of snow came down. It was as if we were sailing among stars.
When I mention iceboating these days, hardly anyone knows what I mean. “You actually sail on the ice?” they ask. “How does that work?” Runners, I tell them, like ice skates, but I get a puzzled look in return.
In the 1970s and 1980s there was ice, and lots of it. Phone calls would go out, and the small East End fleet would gather at one place or another. Rock Hildreth, an excellent sailor, would mark the holes with black plastic bags on sticks to serve as flags. David Browne, the commodore of the local iceboat club, would make sure we knew where to go.
We sailed on Poxabogue Pond, Mecox, of course, even Three Mile Harbor. Boats were set up near Hand’s Creek, and we would sail far across to the distant channel. On these occasions, there was often someone spearing eels through a hole chopped in the ice; you do not see that anymore, either.
One year, Georgica Pond froze for what seemed like weeks, and the association of homeowners allowed the entire fleet to launch from a clearing well inside its gate. That both ice and parking simply would not happen today.
During this winter’s short cold snap, I stopped at the east side of Mecox to see what the conditions were. Rough ice had been stacked into low, parallel ridges by the wind, no good for sailing.
I’ll have to ask Ellis when he gets up this morning if he ever went iceboating with me. He just turned 11, and I wonder if he will ever get the chance.