I hadn’t been sailing in more than 30 years, since my youngest child was born. Experience has taught me that you take your life in your hands out on the ocean. But we were on Block Island and my cousin’s other half owns a sailboat. He’s an experienced sailor and now, so is she, although she balks at overnight trips via water. 

Last year he invited me “out to the boat” during our annual visit. I was ready with hat and sunglasses, SPF 50, non-marking soles and a water bottle, and excited for my first foray at sea after many years. He ushered us aboard his fine 40-foot boat and there we sat, anchored at his mooring in Payne’s Dockyard, enjoying the sea air and the occasional diesel fumes from other boats going out to test the waters on Block Island Sound. We went nowhere. It wasn’t for lack of wind or fuel or because of a disabled battery. He hadn’t said we were going sailing. He just said “out to the boat.” It wasn’t my idea of a good time but gee, thanks.

This year, I made sure the invitation was to sail before gearing up. We had our granddaughter Rosie with us and our two adult children. My cousin Jen and her daughter Olivia and her fiancé, Chris. Chris was a novice sailor but an eager student. 

Our captain, Don, barked orders at Jen as she raised the mainsail and set the lines tight. Chris was given the wheel once we were out of the harbor. The wind was steady but he struggled to keep on course, it being his first time at the helm. Don was gentle with him, I noticed, giving him directions to keep his eyes on a point in the horizon. 

Rosie was a champ, wearing her purple PFD proudly and her blue SPF 50 sunhat without objection. She seemed at ease with the dinghy that ferried us out to the boat. As she was hoisted aloft from adult to Mom, I remembered the story my mother used to tell about being pirates at sea in New York Harbor.

Before I was born, Mom and Dad were invited to a Bon Voyage party on the Queen Mary. They took their young son Christopher with them. Chris was about half the age Rosie is now, at less than a year old. My parents were in their late 20s and moved in a crowd of actors and artists. There was hilarity aboard the Queen Mary that afternoon; hilarity and champagne both flowed freely. My mother heard a horn blast, then another long horn, shortly after. She tried to interrupt my father’s conversation but he was on a roll and getting to a long-awaited punch line. Suddenly, she felt the ship lurch. They were on their way to Southhampton, England without a ticket.

A steward was summoned and the captain was advised that stragglers were aboard. The ship’s progress was ongoing via tug but another tug was called up alongside the huge vessel. My mother was told to toss her infant son from the deck to the tug. She wavered and a crewman took the child from her and threw him into the waiting arms of a tugboat crewman. He caught Chris and my parents maneuvered their way down a rope ladder to join him.

As we set sail on Don’s boat for a point on the horizon, I told that story as Rosie sat securely in her mother’s arms, her blue eyes sparkling in the summer sun.