By now our three-hour tour was in serious jeopardy. Waves were crashing over the sides and into the boat. Patrick grabbed the hand-operated bilge pump to try and keep pace with the incoming water, while Tommy grabbed some electrical tape in a desperate attempt to patch the gas line, but it wasn’t sticking.
That’s when I started to blow the onboard air horn like there was no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be, because now we were quickly drifting right toward the bridge’s huge cement pylons! Then the girls spotted a Coast Guard Cutter heading toward us with its emergency lights flashing, while the girls waved their arms frantically to draw its attention. At this point it was a mad race between the cutter and certain wreckage, and frankly, I thought wreckage would surely win out, as we scrambled to put on the filthy orange life vests that were haphazardly piled up under the hull, and hid the booze.
The cutter was bearing down on us and we could see two crewmen organizing a large rope on its hull motioning to us, and then announced thru its bullhorn:
“ATTENTION, ATTENTION, VESSEL 459TR63, WE ARE RESPONDING TO YOUR MARINE EMERGENCY. WE WILL PASS ON YOUR STARBOARD SIDE AND TOSS YOU A ROPE TO BE TIED IMMEDIATELY TO YOUR HULL RAILS. PLEASE DESIGNATE ONE PERSON TO CATCH THE ROPE AND KEEP EVERYONE ELSE SEATED.”
And so Patrick, being the biggest kid, stepped up to catch the rope and be our designated life saver, but the first toss came up short of our boat, landing in the angry water instead. The crewman then re-coiled the rope and positioned themselves for another attempt, all the while we continued getting smacked around and drifting ever closer to certain wreckage.
The cutter’s next attempt was on target. This time Tommy had insisted on being the “catcher,” but despite his valiant attempt, the rope slipped through his hands, and as Patrick tried to make a last-second save, it simply dropped into the angry waters below. The cutter’s crewman looked frustrated.
“ATTENTION VESSEL 459TR63, WARNING, YOU ARE TOO CLOSE TO THE PYLONS. THIS IS OUR LAST AND FINAL ATTEMPT. PLEASE POSITION YOURSELF TO CATCH AND SECURE THE ROPE ONBOARD FOR A TOW!”
Now, I’ve always prided myself in having exceptionally “good hands” on the ballfield, good reflexes, and a ton of confidence. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I made an error and liked to boast about how “I’ve never dropped anything in my life.”
This was the ultimate test.
“Get the hell OUT of the way,” I shouted, uncharacteristically and aggressively muscling my way past Tommy (did I just do that?!) and Stevie who was just getting in the way, en-route to the most important snatch of my life, needing to be in charge of my own destiny, no matter how bleak.
To which more than one brutally pissed-off coast guardsman responded with a tirade of unmentionable expletives, telling us to shove certain things up certain body parts, then in no uncertain terms, yelled through the pelting rain: “LAST CHANCE! CATCH IT ASSHOLES!!” (OK, they hated us.)
And we knew it was.
The toss was true and the rope thick and heavy, unceremoniously smacking me in the face before I caught it. “I GOT IT!” I screamed through the rain, considerably nauseated at this point from the combination of beer, unrelenting swells, and morbid fear, but even with all the motivation in the world the rope would have slipped through my blistered hands if it weren’t for the quick and Herculean, intervention by Big Patrick Flaherty, using every ounce of his appreciable strength to grab the slipping rope and hold on!
Then, the rope sort of caught me, momentarily wrapping around my leg, leaving nasty rope burns that would take weeks to heal.
We held onto it just long enough for Tommy to securely fasten it to the rails, just as we lunged forward, thankfully now under the capable towing power of the rescue cutter, not ten yards from a certain wreck!
You’ve never heard such hooting and hollering in your life; we were safe! And as a bonus, I got a huge kiss smack on the lips from Christine and a promise to massage my sore leg once we returned. Not too shabby!
The Coast Guard Cutter towed us to Mass Maritime where Tommy had the tank filled and hose line repaired. What he didn’t do though, nor did any of us, was call home to let our folks know what had happened.
Instead, with a break in the weather, we climbed back in the refueled boat and headed toward Mashnee, arriving at the heavily crowded dock, some four hours late.
When we finally arrived, the scene was beyond chaotic.
There must have been thirty people on the dock, plus dozens more rubber-neckers watching from shore, plus a police cruiser with its lights flashing, along with a firetruck, sitting in The Club’s parking lot.
Looking around, I immediately noticed my boat was not at its mooring, nor was The Bird’s, and we would soon find out that a search party of boats had been out looking for hours.
My folks had made a worse-than-awful decision to lend our boat to Crazy Eddie to help with the search. Honestly, it boggles the mind. I must admit though, it was pretty chilling to think that friends were out searching the sea for our wreck, and looking into the waters for our bodies.
The dramatic difference in the way we were raised and I’m certain our corresponding level of street toughness, was never more apparent than when we were met by our harried parents at the dock.
Tommy stepped off the boat, was dragged by his ear up the exit ramp, and summarily slapped, then punched, full force, in the back of his head, by his father, who was screaming bloody murder.
Now Tommy’s father was a big, surly guy, with a bad temper and a short fuse, but I’m sure Tommy could have made mincemeat out of him had he wanted.
But he just smirked, shrugged it off, and chuckled, prompting yet another good smack to the back of the head. Tommy took the abuse like I was sure he had taken it many times before, while his mother, small, stoic women, followed behind her bully of a husband, feebly objecting.
Most tough kids are tough for a reason, I thought, and it’s sorta sad.
My family, on the other hand, had nothing but worried hugs and kisses for me, while my mom and sister bawled their eyes out.
My folks were more worried than mad, while Tommy’s were just plain angry.
Christine’s dad picked up her and Sally in a huff and wouldn’t even look at the rest of us.
Patrick’s hardcore dad was none too pleased either. It was a bad day for the Flaherty’s
Of course we were all grounded for a while, and Tommy lost his boating rights for two weeks, but looking back,
just to have the story alone… not to mention a hot girlfriend on my knee all day…
Was worth every, single, bit, of trouble!
Chapter 35
Splash
As it happens quite often on Mashnee, the summer sun threatened to bake us alive. Me and the guys decided a pool day was in order, and that we had to brave the ire of Pete Jones and his particular brand of egocentric authority just to cool our hot selves off. So we made our way down to The Club and stood outside the pool door, taking turns peeking through the mesh door to see when Jones and his godforsaken lifeguard whistle would come unlock. If he spotted us, he’d intentionally unlock it a few minutes late just to mess with our heads.
(Gee, thanks a bunch, Pete!) But with Pete, deep down, we knew he was a good guy.
As the “Attending Lifeguard on Duty,” it was his job to prepare the place for the swarms of renters who would descend upon the place with their pool floats and high-decibel vices, anxious for their dip in the always-tepid water. He stood, compulsively skimming the water, readjusting chaise lounges, straightening tables and generally prepping the area for the crowds to follow.
I’d witnessed it enough times to know he had a final two chores to finish before he’d be ready to open. First, was to hose the perpetually crusted seagull shit off of the universally despised “Blue Time-Out Bench.” The bench was the penalty bench, the one on which many a rear end sat endlessly, penalized for “repeated misbehavior,” (aka cannonballing into the pool or intentionally splashing said lifeguard, a favorite pastime of ours) would begrudgingly reside—for the entire world to see.
