My old college buddy Tad called out of the blue this past spring. He and a bunch of his pals were rolling into my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island, in a few weeks. He asked if I could take them for a sail, which wasn’t unexpected, as I’d offered him an open invitation long ago.
Way back when, I somehow finagled entrance into academically elite Williams College almost solely thanks to my knack for catching a football. And somehow, in spite of myself, I managed to acquire a fine education. More important, I made many lifelong friends, several of whom were now coming to town after an early June reunion in Williamstown, Massachusetts.
I asked Tad how many, and he said, “Three or four.” Fine. My 22-foot-6-inch Ensign has long cockpit seats.
Subsequently, I received this series of texts: “Looks like five or six.” “I’m thinking eight or nine, and I’m still waiting to hear from some guys.” “Going to be more like a dozen.”
With that, I borrowed that famous line out of Steven Spielberg’s classic film Jaws: “Bro, I think we’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
Luckily, in Newport, there are many to choose among. But the boys deserved a treat, and what better than a sail aboard one of the graceful 12-Metres that once vied in these waters for the storied America’s Cup? And of those, which one better than Intrepid, the famous Olin Stephens design and two-time Cup winner, in 1967 and 1970? A local outfit, America’s Cup Charters (americascup
charters.com), operates a small fleet of the classic Twelves, including Intrepid. Which just happened to have an open date on the day in question. Yes.
As always with sailing, a lot would depend on the weather. Our day dawned clear and bright, and by midmorning, the prevailing southwest sea breeze was already pumping. I’d of course checked the forecast the night before and informed the lads that we were going to enjoy fairly ideal conditions. But I had no clue just how sweet.
There were whitecaps in the harbor as we got underway. Intrepid’s tight regular crew, under the able command of skipper Mike Patterson, hoisted the reefed main, and we were off. Among our contingent, there were only a few actual sailors, but one was a ringer: the self-professed “shrink” Peter Davidson, who ran another Twelve, Weatherly, way back when.
We hardened up on the breeze, which was a solid 15 knots and building, and it was clear that we wouldn’t be venturing out to Rhode Island Sound, where the Cup races were conducted. That was more than fine. You can’t beat Narragansett Bay, and for the next few hours, we ranged all over it. I enjoyed a long, delightful stint at the wheel closehauled with the rail down as the wind built into the low 20s and the boatspeed flirted with 9 and 10 knots. I was in a daze, surrounded by my schoolmates from decades past. Most of them didn’t really understand how special this sail was, but I sure did.
It was a pretty accomplished crew, this bunch, across many professions: lawyers, doctors, businessmen. Some were retired, while some (like me) were still going at it hard. There was a common denominator here as well. Sure, there’d been some setbacks with health, marriages, kids, the whole disaster, but the bottom line was also quite clear: In the tenuous game of life, we’d all drawn lucky hands.
As we bore away and settled into a course toward the Newport Bridge, everyone who wanted one got a chance to drive. The phones came out, pictures were taken and shared, (mock) insults were hurled, and there was plenty of laughter.
There’s no getting around it: We’re relatively old men at this stage. The road behind us is surely longer than the one ahead. But there, on the water, despite the wrinkles and gray hair, all the years melted away. My friends looked exactly like they used to. We were all kids again.
