Story + Photos by Frank Scavone
It is late October and I’m alone again on the flybridge, 30 miles into the journey from our summer berth on the North Shore of Long Island. With 55 miles to go into a stiff 12-knot breeze from the north, my wife, Giselle, is riding out the chop below in the salon. She’s wrapped in a blanket, not because of the cold, but to remind me that I decided without consulting her to squeeze in a Hudson River run before we follow the warm waters back to Florida.
To keep me company, I imagined my grandmother sitting next to me at the helm, her kind voice offering directions I wish I could still ask her for. Her voice rang clear as day.
“From the mouth of Hempstead Bay, navigate between Sands Point and Execution Rocks Lighthouse. Continue past Little Neck and under the Throgs Neck and Whitestone Bridges into the narrow passages of the East River. The airplanes into LaGuardia sound like they’ll clip your radar arch. Rikers Island Prison will be on your port side…Best not pick up any swimmers.” My grandmother was her own best audience.
“Go under the bridge at Hell Gate. After the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, it’s much faster to head north up the Harlem River. Unless it’s an unusually high tide, you have 23 feet or better air clearance under the dozen bridges before reaching the Spuyten Duyvil swing bridge, where you’ll need to call the bridge operator for an opening. Channel 13 on the VHF will work, but it’s better if you ring his cellphone. He won’t mind.”
My reflections from the helm of GiGi weren’t random. I got my driver’s license in 1983 and back then if I needed to know how to get somewhere, I would usually call my grandmother for directions. She was my GPS.
Further connecting the dots, it was my grandparents who introduced me to the magic of the Hudson Valley in the mid-1970s when I was a kid. We enjoyed our annual summer vacation so much that we began returning for a long weekend every autumn. Horseback riding, trap shooting, barbecues and campfire guitar songs were all on the agenda. The vivid memories have been painted onto the canvas of my life, shaped me and inevitably called for my return.
Giselle and I first made this passage together more than a decade ago on Witchcraft, the Bertram 28 my father had for 30 years. After I inherited her, I spent a cold winter in the work shed at Safe Harbor Glen Cove restoring her. Every bolt and screw, every square inch of the bilge, was taken apart, cleaned and cared for, on the promise she’d run for another 30 years—the 30 that my father expected to have.
At that time, we were navigating the beginnings of our relationship. Giselle would visit me in the boatyard, bring egg sandwiches and hot coffee and hand me tools. She would tell me stories about doing the same for her father, a 9/11 first-responder trucker who carted away rubble and would be a secondary casualty from carcinogen exposure. I only spoke to him once, on Giselle’s cell from the engine compartment. He explained, from hospice, how to use a torch to free the seized bolts on my impeller pump. He passed away a few weeks later. I still remember his voice—he sounded like my kind of guy.
Losing our fathers to the emperor of all maladies was one of the things that bonded us. We also both have sons named Jake who are the same age. By the time they were 15, it became so confusing, we had to rename her Jake to Jacob. Not perfect, but he’s growing into it.
In the fall of 2015, I invited Giselle to run Witchcraft up the Hudson to Roundout Creek in Kingston, N.Y. It was ambitious for our first passage together. Witchcraft was nimble and responsive, cutting the northern channels at Esopus Meadows Lighthouse where the river narrowed and the autumn foliage exploded into reds and yellows.
It was Giselle’s first boat trip. I sat her on the sunny side of the flybridge to keep her warm and I kept a careful eye to make sure she didn’t go overboard. She took it in stride when the Beekman Arms in Rhinebeck was fully booked with the annual Sheep and Wool Festival. She understood the repercussions more clearly when, during a lovely dinner, the temperature dropped from 65 to 45 degrees. We slept on Witchcraft, froze through the night, took hot showers the next morning, and laughed over coffee on the ride home. We’ve been together since.
The success of our first Hudson River run led to the acquisition of Blue-chip, an Alden 40 Hardtop Express that my father would never have dared dream of owning. It had a regal blue hull, a reverse transom, a vibrant teak interior, and, as I had assured Giselle, heat. Blue-chip was so beautiful that dock walkers were too intimidated to ask questions or tell their boat stories. With a cruise speed of 26 knots, Blue-chip was our gateway to distant ports as far east as Martha’s Vineyard, as far south as Beaufort, NC, and in 2019, our return north up the Hudson, beyond Kingston to the epic beauty of Lake Champlain.
Both vessels are now in the good hands of new captains. Funny how our boats, like family members, become central characters in our reflections. Following another broad-scale restoration (see “Making Her Mine” at passagemaker.com) it was time to take GiGi, a Grand Banks 47 Classic, on the fall Hudson River run.
The weather was not cooperating. Multiple East Coast storms were funneling air straight down the Hudson River into the tip of my bow. Big wind on shallow water creates unpredictable patterns and decreases surface visibility which was problematic, considering the endless stream of logs and dock timbers that hang like alligators just beneath the surface.
As we continued north from Spuyten Duyvil, the relentless wind kicked brackish spray across the windscreen until I made a captain’s decision and tucked into Half Moon Bay in Croton-on-Hudson next to the Croton Yacht Club, a quiet, well-maintained marina. Renting an embarrassingly bright blue Mustang convertible for culinary exploration of the neighboring towns, we waited out calmer morning air.
We walked the quaint Main Street of Cold Spring, through the tunnel under the Metro-North tracks to the riverfront block where we sampled a chicken empanada at Café Rincon Argentino. At Cold Spring Pizza, an old-school New York pizzeria, we split a slice of classic Sicilian with fresh tomato and basil.
Further north in Beacon, we wandered without recommendation or expectations into Dave the Butcher, where they grill steaks from the display case on request, douse them in fresh-made chimichurri and serve them at a white marble bar alongside homemade ratatouille, paired with wines from the Basque region. By 7:30, every seat was taken, the grill was on fire, and wine was flowing. In the prime dinnertime chaos, owner and chef Dave Mountain (who claims to have an uncle named Rocky) still found a moment to steal a kiss from his wife and host, Melissa, in the far corner of the open kitchen. A weekly Sunday barbecue brunch is a fine reason to return.
Another three river hours north, Roundout Yacht Basin in Kingston remained, as we remembered, a working marina with wooden docks, old boats from different eras and a friendly staff. Kingston is 20 miles south of the next accommodations suitable for larger vessels in Catskill. Combined with the respectable food scene on the riverfront and in the larger uptown area, Kingston should remain a favorite stop for Loopers and vessels headed to Lake Champlain, Montreal and the Thousand Islands.
From the dock in Kingston, the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge facilitates easy access across the river to Rhinebeck, an 11-mile car ride that feels more like a scenic background for a Volvo commercial. Rhinebeck, praised as the most beautiful of the Hudson River towns, is rich in colonial history. The Beekman Arms, established in 1704, sits in the center of town and for over 300 years has hosted some of the most notable names in American history. Following a warm welcome at the front desk, per my standard operating procedure, we walked the shops and chatted up local merchants. Giselle upgraded my wardrobe at John Jack’s Menswear, named after proprietor Steven Rikert’s father.
By 6 pm, we found our reserved bar seats at Bia, a Hudson Valley-inspired bistro where our taste buds danced through rigatoni with white beech mushrooms in Parmesan truffle cream, Berkshire pork rib chop with roasted apples and cider, and steelhead trout. Still early, we ventured to newcomer Little Goat on Mill Street for a final glass of wine that turned into a full second dinner. Perched again at the bar, we discussed menu favorites with the bartender and servers who insisted we sample eggplant caponata, homemade bucatini and ricotta gnudi. When manager and foodie, Justin Furman, came over to see what all the chatter was about, I mentioned enjoying Bia’s pork rib. Game for a friendly throw down, Little Goat’s interpretation soon arrived surrounded by roasted stone fruit and dressed with honey, mustard and mint. Indeed, worth making room for. A forkful of spelt olive oil cake later, Giselle and I swore off food for the rest of the month.
I was happy to cruise and explore here again, well beyond the noise of the big city and into the vast natural beauty of the Hudson Valley. Tucked in for the night and holding hands under the comforter, Giselle and I reflected on our day in silence. When she finally spoke, she told me that in 1964, her father painted her mother’s name on the Hell Gate bridge to announce their courtship. That’s just what they did back then. She also said it was nice to be warm this time.
As she fell asleep, I returned to thinking about the connections between people and places, How, surrounded by a tapestry of granite, forests and water there is a natural shift in the prism through which we gaze. My mind was clear to make space for the thoughts that matter, hearing the voices, some gone, that have loved you and etched memories of the wide smiles that always welcomed you home.
This article originally appeared in the October 2026 issue of Passagemaker magazine.
