The events depicted took place in New Jersey in 1997. At the request of the survivors, the names have been changed, except mine. Out of respect for the life lessons we learned that day, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.
I had just returned from a year in landlocked Colorado when I got the call: The crew was spending July Fourth rafting up on Barnegat Bay. All I had to do was show up at Lee’s lagoon-front home with whatever I needed for a day on the water. I accepted the invitation.
The day unfolded like many others. We split up on two boats and wolfed down bagel sandwiches while idling through the serpentine lagoon that led to open water. Once across the bay, we tied up side-to just off the narrow barrier island.
As the summer heat kicked in, several people cracked open beers. Others, myself included, waded to shore and crossed the single-lane road to swim in the ocean. Erin had brought a beach umbrella, and I spent the day with her and some others, napping in the shade with breaks to swim or snack.
By early evening, everyone in the crew minus Erin and me had drunk their fill and was lighting fireworks off the bow. We convinced everyone that it was time to leave, and I took the helm of Jack’s garvey, following Erin’s larger runabout back to Lee’s.
That’s when things started to unravel, fast.
Jack, not quite sober, insisted that his boat needed to go back to his parents’ dock. He began to motor off into the darkness. Thinking I was doing the right thing, I ran down and jumped on the stern to help him navigate back.
Our running lights were operable, but with no moon or spotlight, our visiblity was poor. I held onto the console’s grab rail and implored Jack to relinquish the wheel.
The next thing I knew, I was in the bow, writhing in pain. He had run us onto the marsh grass islet outside the no-wake zone. The flat-bottomed garvey had sailed across, coming to a stop about two-thirds of the way to the other side.
Jack quickly helped me up, and we stepped off to assess the situation. I was OK, but the two of us could not liberate the boat, which was mired in the mud. With no phone and a dead handheld VHF radio, Jack decided he’d swim back to Lee’s and have Erin pull us off the grass with her boat. He was already some distance away before I even had a chance to debate the plan with him.
The tall grass and moonless night obscured the boat from any passersby, including the marine police patrols that I assumed would be arresting me at any second. Soon enough, I heard a boat slowing just off the islet. A spotlight was trained in my direction.
Erin was at the helm. She had brought Jack, Lee and Ryan with her. Someone tied a line to the garvey’s bow. We positioned ourselves along the gunwales. Lee and Ryan handled the outboard. Somehow, we managed to extricate the garvey, and we quickly went our separate ways, with everyone covered in muck.
About 40 minutes later, as we neared Jack’s dock (he smartly relinquished the wheel), I could see Erin, who had jumped into her Jeep and driven over. She was standing on the dock, waiting to help us tie up.
Jack went inside to do who knows what, leaving Erin and me on the deck off the finger pier. We sat and listened to the call of a whip-poor-will.
I heard the pfft crack of two cans being opened. Erin handed me a beer and said, “I’m glad I hate day drinking.”
Me too, I thought.
This article was originally published in the April 2024 issue.
