I was comatose in the amidships master stateroom of a 38-foot motorsailer, lulled to sleep by the gentle lapping of Rhode Island’s Narragansett Bay. The combination hit me like a jab and a cross, startling me awake: voices and the whine of an engine, followed by my hull’s weight shifting.
Someone was attempting to board my boat.
It was Newport Jazz Festival weekend, and I had spent the previous afternoon at Fort Adams State Park, enjoying a lineup of legendary musicians. Between sets, we’d hopscotched through the mooring field, admiring the sterling and varied fleet that spends summers here. As night fell, we’d had several people on board for dinner, swam a bit and turned in early, ready to repeat the process the next day.
As a longtime jazz fan, it was a dream assignment for me. I had picked up the boat from a local dealer and run it from Jamestown, following the dealer’s verbal directions to a mooring that he had secured. My first thought upon hearing footsteps abovedeck was that I had chosen the wrong mooring. There are thousands in the bay. Maybe it was the harbormaster coming aboard after being roused out of bed by the rightful and now livid owner who had paid thousands to moor here for the summer?
Just in case, I looked for something solid to wield. I peeked into the forward stateroom and found my friend snoozing; better not to disturb him, I thought. My watch read 1:15 a.m. as I made my way through the salon and into the cockpit with a death grip on a metal French press, the only thing I could find in the ink-black night.
I immediately recognized the launch boat, which was empty except for the pilot, who stood at the portside helm with a hold on my gunwale. We made eye contact, and, before I could speak, he gestured with a nod toward the front of the launch. I took a few steps closer and saw someone lying on deck, mumbling an apology about disturbing the peace.
“I’m really sorry, sir. This is not his boat. He gave me the incorrect mooring field number,” the pilot told me.
“I picked him up over there,” he added, pointing to a Nordhavn in the distance. It was far off, but I could make out people on the decks, and I could hear the deep thrum of music. “I don’t how he got so turned around. He was going on about some of the Jazz Fest performers and a late-night jam session on that big ol’ boat. I’m taking him back over there to get his friends, who may have a better idea. Again, I’m so sorry for disturbing you.”
“Gimme a second,” I told the pilot.
Within two minutes, I was dressed, refreshed and boarding the launch. “You can drop me off over there, too.”
I left the French press, as I’d need it when I returned after the sun came up.
You only live once.
This article was originally published in the May/June 2024 issue.
