I loaded the pickup bed under the cover of twilight, shivering a bit when stocking the cooler. It wasn’t the ice that got me, but the chill of the early morning air. The end of summer was upon us.
On the way to the town marina, where my buddy’s 17-foot center console was berthed, I nursed a large takeout coffee and buttered Kaiser roll to steel me for the day ahead. As the first to arrive dockside, I started to back the truck into a spot to unload my gear.
That’s when the duct tape that held the rearview mirror to the windshield gave way. My slick move to catch it resulted in a lapful of lukewarm French vanilla. It was probably a better scent than the unwashed board shorts.
I sat on the tailgate and waited, trying not to think about the inevitable: This would be our last time together on the water for the season, and for the foreseeable future. In just a few days, the crew were off to college and school breaks jammed with internships or summer jobs in metro offices.
Those thoughts disappeared like the smoke from the boat’s old Johnson outboard as my buddy Scott fired her up for a day on the brine. That was 35 years ago, but I recently had an opportunity to talk about the day with a majority of the crew. We were at a friend’s ski chalet for the weekend, an annual gathering that has become more about eating and drinking than all-day skiing and snowboarding. When I brought up the boat trip and what I remembered, a few things stood out: My memories have faded, and my mind has filled the gaps with events from other times.
It seems I’m not alone in the subjectivity of memory. I was reminded of the Rashomon effect, named after the Akira Kurosawa film Rashomon. The phenomenon describes how people who experience the same event often provide conflicting accounts. I recall having gear for fishing and surfing on board as we headed toward the barrier island for the day. My friend Pete says another friend, Kevin, loaded the rods in his Jeep and drove onto the barrier island, wanting to get the most out of his seasonal 4×4 beach pass.
We were in general agreement that we anchored in a shoal on the bay and walked across the access road to the Atlantic side. Scott claims the waves were nonexistent, typical for summer in New Jersey, but others thought we had surfed. Scott also thinks we joined friends for a beach party where most of us drank our fill. I recall fishing unsuccessfully, despite the advice of some old salts, and then continuing the party toward dusk. It was definitely not the day when we stayed late into the evening with a bonfire, nor the night when one of us crept behind the rangers, put one of their quads in gear and watched it cruise into the water.
We all still agree that the day on the boat was a fine last hurrah heading to adulthood. As we slowly motored home, we could see the setting sun over Barnegat Bay and a nearly full moon rising over the barrier island.
One other thing we were simpatico on: I reeked of flavored coffee.
