wind-friction. The ride was becoming tedious. We had used up our supply of new jokes (even the clean ones) and neither of us was in the mood to argue politics or philosophy. So, I guess, it was inevitable that when Jim saw buoy HP-1 looming off the port bow it would attract him like a buxom babe in a bikini, he just had to get a closer look.

"Take the helm and steer as close to the buoy as you can," He ordered in his quiet affable voice

"Sure" I answered, “What are we going to do, play slap the buoy with the big buoys?"

I was referring to Jim's penchant for sailing directly at the small Cans and Nuns in the Clinton River channel. Then, at the last minute, he would round the boat up to windward while his hand, stretched far out over the leeward gunwale, would pat the buoy as our stern fishtailed to within inches of the floating device's metal surface.

"No" said Jim, "don't sail past it. Try to stall the boat into the wind right in front of it. I've always wanted to get a long, close look at one of these things."

"You sure about this Jim? I mean what if I screw up and hit it"

"Were not going fast enough to do any damage, and anyway, I'll be in the bow to fend off."

Jim was right; in the light air it was a breeze (pun, apologetically, intended) to put the small boat in irons with the bow-pulpit mere inches from the hulking green metal object.

"Wow! I never realized how big these things are." Jim yelled back from the bow.

"Yeah or how bright that flashing light is" I answered from my seat in the stern "It's really messing up my night vision. It almost looks like your floating between the boat and the …."

" Yahoooo! Whoa! Holy Shit!" Jim was on the buoy!

He had climbed over the bow-pulpit and stepped onto the broad base of the buoy while holding on to its steel super-structure with one hand and the bow rail of the boat with the other. But his off-center weight had set the whole thing tilting and turning like an amusement park ride forcing him to let go of the boat. His movements had also shoved the bow of the boat off the wind and it began to sail slowly away from the buoy, Jim was marooned.

"Hang on I'll get back to you." I shouted.

It was a reflex, like yelling "I got it!" when chasing an infield pop-up or diving after a fumble on the twenty-yard line; but I wasn't really sure I could make the game winning snag in this case, and, to make matters worse, the wind was picking up. I sailed off to leeward then jibed the boat back around toward HP-1, slowly trimming in the sails until I was on a hard beat. When I was close by the mark I put the boat head-to-wind and released the sheets to slow the boat. Jim leaned way-out and tried to grab the bow rail, which set the buoy to pitching and yawing in violent arcs, his buttocks skimming just inches over the water and his head almost

cracking itself on the bow of the boat. It forced him to retract his arm and to concentrate his grip and his weight on the center of his steel island, again, as I sailed off for another approach.

At this point, you are most likely saying to yourself, "What a couple of jerks why didn't Jim just swim to the boat or why not use the engine to maneuver instead of messing around with the sails" Well, you’re probably a pretty smart sailor. You probably have a whole bunch of racing flags and you probably know on which side of the boat to properly fly the Canadian courtesy flag, and you can probably calculate a complementary course in your head while making small talk and mixing a perfect Martini for your guests. But I was new to sailing at the time, still learning the ropes, and, by the way, did I mention that this happened at ten PM in late October? That the air temperature was forty-eight degrees and Jim had on long underwear, two sweaters a down jacket and sea boots? And did I ever say Jim could swim? As for starting the antique outboard engine, which Jim had personally rebuilt several times, occasionally with parts that he himself had fabricated…. well let's just say that interfering in the relationship between that motor and Jim would have been tantamount to adultery.

So I began a new, slow, approach but this time I wasn't going to stop the boat. Jim had shouted instructions to me to pass close by to Leeward and he would make a leap for it. I didn't like the idea but it was his boat and his ass on the line so I went along with it. When the boat was two or three feet away Jim launched himself toward it with such force that I thought he would overshoot the deck but instead he hit the Bow Pulpit with his chest, his outstretched arms wrapping around the top rail. He hung there a moment, the breath knocked out of him, then unable hoist himself up and loosing his grip, he began to slide down the side of the boat. I abandoned the helm to the winds and clambered over the cabin top and onto the bow just in time to catch one of Jim's arms and a flailing leg and helped him to scramble under the lifelines and onto the deck.

When we were back in the cockpit and had the boat sailing on an even keel again, Jim said, "Well, that was more excitement than I'd bargained for. I always thought those things were more stable". I didn't say it at the time but I was beginning to question Jim's mental stability. He was soaking wet from toes to knees and I'm sure that his ribs hurt where they had crunched against the rail, but he was smiling. Dumb Luck had seen him through once more. Nothing was broken on the boat, nor on Jim, we didn't have to call a third party for rescue and the Cost Guard didn't catch him tampering with a navigational aid. Which I understand carries a hefty fine, I mention this in case any of you are foolhardy enough to consider duplicating this stunt.

The rest of the evening was thankfully uneventful. We had enough wind to sail back to dock before we ran out of beer and Cap'm Jim had kept my fledging interest in sailing alive for another week by turning an otherwise boring light air sail into an excellent adventure. Or as Cap'm Jim would say it was the kind of sailing that separated the men from the buoys.

Larry Caricchio “Zingara”