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Non-fiction Creative Essay 1 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 2 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 3 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 4 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 5
Non-fiction Creative Essay 6 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 7 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 8 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 10 · Non-fiction Creative Essay 11
Our crew consisted of four; my friend, Cathy, her mother and father and myself and we embarked from Amityville, Long Island on a beautiful dry warm day, a rarity in late July. Most days on Long Island in July resemble the Amazon Rainforest: 99 degrees and 99 percent humidity. Wonderful cool ocean breezes came off the canal while the sun warmed us with its 85-degree temperature: a perfect day for a cruise.
Compared to the others, I looked like the baby of the crew. Everyone towered over me. I found myself surrounded by giants. Cathy the tallest, towered at six feet two inches tall with a slender frame, frosted blonde hair, thin face with high cheekbones, brown eyes, a Roman nose, and long slender legs. Her stature dictated possibilities as a runway model but her face may not have come into bloom until her late twenty’s. If Cathy placed her hand against mine, her fingers would tower a good inch and half over mine, yet she had long slender fingers. Her father of German decent and her mother of Ukrainian decent accounted for her physical size.
Our captain of six-foot and his wife of five foot eleven were big boned people. The captain wore something like a 2xx-waist size. It was difficult to tell where Cathy received her beautiful statuesque build as her qualities had no similarity to her parents. As for me I’m just an average height of five foot seven inches, average weight with an average size frame so I appeared quite small next to these people.
Cathy’s mom stored away some soft drinks, but that’s it. At most the day trip would take six hours making provisions unnecessary. We would stop at a restaurant on the water when we felt peckish. We dressed for summer: shorts, shirt, deck shoes and nothing more for who would need heavier clothing in July. Half way into summer and with no place to escape the sun’s warmth as is true on most boats, why would we need more clothing? I brought a sweater. As a landlubber why would I think of this? Good old mom’s programming and conditioning shined through from the old days when I went fishing on a rowboat with my father. “And take a sweater with you on the boat, sometimes it gets cold on the water.” Surprisingly, my experienced crew had not done the same.
The plan consisted of a tour around Manhattan Island, which would break in the engine on the new boat. The trip would give the captain a chance to gain familiarity with his new vessel and of utmost importance; the parents would utilize the time to brief this guy (me) Cathy frequented the nightclubs with every weekend for two and a half years. After all, they can’t be just club buddies. Three weeks before, Cathy didn’t come home until 1:30 p.m. Sunday afternoon and the parents knew we didn’t go to breakfast and church from 4 a.m. Sunday morning to 1 p.m. Hmm!
The Klarmann’s owned an old farmhouse in Amityville with a private canal in their backyard. Cathy’s father as a mariner and loved the sea so owning a home on a private canal fulfilled a life long dream for him We set off at about noon and proceeded through the State Canal in order to find our way out to the open sea, the Atlantic Ocean. The gas engine hummed along pleasantly at fifteen knots, the legal speed limit for the State Canal. This rate of speed allowed us to speak over the sound of the engine. A great deal of marine traffic scuttled past us to and fro typical of this time of day.
Mrs. Klarmann commented that the waterways had less traffic and owning a boat was more exclusive twenty years ago. Exclusive… a peculiar word choice, I wonder what that meant. In three years, the Klarmman’s wanted to attain their goal of retiring at fifty-five and move to the Florida Keys to enjoy boating on less congested waterways. At times I felt as though I had more in common with the parents despite the age difference of twelve years than their daughter, Cathy, seven years younger than myself. Conversation with the parents provided some intellectual stimulation but they couldn’t satisfy my need for in depth analysis. Conversation with Cathy always became too frivolous and trite for my liking, but it did kill time. Cathy could physically swim in the deep end where I couldn’t, but when it came to intellectual discussion, my depth equaled the Atlantic Ocean and hers equaled a kiddy pool. She claimed she could think internally in depth but feared argumentation. Cathy couldn’t differentiate between a philosophical argument and a fight. In her mind, an argument and a fight had the same definition which meant she didn’t enjoy a good argument or having her ideas challenged. If one’s ideas go unchallenged then intellectual stimulation becomes lost because one may not have considered all the possible views and the possibility exists that one’s logic has flaws. With limited human faculties one could miss a viewpoint which one had not considered. Mrs. Klarmann’s fascination leaned towards the afterlife that facilitated long-winded conversations between us.
The afterlife did not enter into my forte intellectual discussions because I have no desire or yearning to get there anytime soon nor does it really matter to me because no one has ever come back to tell us what lies beyond the curtain of death. Even so, I thrive on intellectual stimulation and Mrs. Klarmann fueled my need. Unfortunately, I received no intellectual stimulation that day. Actually, conversation the entire day remained practically nil. The cruise allowed my mind to drift with the clouds.
Eventually we arrive at Long Beach and Jones Beach West End Two. Jones Beach acts as a barrier beach that buffers most of the mainland from the raging Atlantic Ocean. Yellow ribbons roping off portions of the sand dunes to create nesting areas for shore birds flutter in the breeze. A few turns glide overhead on their way back to their nests. The turns receive special treatment within the State Park due to their dwindling numbers entitling them entry to the endangered species list of shore birds. Turns are remarkably smaller than seagulls and have thinner wings with a boomerang appearance to them. Their voices consist of short chirps as they call to their mates. The State Canal opens up into the Atlantic Ocean and one has to proceed west traversing the length of the island to get to the waterway known as The Narrows, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and Manhattan Island.
We pass the decaying old hotel known as “The Azores,” its decrepit carcass an eyesore against the million dollar homes placed neatly in rows competing for the best view on the shore. With less shipping and leisure traffic in the Atlantic Ocean, the captain could open up the boat engine’s throttle and fluctuate between 30 and 40 knots, allowing him to break in his new engine. We pass the towns of Long Beach, Freeport, Islandia and eventually arrive at Coney Island.
Coney Island remains a fascinating place but less meaningful from our viewpoint on the water a mile or two from shore. The tower for the old parachute ride still stands as a monument to a bygone era. The carnival portion seen from the water exists as a ghost town and more so when one walks through it. Most of the area remains deteriorating like a junkyard in desperate need of repair. It harks back to a time when Coney Island was a great oasis during the hot summer months and a place to escape the drudgery and the hardness of Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan and the Bronx. A spirit could revel in the kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and smells relieving one of the tough life of Manhattan for at least for a few hours. Now as one walks though Coney Island it seems that the wind carries the shrieks and screams of thrills long gone by.
Today it’s a den of thieves, ill repute and decadence, a far cry from its long gone glory days. It occurred to me that I made a good decision choosing to wear a life preserver regardless of appearance. In the event of an accident I couldn’t possibly tread all that water. The rest of the crew considered themselves excellent swimmers but even the best of swimmers would get tired of treading all that water. I preferred not to join the ghosts of Coney Island at the cost of appearing uncool.
Cruising through The Narrows waterway the Verrazano Narrows Bridge stands grandly spanning from shore to shore connecting Long Island with Staten Island. Seeing the Verrazano from the vantage point of a boat only magnifies the bridge’s towering size as it kisses the sky. I have approached the Verrazano from automobile many times throughout my life, but this view left me awe struck. For me, The Verrazano symbolizes a gateway opening to the rest of the United States. So there IS life beyond NYC and Long Island. At night the bridge shimmers like a necklace of diamonds stretching across the shores. Even during the day it's an impressive undertaking in modern civil engineering when one thinks of how the construction crew struggled in positioning the foundations for their final resting-place and men drew the support cables from shore to shore. The 30' boat seemed no more than a toy next to the immense size of the bridge's foundation pillars. From this point, downtown Manhattan and the harbor came into full view: the Twin Towers shimmering in the sunlight, the bull/bear market of Wall Street, the tower of babble Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty welcoming "the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse yearning to breath free," all stood there in all their glory.
I've visited many cites, but New York City, with its huge closely huddled, towering buildings always makes ones heart beat a little faster and causes the adrenaline to flow a little faster even for a native New Yorker. One never looses the exhilaration one feels when approaching this grandiose city. I remove the lens cap on my 35mm Pentax and began taking photographs one rarely gets to take as we approach. These photographs one usually finds in all the tourist traps all over Manhattan. Seeing these monuments and knowing that my eye framed these images in the viewfinder enhanced my thrills. I had a second set of the photos processed, which I gave to the Klarmann's as a show of gratitude for having invited me on the excursion. They provided me with a rare opportunity to capture such special photos and felt it was the least I could do. We traveled through the harbor making our way towards the Hudson River.
The captain navigated the boat into position so we could view the Statue of Liberty up close. The restoration crew had done a wonderful job in restoring her back to her former glory. I had seen her for many years in her deteriorated condition from years of pollution and acid rain, but for the first time I saw her from the water, close up, with a face-lift. My heart just throbbed, as Lady Liberty represented a major feat in engineering during her time. I had seen the restoration progress on the History Channel, but she deeply moved me seeing her up close and personal knowing how painfully and laboriously the reconstruction team worked in restoring her to her former glory.
We pass Ellis Island and I could just envision my grandmother on my mother's side in tow with two children; my mother of three and her sister of five; chattering in Spanish and attempting to speak English. Leaving Cuba in the midst of the depression must have been a difficult decision but she did make a better life for herself and her daughters. My grandmother drove a bread truck and rode an Indian motorcycle displaying an advertising banner in order to make ends meet in the midst of the depression; all unheard of occupations for a woman during her time. I had to ponder, what would have become of me if they never came to America? In my mind I could hear the echoes of gallantly brave people within the halls of Ellis Island speaking in strange languages with strange customs all arriving to an even stranger land with the hope of make a better life for themselves.
We continued on our way up the Hudson and I saw the back of the Cloisters that I pointed out to Cathy. I said to her that the department chair of English and Philosophy at Farmingdale highly recommended it for a romantic date: a book of poetry, a bottle of wine, some fruit and cheese, a loaf of French bread and thou. With one look, she shot me between the eyes and left me for dead. We tried this once before early in our relationship when we went to an arboretum near Bayville, Long Island, which went as well as performing do-it-yourself root canal without novocaine. If there wasn't alcohol there, she probably would have never come. Getting totally inebriated, partially so she wouldn't remember, partially so she could fantasize being with someone else, and then drop em' for twenty minutes of fun constituted her idea of foreplay, so much for romance. A cold beer and screaming at the umpire in a major league baseball game defined a great date for her. I pretended I never said a word, but unfortunately once words leave our lips they can never be taken back nor can they be erased.
To my surprise we went past Manhattan Island and proceeded further up the Hudson. Word came from our first mate that we were low on fuel and in desperate need of a filling station, a marine filling station. We got lucky and found one on the Hudson River some thirty minutes from Manhattan Island, the Alpine Boat Basin. As we docked, Cathy gave her father a hand in rigging the boat and our captain proceeded to fill up his ship. We had a little small talk as the captain filled his hungry vessel with the lifeblood necessary to complete our journey. I watched the numbers roll and roll and roll on the pump. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty... where would this end? How much fuel can this beast carry? Sixty, seventy... the boat finally topped off at $110. Following American tradition, the bill was paid courtesy of American Express. "Don't leave home without it!" It then it occurred to me: You're out of your league you know? I know I am. I KNOW I am.
Once the hungry beast felt comfortably fed we cruised back down the Hudson slipping into a small channel known as Spuyten Duysil Creek between Manhattan Island and the Bronx to eventually enter the Harlem River. As a dangerous pass, many a boat has sunk navigating though here. Even the American Indians passed through it with caution when they lived here three hundred years or more ago. The last blocks of Harlem come into view: most dismal scene we've seen so far: dark, ancient, dismal, and decaying: a forgotten society within a society: terrain more fitting for an underground industrial nightclub.
Our Captain navigated his way down the Harlem River via the West Channel keeping us in close proximity to the neighborhood of Harlem. This sight I will never forget. As we pass, one of the residents of the area holds a family social outside. Everyone carries on separate conversations, eating, drinking, laughing, and having a good time. They held the event on their private dock. Three-quarters of the rotten dock remain collapsing into Harlem River. I assume if the dock could possibly collapse into the water, they wouldn’t have held the party there in the first place. Little did I know this scene held an ominous foreboding of an event our fearless crew would later have to face in our journey. We would have to face the wrath of nature and ourselves. The event would reveal the true nature of each individuals spirit.
The rest of the cruise unfolded pleasantly without an event as we continued down the Harlem River which eventually empties into the East River: back into the harbor bidding Manhattan Island goodbye: slipping into the Atlantic Ocean once again: sneaking past of the ghosts of Coney Island without being seen and then to sanctuary: the reggae party in Long Beach. We were all peckish at this point and we unanimously decided to stop at the party for dinner and conversation. The parents had ulterior motives for stopping here. They knew Cathy and I frequented this place every Sunday without fail after a few hours of baking on the beach. A mutual passion for reggae music could not possibly be the sole motivation for coming here. The only thought that ran through the parent's mind was, "I wonder what they do in there... summer Sunday and a year...." The reggae party meant much more to me but Cathy did not share my philosophy. Cathy said, "Reggae is fine all the time." I disagree.
Some reggae music has a religious nature. It seems fitting to me to play it on Sunday afternoon: a celebration of being alive: a celebration of the creator: a celebration of the human spirit. For me Sunday afternoon sometime around 3:47 began the dark teatime of the soul. Alone, I would realize Friday had past, Saturday had past and now Sunday dwindled quickly. Monday approached with deadly speed and I felt powerless to stop its inevitable arrival. Any hope of meeting my soul mate remained bludgeoned in my mind. I would have to face the rest of the week with a crippled heart. I would have to re-create my imaginary world once again of woman who actually cared for me and who sincerely loved me through hell at high tide: my phantom bride. The reggae party facilitated my escape from the dark teatime of the soul or at least a way to keep this deadly crushing force of the spirit at bay for a few more hours. The party became a necessity for my soul. I needed to surround myself with young and alive people so I would also feel alive. The imported palm trees: the scantily clad young men and women honing their skills in cupid's affairs: the warm pleasant breezes off the canal: the sea birds occasionally passing through symbolizing life and freedom: the primortal rhythms of the music floating on the breeze: all of this I found necessary to escape facing my own worst enemy; myself. How could you explain any of this to a person who didn't feel... anything... for anyone?
The captain took the lead in obtaining reservations within the restaurant. To my dismay I later learned that the women expected me to take the lead, something I didn't view as important but evidently it had extreme significance when Cathy threw it in my face one day. When I think about it, anything that dealt with the superficiality of appearances with this family held the utmost importance even if everything behind the scenes of the passion play lay in the advanced stages of decay. At times I felt like I had fallen into the Bucket family in the British sitcom, Keeping up Appearances.
Sitting down to dinner became the first time in six hours all of us could converse as our captain remained trapped on the bridge navigating his boat and our first mate glued herself to his side. Cathy? Well she lived in her own private Idaho; a state she happily took up residency in and still was not in a mood for conversation, especially with her parents. Small talk ensued as the order of the day and then... I felt as though I walked into a Monty Python skit: The Spanish Inquisition began...
"I wasn't expecting a Spanish Inquisition..." Yaun, "I wasn't expecting a Spanish Inquisition..."
"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weaponry is fear and surprise. Fear, surprise, and a satirical devotion to the Pope. Oh bugger! Can I start again?"
"That's eeeet! "I'm sick of your Tom Foolery, let's get this over with."
And so came the questions. I felt like I had walked into a job interview. The position was a husband for Cathy. My mind screamed out. It's taken me almost two and a half years to decide whether to bunt and run for first base in this friendship much less marriage. It wasn't me! It wasn't me! I'm not the one who decided to bash the ball out of the stadium two weeks ago. Besides, that was just practice for the up and coming season.
Beknownst to everyone at the table, I deemed myself an old pro in this type of interrogation. It bored me to tears. I actively blind dated through newspaper personals since my divorce three years before and too many women used the same approach in getting to know me on a first date. They wanted reams of data to scan right then and there to determine whether they should consider a second date. I think they all had the same middle name: HAL. It's the best way to turn off the opposite sex, immediately. My ex-wife enjoyed using the Spanish Inquisition approach. I felt like being a specimen under a microscope. No one wants an examination under a microscope, no one.
I approach dating differently. First dates are notoriously cumbersome especially when you know nothing but a few shared interests and have only conversed a few times on the phone to break the ice. I keep coming back; it takes time for the true person to shine through. It may take a catastrophe but one's true character will surface, eventually. In the mean time I sit back and enjoy the ride of getting to know someone. You can't hide your true nature forever.
We all lost track of time. We didn't leave until 7:30. The beautiful daylight we all enjoyed faded fast and gave way to chilling moonlight. One would think this created a perfect setting for romance; the full moon, light sea breezes, slipping along the water... but no. No one on the boat had a romantic bone in their body other than me. I could have spared a few but no one cared for them. The weather created a perfect opportunity for some innocent cuddling as the temperature dropped. This became a setting some pine away for, but not these three.
We left too late. Our captain stabbed away in the darkness trying to find the State Canal. Highly confident he could find the canal; the captain kept the news to himself to spare us from the panic that would ensue if anyone knew we were lost. There wasn't a single other boat on the water at this point. The captain pulled into one basin, turned, and went back out the same way he came. He went into a second basin, pulled out and then pulled into a third and turned the engine off. We drifted with the flow of the basin. Then came the announcement, "We're lost. I can't find the State Canal and we're low on fuel."
Being a landlubber my entire life I never knew so many basins existed behind Jones Beach nor did I understand the complexities of the waterways. I knew nothing of a State Canal traveling the length of Jones Beach and continuing behind Fire Island. I knew from traveling by car many small bridges crossed over the canals but I had no idea they consisted of separate basins and canals that did not connect to each other in some way. Ignorant me. I thought all of the canals interconnected in some way. After all, how would the water get there in the first place?
The State Canal bore similarity to the Southern State Parkway that traveled the length of the island taking one through the three counties: Brooklyn, Nassau, and Suffolk County. The State Canal was a highway for boats and our only way back to Amityville and a warm bed. I remained confident we'd find it. I had confidence in the captain as a seaman and I had confidence in myself as I had seen worst pickles than this.
I once had an old VW bug and took my ex-wife boonie-bashing at night in our third week of dating. I drove the vehicle into the sandpits and we had fun until I got the vehicle stuck in an unknown trail. We couldn't see how to get the VW out of the ditch, so we spent the cold October evening snuggling for warmth. We hadn't even had a first kiss yet. When dawn broke we got the vehicle out and laughed about it for weeks on end. Months later we drove out to Orient Point, the last outpost on the northeast end of the island and I drove right onto the beach just inches from the Atlantic Ocean. We got stuck again and with our pooled gray matter we rescued yet another vehicle. I remained confident we'd get out of this one even if the last resort meant huddling for warmth waiting for dawn to break.
The women began to panic. We were all cold but the others suffered more. Only I thought of bringing an old hooded sweatshirt. Being a chivalrous man, I took the garment off and wrapped it around Cathy's shoulders. She immediately shrugged it off as though it came off the back of a homeless person and thrust it back into my arms with an angry look and nothing more. I also commented on the fact that we may have to snuggle for warmth till daybreak. I received a second look that would have killed a man at twenty paces. I sat only three feet away. Alas, such le petite morts.
Another boat entered the basin. The two men on board came out night trawling. Our captain tried to shout to them in the most pleasant voice he could to get their attention. To hell with appearances man! Scream in unison and jump up and down like metal patients if you want help. That will get their attention. We screamed and screamed in unison until we turned hoarse and we finally got their attention. "You're in the wrong basin, you need the one over there." We went into the next basin and the next and still we couldn't find the State Canal. I felt as though we were just another yellow rubber raft lost somewhere in the Philippines with no other vessel in sight. Then it occurred to me, I asked our captain, "Exactly what does this State Canal look like? Obviously it's different from the other canals so what makes it different?" Then I had a moment of satori. The captain explained the waterways to me.
As with all highways, one must follow the road signs. On the water they aren't exactly signs, but markers or sticks in the canal every fifty or more yards with color designations marking the way. There was a great deal of water out there and we all hand to scan the waterways for the markers. The captain had the greatest familiarity with the waterways so he used his portable torch to try and spot the markers. Progress came slowly. We'd spot one, follow it and then loose it. We'd find one again, go a little ways and loose it again. We literally looked for a silver needle in a basin of black water against a black sky. Working as a team we pulled through little by little until the Captain entered familiar territory. Cathy was livid at this point. She cowered in fear the whole time and became livid when we found the State Canal, moving ahead with confidence. She had no faith in her father's abilities nor mine. She had no faith in herself. I never lost faith, I remained confident in our captain's resources and confident in mine.
We pulled into the private canal and arrived at their home at 1:10 in the morning. We were on the water for thirteen hours and ten minutes for a trip that should have take six hours. The Minnow had finally come home on a wing and a prayer.
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