First the long drive to Cupsogue. I always have to be talked into Cupsogue. If Peconic Jeff is calling, his technique is to detail precise information about the wind and waves and tide, enhanced by on-scene reports he somehow always already has, until I have no reason (rational or irrational) to say No. Jon Ford just repeats my name at different pitches and inflections, as if trying to get a dog to do a trick. Mike. MIKE! miKE etc.
Both techniques work.
Today it was Jeff on the phone, and the word was that 4.7’s were being rigged and the waves were sweet. So I arrived in the parking lot at Cupsogue an hour later, where Jeff had just arrived and was loading his gear into Bill’s pickup. Jeff and I depend on the generosity of our 4WD-endowed sailing buddies to get us and our gear the last mile to Cupsogue. As always, I experience separation anxiety when parted from my van.
“I thought you dealt with this issue,” Bill says to me as I squirm in the passenger seat, thinking about what crucial piece of gear I’m going to need that I didn’t bring. A backup uni, perhaps?
“I’m here, at least. Thanks for the lift!”
We arrive. Nobody is sailing 4.7’s. An 8.0 is what’s called for, as we meet Scott, John Natalie, and Mssrs Hulse and vanderWolf. The wind is veering north, and soon we leave for another long drive, this time to the Pier.
“At least gas is two bucks per gallon,” Scott says.
At the Pier there are whitecaps, but barely. The Wolf and I end up on 6.2’s while everyone else watches. At first we’re only planing half the time, but after an hour we’re well-powered, even managing an occasional jump in the unusually gentle waters. But it’s nothing special and after awhile I come in. I never sail the Pier without getting smacked down, and this day’s punishment came as I carried my gear out of the water, when a bit of XL beach break threw me + stuff face-first into the sand.
In the parking lot, Scott’s headlights flashed in approval. I’m always happy to entertain.
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