The Hudson River is deceptive. Two images come to mind. One is the transcendental paintings by the Hudson River School. They represent the river and surrounds as an idyllic kingdom where mere mortals feel out of place. The paintings are similar to Chinese brush paintings where humans and their dwellings are dwarfed by the natural world. The second is the Hudson River of New Jersey and NYC: congestion, pollution, dockside intrigue, foreboding wharfs. Neither image is truthful.
Cruising in a small boat is a four part process: contemplation, planning, execution and reminiscing. For me at least, each is a necessary component, each with equal weight. I have a large library – some paper and increasingly digital - that aids me with the above. A friend who over two decades sailed around the world and then, because he missed the Mediterranean on his first try, sailed back there. When he was in the planning stage he purchased thousands of dollars’ worth of charts. I am the recipient of his North American collection.
Charlotte and I studied and updated these charts for many years and many miles. This, of course, was before electronic charts. Now for a minimal yearly fee the charts are easily accessed and updated. Just in case the electrons run out or a cosmic ray wipes out our iPad, we keep minimal paper around. I am not sure what triggered it but I found myself searching the Navionics app on my iPhone for the charts of waterways around NYC.
Carrie Rose has transited these waters twice. Once from the Hudson River to the Atlantic and then from the Atlantic to the East River just north of the Hudson at Manhattan’s tip. For non-boaters a good approximation of what we did is to take the Staten Island Ferry. It captures the frenetic nature of the few miles beginning at lower Manhattan to passing under the Verrazzano’s Narrows Bridge. We took the ferry to get a feel for that trip because when piloting a small boat, it is, at least for me, difficult to sightsee.
A few impressions. The Hudson River, other than for a few ships and barges, and the last mile or so east, is a remarkably staid waterway. It is wide and scenic. There is one pinch point at the West Point Academy dictated by a mass of granite that surfaces and refuses to erode. I admit to anxiety on the day we cruised into NYC. Once under the Tappan Zee Bridge I steadied my loins, expecting the worst that never materialized. NYC greeted us with the splendor of the Palisades. A rock formation that was saved by Rockefeller so as not to spoil his view.
It is not until passing Jersey City that the high speed ferries begin to buzz around like killer wasps. I may be naïve, but I think sinking us would not look good on a captain’s resume. I took my track, gave the right of way where necessary, and tried not to deviate my course. We spent a lovely 10 days amongst the local color at a decidedly local marina. Its lack of charm was made up for by the resident boater’s antics. If I were a writer of fiction this place would have provided fodder, if not for a novel, then certainly for several compelling short stories.
On the way back north from several years spent in Chesapeake Bay, we stopped short of Manhattan and docked in Staten Island’s Great Kills Harbor. We spent another ten days as guest of the Great Kills Yacht Club. They were a welcoming bunch who bought us way too many drinks in the yacht club’s bar. I half expected Martin Scorsese to appear with a camera at any moment they were so stereotypically New Yorkers. The more they drank the more grievance surfaced concerning the other New Yorkers. It was explained to us that Staten Island funded, through their hard work and taxes, the other Burroughs.
A bus took us into Manhattan and brought us back to Carrie Rose’s peace and quiet each day. The large oval harbor laid out in front of us New York’s glittering skyline in the near distance. One night we came back especially late after listening to the Mingus Big Band at the Jazz Standard. We enthusiastically walked along the darkening docks towards the yacht club still flush with the energy absorbed from the band’s virtuosity.
Our guard was down when suddenly car doors closed behinds us and multiple footsteps came our way. Instinct quickened our pace as it seemed theirs did also. We punched in the keypad numbers and made it safely into the club. But now what? Not wanting to openly admit to being nervous, we waited. Boredom got the best of us and we opened the door and sprinted to the dock’s gate. Another keypad and we were in, walking to Carrie Rose who floated gently bobbing in the glow of NYC.
My experience is that a visit to any island, no matter if big and populated or tiny and deserted, is compelling. Despite modern accoutrements, islands maintain a singularity that the mainland does not possess. The Hudson River is the perfect (well, almost) conveyance to carry out this task. In writing this I am fulfilling three of the above requirements for small boat cruising. Bring it on!
