Sailing on the Snark

I had always dreamed of sailing. Back in my former life in the USSR, I even made an attempt—I put a sail on an inflatable boat. I went on a couple of trips through wild places, which could still be found nearby at that time. Then my life took a different turn—I got married for the second time. A daughter was born, and the fun times began, when life’s main purpose became a struggle for survival.

Later, we moved to America, where another daughter was born. The struggle continued there with new energy, ended in our victory, and only when I was almost seventy could I return to my dream.

I started browsing websites where used sailboats were sold and discovered that they could be bought very cheaply—or even picked up for free, when people were clearing out properties they’d bought or inherited.

But buying a boat is only half the deal—you also need somewhere to keep it. One option is at a marina. There, you pay storage fees based on the length of the boat. You pay at every step. If the boat is stored on land—the cheapest option—you pay separately each time to launch it. If it's on the water, moored to a buoy—you pay each time you go out to it. Docking at a pier is the most expensive. And you pay all year round, whether you use the boat or not.

Another option is to keep the boat at home in the yard. In that case, you need a trailer to take the boat to the water, and parking nearby for your car. Both usually cost money, and I barely had any space in my yard for a boat.

So, even a free boat comes with costs. And those costs only make sense if the boat is going to be used regularly. Otherwise—what’s the point?

Then there's the question: who’s going to use it? If it’s the whole family—or at least my wife and I—the boat needs a cabin, a galley, and a toilet (which also means paying to empty the waste tank), and so it must be at least 25 feet long. But if it's just me, a small boat with no amenities would be enough.

I had serious doubts—later fully confirmed—that my wife would want not only to sail with me, but even to watch me sail from afar. And that’s exactly how it turned out. Meanwhile, both of our daughters moved to other states. Our son has lived in a different state for a long time.

So I kept sadly browsing boat listings, not daring to make a move.

One day, I saw a listing for a boat that was being given away for free. All I had to do was pick it up from a marina near my work or take over the lease. It was a 27-foot boat, and I even went to look at the marina during my lunch break, wondering which of the boats lined up there was the one. They all looked great. But I didn’t go through with it—I was afraid. Nobody would let me fully inspect it, and I didn’t really know how anyway. What if the motor was dead? Then I'd have to repair or replace it… an expensive nightmare.

But my decision was made when I came across a listing for a sailboat called “Snark.” The name itself—evoking the mysterious creature from Lewis Carroll’s poem—charmed me. I found out it had an 11-foot styrofoam hull that weighed only 55 pounds, meaning I could load it onto my car’s roof by myself and launch it anywhere there was access to the water. The asking price was a mere $150. When I came to buy it, it didn’t even occur to me to haggle and offer $50. The owner would’ve accepted—it was clearly part of cleaning out his yard.

A light hull, by the way, means you must be careful in the boat. Standing upright or sitting on the side is out of the question. You sit low, sometimes in water, trying not to rise above the edge. You sit at wave-level, feeling part of the sea. On larger boats, you’re above it. My boat compared to a bigger one is like a skateboard to a Jeep—not just in weight, but in the whole concept of pleasure.

In New York State, you don’t need any documents to sail a sailboat. Boats under 14 feet long don’t even need to be registered. A sailboat over 14 feet must have a motor, and to operate it, you need to attend a class on motorboat rules—from which people my age are exempt. So sail away—nobody's stopping you.

I figured out how to store the boat sideways in a narrow gap between the fence and the garage, and the mast with the wrapped sail fits nicely on a garage shelf.

I read up on websites about sailing small sailboats. They didn’t focus much on actual sailing, but mostly on how to leave a dock, return to it, and what to do if the boat capsizes. Apparently, this is a common occurrence. They wrote: Be ready for it.

Not me, I thought. Why would I capsize?

It quickly became clear that sailing depends on having the right wind. Sometimes there is none, or it's too weak, or it suddenly stops a couple miles from shore. And where there's wind—there are waves. Sometimes the wind is so strong, the waves flood the boat, and you have to bail water constantly. In strong tailwinds, it’s nearly impossible to sail with the wind directly behind you because the boat yaws and rocks. I believe this happens because the center of sail pressure doesn’t align with the boat’s axis, and it veers off course. In strong waves and such a light boat, it’s hard to keep a stable course. The boom might slam across and hit you in the head—or worse, a dangling rope might wrap around your neck. Then you’re untangling it, losing your cap in the process, all while trying not to lose the rudder. Sailing downwind in a "Snark" in strong winds is an adventure full of surprises.

Tidal currents also matter. The difference between high and low tide is at least five feet. Water rushes into New York Harbor and back out again. Where once was five feet of water, now there are grassy shallows—called marshes.

Tidal current speed in narrow areas can reach 3–4 knots. If you're going with the flow—it’s like a train ride. If not...

I experienced this right away. Once, the wind carried me into the marshlands during low tide, and I got stuck trying to escape against the wind. Another time, I tried to tack against the current into Rockaway Inlet. As far as I moved forward, I was pulled back again. And I was in a hurry—to make it home in time for lunch.

The waves hit me too. The boat’s side sits barely a foot above water—less at the stern while underway. Waves—especially from passing motorboats—threaten to flood you.

On one early trip, I was sailing on a close reach. A mile away, Coney Island’s amusement park blared. To my left, a large catamaran was crossing my path. I figured there were right-of-way rules, but didn’t know them, so I guessed who should yield. It seemed the catamaran wasn’t going to yield. I panicked and turned the rudder right, downwind.

The boom swung across, knocked off my cap, and I didn’t switch sides in time. The mainsheet tangled around my legs. The sail filled violently, heeled the boat, and I slid into the cold water. The boat landed on top of me. Just as the websites had warned.

I surfaced, flipped the boat, and climbed back in. While bailing out the water, the catamaran circled me. A flashy young guy on board asked:

“Can I help you?” – With his million-dollar catamaran, he looked the part.

“No,” I muttered through gritted teeth, mentally cursing him. I now suspected he was supposed to give way. Maybe he even intended to. It was my error. Had I turned upwind instead, I would have stopped and let him pass.

Unfortunately, I lost my phone and wallet. My sealed phone kept pinging from the bay floor for a while, until its battery died. Forty days later, a kind lady found my wallet on Fire Island, 40 miles from the accident site. Storms and tides had carried it there.

She called me, and we met in Manhattan. Slender, adorned with bracelets and necklaces, her hair dyed like a rainbow, she looked more like my daughter than her actual age—which was about mine. She had a Manhattan apartment and a summer house on Fire Island, where she hosted artist and actor friends.

She asked how the wallet ended up in the water. I told her it was due to capsizing.

“But you weren’t hurt?” she asked, sincerely concerned.

By then, I had capsized several times. It wasn’t worth mentioning anymore.

I wonder what kind of boat she imagined—maybe something like the catamaran that nearly ran me over?

She invited my wife and me to visit Fire Island. We didn’t go. I might have been curious, but my wife is rightly wary of bohemian circles—alcohol, drugs, etc. Her card is probably still lying somewhere in our house.

Once, my son and I were sailing, and a boat full of Latinos crossed our path. They didn’t look like experienced sailors—probably just borrowed or bought a beat-up boat. They waved wildly, and my son said:

“They're greeting us!”—and waved back cheerfully.

But a woman on their boat shouted: “F* you!**

We barely avoided them, almost colliding. I wondered what such an aggressive reaction could mean and concluded that, according to the rules, I was probably supposed to yield.

I tried to study the navigation rules and even kept a laminated chart with a diagram in my Snark. Still, I never memorized them, and since then, I've just tried not to cross paths with anyone—there’s plenty of room at sea anyway.

The waters around where I live are roughly divided into two areas, connected by a strait. The first is Jamaica Bay—a blind bay closed off by the Gil Hodges Bridge, full of islands and marshes. Two roads cross it via bridges: one for cars, the other for the subway. There are four bridges in total. Starting from Floyd Bennett Field Park, I used to walk a circular route, going around all the islands. No matter which way the wind blew, at some point it was always head-on, and tacking on nearly the entire ten-mile route was difficult due to the shallows and marshes. So, regular sailboats with 3–5-foot keels can only navigate the marked shipping channels—and even there, they try not to linger, quickly leaving the bay for open water.

But I go wherever I want. At high tide, I'm not afraid of shallows. Snark's draft, including the centerboard, is about a foot and a half. And I can always pull the centerboard up and float over everything, especially when the wind is at my back.

The tidal current under a couple of those bridges is also likely to be against me. Under the bridges, the wind usually dies and swirls around, so I crawl slowly, enviously watching motorboats pass me by.

Fishermen stand on the bridge. Once, I caught my mast on one of their fishing lines. The fishermen on the bridge are simple folk—poor, immigrants, or both—because fishing from the bridge is easier and cheaper, though technically prohibited. They're usually Black or Latino. But if Russians lived in the area, they'd be up there too. What we have in common with such folks is that we don’t give a damn about prohibitions. White Americans fish from boats or drive to licensed fishing spots with paid parking. Sometimes you even need a fishing license.

The fishermen yell at me:

“Get out of here!” — meaning, “Where the hell do you think you're going?! Get lost!”

But what can I do? I'm tacking against the wind, sailing against the current. God help me hit the central, tall span of the bridge. In the others, I could snag my sail on the low overhead structure. They don’t care about any of that.

The second water area is New York Lower Bay. It’s bordered on one side by the Verrazzano Bridge. Beyond it lies the New York Upper Bay, the main promenade for expensive sailboat owners. It's vast, picturesque, theatrical, surrounded by stunning cityscapes, and seemingly blessed by the Statue of Liberty. She stands sideways to Manhattan, raising her right hand with the torch as if greeting newcomers and inviting them into her home. That’s how it used to be when people arrived by steamship. But I don’t go there.

The Lower Bay, on the other end, opens into the ocean. Ships bound for the Port of New York sail through it. About ten miles before the Verrazzano Bridge, they enter and follow the Ambrose Channel, marked by buoys. It’s narrow—maybe a third or a quarter of a mile wide. (By the way, all miles here are nautical.) The depth in the channel is 53 feet. On either side, it's 15–20 feet. There’s no room for a big ship to turn.

Ocean liners sail through it slowly, hugging the starboard side of their route.

In that bay, there are two small islands that used to have cholera barracks or other quarantine facilities. The buildings have long since collapsed, the piers have rotted away, and the islands are overgrown. Now, they’re home to massive bird colonies. Landing on any uninhabited island in the bay is prohibited—partly to protect nesting birds—but it seems not everyone follows that rule, since Google is full of photos from those and similar islands.

Two lighthouses also rise from the water. They’re automatic and shine on their own. I’ve seen their windows smashed, doors hanging open crookedly. Maybe that was after a storm. Could be different now. I couldn’t get close to look inside. They stand on stone breakwaters with no piers. Waves crash on the rocks, which are slippery. I didn’t dare approach. If I had a sturdier boat, and a crew...

These two areas—New York Lower Bay and Jamaica Bay—are connected by the Rockaway Inlet, about a mile wide and a couple miles long. That’s where all the tidal water flows back and forth, creating problems for me early on.

Eventually, those problems sorted themselves out. I found websites with wind forecasts and tide schedules, and now I plan my routes accordingly. Even waves stopped scaring me. I don't even look at them anymore, knowing my boat will climb any of them—if I just ignore them.

The last thing left is to learn the right-of-way rules. In that, I'm a total flunkie. But one thing I know for sure: a motorboat yields to a sailboat. So at least I’m calm about that.

Still, I try to cross the channel only when there are no ocean ships around.

What does “no ocean ships” mean? The ocean isn’t like a city road. The distances are vast, the speeds are low, and most importantly, there's no gas pedal or brake on a sailboat.

The other day I was sailing home from the lighthouse. A mile or mile and a half ahead lay the channel, marked by buoys. And on the horizon, in the haze, a massive container ship was approaching, heading through the channel into New York. What was its speed? Who knows? Mine is two to three knots. So, I’d cross the channel in about forty minutes—but where would he be by then? Okay, if I saw him get close, I could always turn aside near a buoy, not entering the channel.

When I reached the buoy, the container ship still seemed far enough away, so I kept going, crossing the channel.

So I sailed on, and meanwhile the container ship kept growing larger, heading right at me.

I'd seen before how such ships stick to the buoys on their side, per the rules. The theoretical point where our paths would cross was still far from both of us—the question was whether I’d pass that point before she arrived.

At first, I was nervous, but then I started to realize: I’d likely cross in time. But then I saw the ship had veered toward the center of the channel, even slightly to the other side—clearly avoiding me. Our paths would no longer cross.

Was he really yielding the right of way, according to the rules?

We would have missed each other anyway.

Probably just playing it safe—just in case. I exited the channel, and he passed behind me—long, black.

And my heart felt warm. He acknowledged me as an equal!

How can I explain this to someone who’s never known the joy of open sea, sunshine, spray, the rocking of waves lifting and lowering my little foam shell with me sprawled on its bottom? I can't. You have to try it yourself.

The bubbles, the foam, and the trail behind the stern show the boat is moving well—but my visual landmark, the lattice towers of the Gil Hodges Bridge, remain tiny in the distance. The distance is about five miles. To sail joyfully toward them will still take an hour or an hour and a half. What a joy!

At home, a delicious Sunday lunch awaits, a bottle of wine, and even my wife will seem dearer than before.

Here are some verses by the godfather of my boat, who in The Hunting of the Snark expressed my sea dream:

“What’s the good of Mercator’s North Poles and Equators,
Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?”
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
“They are merely conventional signs!”

“Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!
But we’ve got our brave Captain to thank”
(So, the crew would protest) “that he’s bought us the best –
A perfect and absolute blank!”

There’s a Russian translation of this passage that I like even more than the original—though it's extremely free. It was made by Vladimir Orlov, about whom I know absolutely nothing. I read it in some magazine in the mid-80s, loved it, and memorized it. So if the author or his heirs demand I stop violating copyright here, here’s my answer: back in the USSR, such a concept didn’t exist. Everything was considered communal—natural resources, factories, steamships, and copyrights. Here it is, back-translated into English from Russian:

"All that’s just dull – latitude, longitude,
Globes, poles, zeniths and equator,"
The boatswain cried out with passionate mood,
And the crew replied: "Curse you, Mercator!"

"Islands, cities, and shores – what a bore!
Just a web of useless design.
We need no such trash, our map must be flush,
Empty – and preferably blue, by the line

I also like this translation because of how skillfully the translator explained to my dense Slavic ear a subtle, barely noticeable English nuance—giving it a dramatic touch. Without that, it would’ve passed me by completely. Like someone topping off my glass of sour champagne with a splash of cognac at a dull presentation. My respect to Vladimir Orlov!

And I will definitely visit those ruined islands aboard my Snark, despite the prohibition. I’ll just wait for my daughter to come visit, and we’ll sail there together. Hopefully, by then I’ll have found a cheap metal detector through a classified ad.

Fair winds to you, too!