Flying Datchman of Sheepshed Bay

Ïåðåâîä íà àíãëèéñêèé ðàññêàçà "Ëåòó÷èé Ãîëëàíäåö"

On the shore, it became clear that everything had gone differently than expected.
The wind, forecast at 17 knots—but in reality, possibly stronger—was blowing directly in my face, making it hard to look ahead. Frequent waves rolled onto the shore, bringing with them thick clumps of seaweed. The shallow waters in front of me were full of children swimming. Into this warm soup I had to launch my little boat, rig it in gusty wind, and somehow set off against it. However, doing so would not be easy.

And yet, things could have gone differently, as they had in the past.

In the past, early in the morning, I would take my “Snark” down from the roof of my car and launch it wherever was convenient, taking into account the wind and tidal currents, so they would help me start, not hinder me. And there are plenty of such places in Brooklyn—the part of New York where I live—for any occasion. The wind usually was 5–7 knots and rarely exceeded 12.

My “Snark” is a small, just over ten feet long foam boat, so light that I can easily lift it onto the car or drag it to the water alone. It has a lateen sail. It takes just a couple of minutes to rig or unrig it.

But this time, when I told my wife I was planning to go sailing the next day, she said:

— No. You’re not going to roast in the sun. Do you want skin cancer?

— But there won’t be any sun. The forecast says it’ll be cloudy all day.

— That’s the most dangerous kind. Everyone will tell you that the sun through clouds is especially harmful.

She always tells me about skin cancer from the sun, but I used to ignore it. This time, though, I let my guard down and got into the conversation.

— So when am I supposed to sail, then? At night?

— Then at least wear jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a hat with a flap.

— In summer? In this heat? No way.

— Then go after four. After four the sun isn’t as dangerous.

That broke my long-established habit of setting sail early, returning by lunch, and relaxing with a cool shower and a Sunday meal, sipping wine. What now, go somewhere after lunch instead of taking a siesta?
Although… why not try? The forecast said the wind would pick up later in the day.

— Alright. After four it is.

We sat down for lunch. As usual, I took out a bottle of wine.

— What’s that? You’re going sailing!

— It’s fine. It'll wear off by the time we get going.

I always drink wine with Sunday lunch. After more than thirty years, my wife should be used to it, but she still protests every time. She doesn’t drink at all—she has an allergy.

I thought: I’d better start getting ready early, maybe at 2 or 2:30, right after eating. Better to get going before the wind reaches full force. We eat.

— Where am I driving you?

— To Sea Gate.

— Oh great! And then I have to pick you up from there again. Another whole day wasted on your fun. What do I get from this?

— Then to Floyd Bennet Field.

— Oh, much closer, right…

And then, without thinking, I blurted out:

— Fine, then take me to Plumb Beach.

That’s the closest spot with water access near home. Inconvenient, though. It’s a long haul from the parking lot, and the shallow water makes it hard to lower the daggerboard right away—and without it, it’s tough to get out into deeper water against the wind. Oh well, I’ll manage somehow.

I’m getting ready, and I feel that itch. Every time I drink even a little, a craving hit—I want more. My mind knows I shouldn’t, that this is as good as it gets, but my body says: “Come on, just a little more.”
If I can endure it for half an hour, it passes, and an hour later, the idea itself feels absurd. That’s usually what I do. But this time...

I didn’t even feel like sailing anymore—I just wanted to stay at the table. But I had to go. Why? Out of sheer stubbornness. I wasn’t going to waste a Sunday.

I have a couple of flasks where I pour leftover spirits from opened bottles to save space in the cabinet. Without thinking much, I slipped one of them into my shorts pocket. It was full, but no one was making me drink the whole thing. Just a little treat. They took my siesta from me—so I’ll have one at sea.

There, no one would nag me. Otherwise, it’s always: don’t eat salty things, or sweets, or fatty food, don’t eat too late, don’t drink alcohol, don’t go to sea, don’t shoot God’s creatures with your gun, don’t sunbathe, and get yourself a hearing aid already so you can hear what people say to you. Otherwise, you’ll drown, break your bones, get cancer, get poisoned, get hit by a car, and I’ll have to take care of you like a baby all the rest of my life.

Now, on the shore, I’m mentally cursing my wife. All because of her stupid “care” for me! She should see what her “care” led to. The wind was fine all morning until lunchtime. Then I realize—it’s not her, it’s me. I gave in too easily, just out of curiosity. I knew the wind would pick up in the afternoon, and I thought it might be interesting to try it. No one knew it would turn out this way.
If I had just stood my ground, she would’ve forgotten about the sun in five minutes.

And I won’t get a hearing aid. I hear what I need to hear, and if I don’t—it wasn’t important. My father was the same way.

And now I’m launching the boat. I push it out as far as I can from shore, flop into it, and set the sail to the wind. The boat is hard to steer, drifting sideways back toward shore.

Oh, right—I didn’t lower the daggerboard! I try to kick it down with my heel, but some rope got stuck in the slot and jammed it, making the boat unmanageable.
There’s a group of Black kids in the way. Splashing around, unaware of anything around them.

— Be careful! — I shout. I don’t know what else to say.

Two girls saw me and quickly jumped away right in front of the boat. But the boy hesitated. A beautiful boy, skinny and athletic. As the boat’s side nearly reached him, he ducked underneath.

I swear, he was smiling! Probably thrilled by the adventure. I felt a soft bump. The bottom of the boat must’ve scraped his head. Damn—I don’t need trouble with his parents! But it passed. They probably didn’t notice.

I admit—I didn’t even check whether he came out on the other side. I relied on his sisters, or whoever they were. For context: the foam hull of my “Snark” is very light, and the bottom is rounded, so it was just a touch. But that doesn’t excuse me. I later felt ashamed. But at the time, there was no room for distractions.

As soon as the boat touched bottom, the wind flipped it over. I was already climbing out, which made it easier for the wind. A wave helped too. The boat instantly filled with seaweed. It wrapped around all the rigging. I had to take everything apart and tow the boat over the shallows to a quieter spot with fewer people.

After Hurricane Sandy, the Army Corps of Engineers built a stone jetty parallel to the shore, creating a shallow harbor. It’s calmer there—protected from the wind and waves.

I bailed out the seaweed-filled water, re-rigged the lines, and sailed out of that little harbor into open water, turning the rudder into the wind.

The wind tipped the boat sideways. It flew forward, bouncing over the waves—sometimes slapping them with its bottom, sometimes burying the leeward side into the water. Water kept splashing into the boat: either over the bow as it dropped into the trough behind a wave, or over the side when the wind pushed the hull under.

After five minutes, I was sitting in warm water, like in a tub. That would’ve been fine, but the mass of water sloshing from side to side messed with the boat’s balance. What if I needed to change tack? Then the water would suddenly shift. No, I had to get it out before something happened.

I dropped the sail and rudder. The boat rocked in the middle of Rockaway Inlet, which leads into Jamaica Bay. Left to itself, it bobbed obediently on the waves, though some swells came within inches of the top of the hull. I scooped water out with a cut-off Coca-Cola bottle.

After drying out my “Snark,” I remembered the flask in my pocket. Now this is my siesta! By the way—what’s in the flask? In the flask, it turned out to be peppermint schnapps. Back at the table, I hadn't really liked it much, but now it was just what I needed. My throat, nose, and brain cleared up in an instant, and the skies seemed to shine through the gray clouds rushing overhead. Now—forward only!

I tightened the sail and shot forward. I’d never sailed in such wind before or after. It was truly strong, with gusts. The forecast had warned of gusts up to 27 knots. Those gusts brought sharp moments—though definitely not of pleasure. Under that wind, the boat heeled sharply, nearly laying flat on the water, about to capsize completely. I balanced it with my weight, leaning out over the opposite side. A fierce gust would hit, and the boat would dip even deeper on the leeward side, ready to scoop water. I would lean even farther out, practically hanging over the water, but then the wind would suddenly die down, and the boat would begin tipping the other way under my weight. I’d have to quickly shift my body back toward the center. That’s how it went—no rest for a second. It's much easier to sail when the wind blows steadily, without gusts.

Waves are usually driven by the wind. Here, the tidal current pushes against it—it’s strong in these waters and can run either against or across the wind. In retaliation, the wind rips spray off the crests and hurls it into me and the boat. Also, motorboats race around everywhere, churning up random waves of their own. All this creates a chaotic sea that you have to navigate carefully. Lose focus, and the boat will fill with water again.

But this is my little boat. Big boats don’t care about these waves.

I decided to steer under the bridge into Jamaica Bay. I hoped the wind and waves would be gentler there, and there’d be fewer of those crazy motorboats zipping around.

So far, I’d skillfully avoided scooping water over the side, though sometimes the edge of the boat skimmed right along the surface. Even so, I managed to sneak sips from the flask now and then. The downside of drinking from a flask, compared to a glass, is that it suddenly runs out just when you think you’ve barely started. I discovered this sooner than I would’ve liked.

In the distance, to my left, I saw a large sailboat on a collision course with mine. One of us had to yield, but who? I couldn’t remember the right-of-way rules. Relative to the wind, we were equal—both on a close reach. I was on starboard tack, she was on port. I decided to turn slightly to the left, just in case.

Don’t think that in these conditions you can leisurely examine what’s around. You have to keep track of many things. Your eyes just glance around the surroundings—there’s no time to focus on any one detail. The brain processes what it saw with a slight delay. Even turning around is a challenge.

That sailboat was growing larger. Under the wind, she was heeling hard, her sail billowed beautifully like a bubble. But something was odd. On her fore rigging, white strips of fabric flapped in the wind—like long johns hung out to dry. Then smaller scraps of cloth came into view, and I realized with confusion that it was a shredded jib sail. How could that happen? There was no storm—people had gone out for a pleasant Sunday sail. Around here, a torn sail is as inappropriate as torn shoes at the Metropolitan Opera.

It looked like she was moving slower than I was, even though she was heeling heavily under wind and should’ve been flying toward me, already crossing my bow. On her stern, in the cockpit, things looked odd too. I expected to see someone at the helm—no one. Just stuff scattered everywhere, which is very unusual. I finally got closer.

I passed about ten feet from her leeward side. The scene in her cockpit reminded me of a homeless encampment or a junkyard—things strewn about, and no one at the helm. The cabin door was open. Yet the boat was still sailing. Who was steering her? More importantly—how? If you let go of the rudder and sail, the sail should luff and flap uselessly, and the boat should drift aimlessly with the wind. But this one held her course into the wind, slicing through waves. It was eerie, like the Flying Dutchman.

I passed the boat. Maybe the owner was inside the cabin, unwell, with the autopilot steering. I glanced back over my shoulder—the boat was heading out of the inlet, toward the open sea. No, I had to turn around, get closer, and take a better look—and climb aboard if needed. I started to tack.

A wave slammed into the exposed side and flooded the boat. The loose end of the sail control line - mainsheet - snagged on something as water rushed under me. The sail tightened, and I realized I was capsizing. That hadn’t happened in a long time. Mentally, I was still sailing, but my own boat’s side was already rising above me. I plunged underwater, and the boat came down over me.

I surfaced under the boat, reached the end of the daggerboard, and started to flip it. Nothing serious had happened—just annoying that I’d have to bail out the water.

The boat righted itself, and immediately a gust toppled it again—the sail was now waterlogged.

So, I turned the boat into the wind and flipped it again. This time, it stayed upright. I tried to climb in from the stern. I got halfway in, but apparently the rudder shifted under my stomach, and the boat turned broadside to the wind—and over we went again. No big deal: I’ve had worse. If the sail’s causing trouble, I’ll just detach it.

I dove under the boat and detached the mast and sail. They were now only connected to the boat by one rope. Then I flipped the boat over and climbed in. It was full of water. The sail still floated nearby, slowly sinking as air escaped from the mast tubes and booms. They wouldn’t go far—I’d pull them back later. First priority: bail the water. I got to work.

When I finished, I pulled the rope—but it came up easily. There was no mast or sail at the end. Damn!

Then I remembered: before launching, I had extended that rope with another piece. They were of different thickness and material. The knot I’d tied was proper—maritime style—but still, I had doubts. The thin rope didn’t grip the thick one well, and the thick one wouldn’t form a knot with the thin. "It’ll hold," I’d thought. It didn’t. The knot had come undone underwater, and all my rigging slipped through the blocks and sank. I was left in a boat with no way to move. So much for my siesta.

Luckily, the same strong wind was blowing toward shore. Soon, I drifted to the beach near a marina. Climbing out, I slipped and fell into the water. What’s wrong with my coordination? I fell a few more times. Like my movements were just a bit… off. Why?

I towed the boat to a dock ramp. Walking in the boat alongside the dock, holding onto it with my hands, I fell again—the wind kept pushing the boat under the dock, and I hung from the dock edge, trying to hold the boat beneath me with my feet.

Eventually, I got out, set the boat by the dock, and called my wife to come pick me up. The phone, in a waterproof case, was hanging around my neck. Then I went to the marina office to ask the attendant to let my wife drive closer to the boat.

- Excuse me, sir, my boat has been capsized… - I started, but he said:

- You can speak Russian.

I explained what happened, and he said:

- Leave the boat here. Come back tomorrow to pick it up. You’ll be charged for the night.

- But I wasn’t trying to leave it here. There was an incident at sea. I just want to take it home.

- That’s the rule. Nothing else can be done. No one’s here anyway.

I shrugged, went back, hoisted the boat onto my back, and carried it to the gate. The guy watched, then came to help. We brought the boat to the street and loaded it onto the roof of our car—my wife had already arrived.

- Thanks," I said, - Where are you from?

- Georgia.

It means Georgia the country.

- Take care.

In the car, I described my shipwreck and the struggle to recover the boat.

- I lost the mast and sail in the process.

- So, you won’t be sailing anymore? - my wife asked hopefully.

- Of course I will. I have spares.

She fell silent. Then suddenly asked suspiciously:

- What’s that smell on you?

Over the years, she’s learned to identify different kinds of booze on my breath. Maybe peppermint schnapps smells different than wine.

- Oh God, same thing every time! It's boring—can't we talk about anything else? - I grumbled.

- But I met the Flying Dutchman out there!

- What now?

- That’s what I call him. Imagine this: a big sailboat—at least 32 feet—sailing in the middle of the sea under full sail, and there’s nobody at the helm. Stuff scattered all over the cockpit, as if the boat had just been abandoned. The cabin door is open. The jib sail is in tatters, flapping in the wind. And the boat, unmanned, was heading straight toward the ocean routes.

- A cruise ship will be coming through there soon, - I added for dramatic effect.

So, I spent a while vividly describing the scene to my wife, just as I had witnessed it. She said:

— What if the owner is lying in the cabin, dying, and needs help?

— I was just about to find out — and then, inconveniently, I capsized.

Right then, Asel, our eldest, called to check in on us.

— Can you believe it, Marik encountered the Flying Dutchman at sea, - my wife said over speakerphone in the car.

— Wait, what?!

I passionately told the whole story again.

— Did it occur to you to call the police?

That thought hadn’t crossed my mind. What would the police have to do with it?

— What if it hits someone?

— There are other people out on the water besides me. They can call if needed.

That’s how we spent our time on the way home — and the topic of the suspicious smell never came up again.

The next day, I could hardly believe it had all really happened. It’s impossible for an unmanned sailboat to hold a course in strong wind. The jib was torn, but then why was the mainsail still intact? And if the jib had been ripped earlier, before the mainsail was even up, why leave the scraps hanging on the forestay? It just looked sloppy.

A couple of days later, I was driving along the Belt Parkway and saw that very same boat, lying beached near the shore. The mainsail was still up, and the tattered jib, like laundry on a clothesline, flapped in the wind.

- There it is! - I proudly pointed out to my wife, - That’s the Dutchman!

It really had happened — I hadn’t imagined it!

So, when Sunday rolled around again, and I set out for another sail — this time from the Sea Gate area — I planned to circle around Coney Island and visit the Flying Dutchman. I went out in the morning, but this time my wife didn’t bring up the sun or skin cancer — maybe she’d forgotten.

I spent a long time battling the incoming tide and headwinds. Eventually, I reached open water and made good progress. My little boat briskly sailed along the Coney Island shore. I figured I’d reach the Dutchman in about half an hour at this pace — but then the wind died, and I found myself stuck at the entrance to Rockaway Inlet. Soon, judging by the buoys, I realized I was drifting out to sea with the ebb tide.

The weather forecast I had checked in advance hadn't mentioned any lull in the wind — though it had predicted a heavy downpour and thunderstorm in the afternoon. Now what was I supposed to do?

Meanwhile, to the north, past Manhattan, dark clouds were building, outlined by massive storm clouds. It wasn’t clear whether they were moving past or heading directly toward me. I lay there in my little boat, being carried toward the ocean, gazing at the stormy sky and thinking. Lunchtime had long passed. A light wine with dinner wasn’t going to cut it anymore — something more brutal was in order. Sherry? Port? And by the way, how far would the tide carry me out to sea before the wind picked up again? And where would it blow me then?

Eventually, it became clear that the storm was heading my way. I could already see faint dark streaks connecting the clouds to the earth. Somewhere over New York, it was raining heavily. And then — a breeze picked up.

Unfortunately, it was a tailwind. Under such wind, my “Snark” behaves terribly — it yaws, sways, and the end of the sail drags in the water. Capsizing seems inevitable.

I called my wife, asking her to come pick me up, and lay flat at the bottom of the boat to reduce the rocking motion. The black sky and sheets of rain bore down on me, the wind strengthened, and my boat was now flying over the rising waves. A wave would lift the boat from behind and send it gliding forward, then drop away beneath it, leaving the boat to slow down in a trough — only to be pushed again by the next swell. I had already removed the daggerboard in preparation for landfall. It’s useless with a tailwind.

I raced toward shore, trying to beat the rain. Who would arrive first? I hoped to load the boat onto the car before the downpour started.

Onshore, chaos reigned. People were running everywhere, folding up tents, umbrellas, and shelters.

The rain hit me in giant drops just as I reached land. The sky above cracked open with thunder. I was instantly soaked and stopped caring about anything. I dragged the mast and sail (wrapped around it) to the parking lot, then came back and hoisted the boat onto my back.

That same little Black boy who had dived under my boat last time crossed my path again and asked something — maybe whether I had been here with the boat before. There was some kind of anticipation in his eyes.

- Yes, - I replied. I didn’t have time to talk, though he clearly wanted to. The rain was pouring; lightning was flashing all around.

On the way home, in the car, my wife scolded me for everything:

— Why do I have to deal with all this? First the police drag you out of the water, now the car seats are soaked… We're still paying for that drowned phone… When is this all going to end?

But her tone was filled with resignation and despair.

- Well… probably never, - I thought — though out of sympathy, I didn’t say it aloud.

I didn’t get to see the Flying Dutchman that time.

The next Sunday, in the afternoon, I told my wife I was going for a walk and headed to Plumb Beach. The sea was full of Black and Latino kids. I thought I even saw the same boy again — he looked at me but didn’t come over. The beach is wild, with no lifeguards, but it’s become very popular lately — probably because the water is shallow and warm, perfect for children. The problem is, it’s unlikely to be clean: runoff from three residential directions flows into it.

Off in the distance, lying on its side, was the boat — with its mainsail still raised.

I walked toward it. The tide was out, so I could approach almost all the way on dry ground. The boat itself was already in the water but still in shallow depth. Some people were walking around it. Their reflections shimmered in the tidal pools. By the time I arrived, they had gone. I took off my shoes and waded around the hull.

There were no markings on the boat at all — no number, no name, no home port. Nothing. On the port side, there were traces of a label that looked like it had been made with duct tape — gray and shiny. Most of it had peeled off, making it unreadable. A rope hung from the bow, disappearing into the water. I started pulling it and discovered an anchor at the end — but it wasn’t embedded in the seabed. I could move it freely underwater.

So that’s why the boat had held a steady course in the wind. The anchor had been dragging behind, acting as a stabilizer. With it, the boat behaved like a kite — the same principles applied. That’s also why it moved so slowly. The wind and currents carried it around, but the anchor kept it from drifting too far. One mystery solved. But what about the owner?

After hesitating a bit, I climbed aboard. The scattered items in the cockpit turned out to be open toolboxes, spare parts, and various covers. It looked like someone had been searching for something — either the owner, during urgent repairs, or looters looking for valuables.

I hadn’t planned to go into the cabin — just peek inside. It was tilted, of course, as the boat lay on its side. Chaos reigned: clothing, blankets — everything was overturned. At the far end, illuminated by a porthole, was a small shelf above a table, where I spotted a stack of rolled-up papers. Charts, probably.

Curiosity got the better of me. I couldn’t resist.

I climbed into the cabin. Near the entrance hung an old monitor. I made my way through the mess. The sink was full of dirty dishes, with a hand blender lying on top. What had the owner been doing with it in his final moments? Meringue? Pancakes? Eggnog?

The little table was a navigation station. I began unfolding the charts. They were oddly bare and printed on thick, brownish paper. Not one was familiar. New York wasn’t shown at all. It seemed this boat had come from far away.

But I didn’t have time to examine everything in detail. I was anxious about the sneakers I’d left outside on the mudflat. The tide was rising, and the water could carry them away. When I climbed out of the cabin, it was already lapping at them.

- I was just aboard the Flying Dutchman, - I told my wife when I got home, and recounted everything I had seen.

— Why on earth did you climb aboard? - she asked, - What if someone had shot you? The owner has every right to defend his property. What if they accuse you of stealing something?

In her eyes, I was cementing my reputation as a total idiot — one who was only saved from total life failure by her firm and wise supervision.

A couple of weeks later, the boat—whose view from the bridge had already become familiar—vanished from its spot, leaving behind a vague sense of regret in my soul. And unanswered questions. If the boat had simply broken loose from its mooring and drifted here, then who raised the sail, and why? If someone had been sailing and suddenly fell ill, why didn’t they take the sail down before being taken to the hospital? Or maybe some idiot stole someone else’s boat, went for a ride, and then abandoned it? Then why did the owner take so long to reclaim it? The mysterious maps only deepened the uncertainty.

A few more weeks passed, and I had almost forgotten about it—when suddenly, walking along the canal on Emmons Avenue, I saw that familiar mast with the underwear-like scraps of sail hanging from it.

Not believing my eyes, I came closer. A familiar-looking boat was moored by the pier. Only now the mainsail was lowered and covered. It was her! I pulled out my phone and checked the photo I’d taken back at the shoal. Exactly the same one. The same tape-mark traces of a name. Although now graffiti had been added to the stern that wasn’t there before. The cockpit was still a mess, but at the bow some man was spraying lubricant onto the blocks.

- Excuse me, sir, wasn’t your boat stuck on the shoal near Plumb Beach a few weeks ago?

- She’s mine, she’s mine, - the man replied in Russian. No surprise—I could tell he was one of our kind by the accent.

- What happened?

- I ended up in the hospital, - he said plainly, - Just got out.

- So that’s it! I couldn’t figure out what had happened. But who raised the sail? Why was it left up?

- The gear at the top wasn’t working, - he waved toward the top of the mast, - I couldn’t lower it then.

- I went to see that boat.

- They ransacked everything. Ruined the engine.

I looked him over. He looked as odd as his boat. He seemed younger than me—around sixty—broad-shouldered, lean, wiry. Close-cropped, unshaven, tanned dark, his eyes scanned everything around without lingering on anything. He didn’t resemble a yachtsman at all—the only kind of person you’d expect to own such a fine vessel. Honestly, he looked more like an escaped convict.

- I didn’t take anything, - I said quickly. - I only looked at the charts. They weren’t local—where are they from?

- My charts are good. Old ones, - he said. And I thought they really were nothing like the ones I used to pirate from paid websites—those colorful, detailed ones with depths printed all over. These were something else—old school.

Then he started mumbling something so quietly I couldn’t make it out. He barely looked at me, as if he were speaking to himself. I caught just one word

— Atlantic.

Wait—did he cross the Atlantic?

- Why’s the jib torn? - I pointed at the tattered sail straps hanging from the forestay.

- I don’t want to talk about it, - he said unexpectedly harshly, even angrily.

I had the feeling he didn’t want to talk to me anymore.

- Well, I wish you luck, - I said and went home.

At home, I told my wife everything.

- Why did you tell him you went into his boat?” she said. - He could report you to the police.

- Oh, come on, - I defended myself, - He’s not the type.”

But I thought to myself—maybe I really shouldn’t have told him. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to keep talking to me. Who would like strangers poking around their home—even if they supposedly didn’t take anything but a look at some maps?

But I could’ve helped him. If he lives on that boat, I could’ve invited him over—let him shower, do laundry, have a proper meal. Even have a drink. Although, maybe he’s not allowed to drink after the hospital. But how does he pay for mooring at the pier? It’d be cheaper to move the boat onto land—cheaper and easier for repairs. Maybe the insurance pays for it? I asked my wife:

- What if I invited him over? Let him sleep in a clean bed at least.

- And where exactly are you going to put him?

- In the basement—we’ve got everything set up there.

- Right. Like we didn’t have enough problems with the inspector last time. Rebecca will report us again. One lawsuit wasn’t enough.

Rebecca’s our neighbor.

My wife clearly didn’t want that. But she’s kind—you can sometimes talk her into things, or just do it and say it happened “accidentally.”

With those thoughts, a few days later I went back to the pier. The boat with the torn sail was still there. I watched it from a distance. The man was fiddling at the stern, changing clothes, it seemed—getting ready to go somewhere. He swapped his shirt, closed the cabin, and walked along the boat to the point where he could climb onto the pier’s platform. The tide was out, so the boat sat far below.

It was already dark. His silhouette paused. Holding onto a stay, he took a step forward—and suddenly fell down into the gap between the boat and the pier, like he’d missed a step. No one but me saw it. I first walked, then ran over to the pier. From the top of the stairs, I could see his cropped head and hands moving above the water. He was fishing things out and laying them out on the step—clearly what he’d dropped. A paper notebook, a wallet, a medicine bottle.

Then he started climbing out of the water. I stepped back to avoid embarrassing him. He returned to the boat, dried off, changed clothes again, then climbed up successfully this time. He got on his bike and rode off, swerving heavily. An empty bag hung from the handlebars. Probably went to buy food—or maybe something else.

Something about his fall felt familiar. I remembered that windy day, my capsize, all the subsequent chaos. I fell into the water constantly back then. It felt similar.

Later, I went back there again in the evening. No one was visible on the boat, but the cabin was open. The same rusty-handled bike with the torn seat stood on the pier—obviously picked up off the street.

And then I remembered Captain Gvozdev, the retired Russian sailor who circled the globe twice in a boat only slightly larger than mine—and died on his third trip. On a boat like that, he passed through the terrifying Strait of Magellan! He didn’t have much money—actually, none. But kind people around the world helped him wherever he went.

What is this man waiting for at the pier? The boat didn’t look like it was being repaired. Even the torn jib bits hadn’t been cleaned up—and that would’ve taken no time. Meanwhile, mooring fees were probably still being charged. Is he even the owner? Maybe someone hired him to watch the boat? Or maybe he crossed the border this way—to seek asylum? And it wasn’t a hospital—it was immigration detention? And why are there no markings on the boat at all? No number, no name? Even if the markings were painted over—there’s no trace of that. And how did it travel the world without those, passing through borders under the eyes of coast guards?

The boat looked completely neglected. The cockpit was covered in a cheap opaque blue tarp, sloppily tied. On the roof of the cabin were jars and bottles, some clothes laid out—probably drying after washing. No fenders along the sides to protect the hull during mooring—it scraped against the dock. But whatever—if the barn burned down, let the house burn too. The metal guardrail was missing on one side, bent and damaged on the other—maybe from weeks of tides tossing it on the shoals, maybe from whatever incident tore the jib. I approached a fisherman nearby and started chatting about fishing. Most fishermen on these piers are Russian. Then I asked:

- What’s that strange boat? It’s been here a while.

- No idea, - the fisherman said, - Some guy lives there. Says he got robbed.

- But if he got robbed, how’s he paying for the mooring?

- They were about to kick him out, but somehow, he talked them into letting him stay.

We chatted more about bait, then I left. The boat was dark. The man sat inside in the dark.

The word “robbed” unsettled me, even though it was accurate. When someone says “robbed,” you immediately think of money. And maybe that’s exactly what happened—he lost his money while the boat was stuck on the shoal. Maybe a lot. At least, for him. That’s why he’s stuck like this. He must have reported it to the police if he hopes to get insurance compensation. And the police, formally, must investigate. Maybe he even told them that someone who had rummaged around in his boat came up to him later and admitted it. Then the police would need to interrogate that person—me. And they could find me—if I show up again.

So why the hell did I tell him?

Now I’ve got to stay away from that pier. And to think—I was planning to invite him to my house. Which could now be used as collateral in case this turns into a court case.

Still, I hadn’t lost interest. Driving in that direction for errands, I took a detour past the piers. In the place where the boat used to be, there was now a sleek white charter boat—the kind that gives Manhattan tours or takes people whale watching. Before I could even sigh, I spotted those familiar rags on a mast three piers down. He’d simply moved.

The pier he now moored at was closed for repairs—surrounded by mesh fencing with a locked gate. So officially, the pier wasn’t operational anymore. There were construction trailers on it. His boat was at the end—where technically no mooring was allowed. No stairs, no openings in the rail, no cleats or bollards for docking lines. To get onto the pier, you’d have to climb over the railing, then somehow exit through the locked gate. Although during working hours, maybe the gate was open.

His right to be there was like a homeless person’s right to sleep on a park bench. Sleep there—until the police chase you away. No rent. But what’s it like to live on a boat now? It’s definitely not warm anymore. When I met him—this “Flying Dutchman”—out at sea, it was early June. Now it was the end of September. His bedding must be completely damp by now, with nowhere to dry it. The boat itself already looked homeless: covered in graffiti, draped in plastic against the rain that had been drizzling for a week, with tattered bits of gear hanging from the rigging. A homeless boat with a homeless captain!

Boats of that class can cost $100,000, though I’ve seen them online for as little as $10,000. It's like with used cars — everything depends on the year, the mileage, the condition of the engine, and the overall appearance.

A couple of days later, the rain stopped. The sun began to peek through breaks in the clouds. I couldn’t resist and went back to Emmons to see if they had let him stay there. That day I was working from home, so I simply asked my wife to move my computer mouse or hit any key every 15 minutes so that the green circle next to my name in our group chat would stay lit — a sign of my never-ending "activity." And if work called me for any reason, well, I had my phone with me.

The boat was still at the end of the pier. The rags hanging from the rigging no longer looked like freshly washed laundry hung out to dry. They’d turned gray, frayed, and tangled around the forestay. The blue tarp enclosing the cockpit flapped in the wind, giving the boat a kind of gypsy look. A worker, who looked Latino, was locking the pier gate with a padlock as he left a nearby trailer. But this wasn’t an insurmountable obstacle. You could still reach the pier from the other side of the fence by stepping along the wall’s edge above the water and holding onto the railing or mesh.

After looking at the boat and taking a few pictures on my phone, I passed a man in a leather jacket and black corduroy pants, leaning on the railing along the canal. He held a bottle in a paper bag in one hand — which he sipped from — and a vape in the other. Puffy, blotchy, red face. The guy gave off a sketchy vibe. You could tell from a mile away he was Russian and had arrived here recently. Our eyes met. I could tell he noticed me too.

When I left the house, I hadn’t thought to change, and I was wearing an orange polo shirt with the company logo over the chest pocket — something they once gave us for construction site visits. They were handed out one per person, but a friend of mine from the warehouse (one of ours) had hooked me up with nearly half a dozen. They’re natural cotton, soft — my wife says they’re about $35 each. I wear them as house clothes. But here, it made me stand out from afar.

I passed three piers and went over to the one where the boat used to be. The same bike was lying near the gangway, just where it had been before. The seat, which I had seen torn, was now wrapped with a towel held together with duct tape. I was standing there, taking it all in, when I felt something behind me. I turned around. That same guy in the leather jacket was watching me from the sidewalk. He quickly looked away and started strolling along the waterfront, alternately raising the bottle and the vape to his mouth.

Could that be the boat’s captain? Didn’t seem like it. That guy had seemed a bit older, smoked cigarettes, and most importantly, had a near-buzzed haircut. This one had short hair, but it was styled. The captain would've remembered me — this guy was staring at me with curious eyes.

After walking a bit, he stopped and leaned on the railing. He wasn’t looking at me directly, but he was watching me out of the corner of his eye. I could tell by the slight movements of his head. I left the pier and turned in his direction. Then he started moving too — away from me. Now I was behind him.

Okay — I thought — let’s see if you follow me when I turn at the next intersection. I turned sharply to the left and walked quickly toward home. At the next intersection, I looked back. A dark figure was lingering in the distance. It could’ve been him.

I couldn’t let him know where I lived. So I wandered through a few neighborhoods until I was sure I wasn’t being followed.

What was that all about? Maybe the guy is somehow connected to the boat and its captain. He noticed my interest in the boat and mistook me — thanks to my orange company shirt — for an inspector taking interest in it. Then he just wanted to figure out what kind of inspector I was. For instance, if I had gotten into a car with a government agency logo, that would’ve told him something.

I need to be more careful.

It’s now the end of November. The rains have started again. Every day I clean piles of wet leaves from in front of the house and off the porch, blown in by the cold wind. Driving or biking past that pier, I see no signs of life on the "Flying Dutchman." Maybe the captain worked something out with whoever manages the pier during construction, and found himself a place to stay on shore — because living on the boat right now would be miserable. But it seems like someone is still looking after the boat. Normally, it floats a short distance from the pier, pushed by the wind. But if the wind changed direction, it would press the boat against the pilings, which is bad. So it looks like someone moves it when necessary, keeping it alongside the pier in a way that minimizes damage. Still, there’s no sign of repairs being done. I’ll probably never see the captain again in person.

Ahead lies the damp, cold New York winter — the most miserable time of year here. My own "Snark" is now wedged sideways between the garage and the fence, and the mast, with the sail wrapped around it, is up on the garage loft.

We’re both waiting for spring. God willing, we’ll meet again at sea.

Mid-December, I saw two floating platforms near that pier — with a crane and construction materials on them. Long tubular piles had been driven around the platforms to hold them in place, as is usually done. The "Flying Dutchman" was nowhere to be seen — and there would’ve been no room for it there anyway.

I felt a little sad — mainly because I would never find out its mystery — and continued walking along the canal. I knew a large boat had recently sunk there. I’d seen its mast sticking out of the water in the middle of the canal in a Facebook post. But that definitely wasn’t the Dutchman. Soon I spotted it — a small half-submerged boat bobbing at a buoy, proudly named “Odessa.” The water filling its hull glistened under the rising moon. Things like that happen too.

But what’s this? Right by the embankment, I saw a mast — with familiar rags on the rigging. Yes, it was her, moored to the canal wall near Shore Boulevard.

I examined the boat from above. The cockpit was surrounded on all sides by mismatched tarps. The rigging hung slack, wrapped in torn fabric. The mainsail, under which he had likely made that final hundred-meter trip, was lowered, but its cover wasn’t fastened, sloppily hanging off the boom like an unzipped fly. The steel guardrails, already damaged earlier, now looked completely wrecked, hanging loosely on their wires. So it had still been bumping against the pier at the previous location. The cabin was open — just like the day I first saw the boat, or when it had lain on its side on the shoal. It was cold and already dark. Hard to believe it was cozy enough inside to spend the night.

During the fifteen minutes I stood there watching, I saw no sign of life. It looked like it had been abandoned in a hurry. Otherwise, why would the cabin be wide open, practically inviting vandals to climb in?

One thing was clear: the boat didn’t want to give up and was desperately clinging to life.
Going to sea without a working engine was out of the question. Not to mention paperwork — which I knew nothing about. You’re not allowed to just moor to the wall indefinitely, and the police won’t tolerate it for long.

My God, how long will its agony last?

Three days later, I found it moored to a buoy nearby.
He hadn’t even needed to raise the sails to get there. That meant he had paid for the spot and would probably stay there until the money ran out. To board the boat, you’d need a tender — either hire one at the marina or take your own. So, you couldn’t really live on it. This time, the cabin was closed.

I was happy for him. There was still a chance we might meet again at sea.

Or what if... what if they had taken the captain away in handcuffs from that riverside mooring, dragging him out of the cabin as he resisted? And the boat was placed on the buoy while awaiting a court decision on its fate? When someone finally buys it, they’ll probably fix it up — replace the guardrails, repaint it, give it a flashy new name on the hull in some jaunty font.

And when I meet it again at sea — polished and gleaming with chrome — I won’t recognize the former Flying Dutchman, nor ever know what truly brought him here.