It was a gloomy summer day in the cove near Fishers Island. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, heavy and bloated, seemingly waiting for a reason to burst.

A few friends and I had set out from a dock at Duck Island. We sailed through choppy seas and a stubborn headwind, but the torrential rain that pelted us the entire way certainly didn’t add to the “fun.” All we wanted was a dry, quiet place to anchor for the night. The boat’s owners had been here before; they felt this cove, familiar from past cruises, was the perfect spot.

The Anchor Debate

Once we arrived, we dropped anchor. I felt we should have headed further inward toward a bridge visible from the shore to find a truly calm spot, but I was in the minority. My friends are old-school; they trust paper maps and their own instincts over GPS or digital charts. They prefer to sail using the breadcrumb trails of previous trips stored in their chart-plotter.

Because of this, we dropped anchor right at the entrance of the bay. In my opinion, we were practically in the open sea, right in the way of everyone entering and exiting West Harbor. Whenever I enter a cove and see a boat anchored like that, blocking the path, I usually mutter “Shitheads” under my breath and keep moving.

The “Sing to Me” Arrives

While we were sitting in the cockpit shooting the breeze, we spotted another boat entering the bay. We watched as she headed straight for the spot I had suggested earlier—the comfortable, sheltered one. Out came the binoculars. We watched their docking process, expecting drama, but instead, it was seamless. No yelling, no dropped gear, and no crew falling into the drink. We realized then that their boat was the exact same model as ours. Her name was “Sing to Me.”

George’s wife and I noticed the crew was a couple, and the woman was a striking blonde. As soon as they disappeared below deck, the “Gossip Forum” (the wife and I) sprang into action. We decided, based on nothing but distance and imagination, that this was clearly an older man with his “trophy wife”—a beautiful, young blonde damsel.

George didn’t participate in our gossip. As I mentioned, he was busy “shooting the breeze,” which is a polite way of saying he couldn’t care less about the “important” scandals of the world.

The Reveal

About an hour later, we saw them lowering their dinghy. After the engine warmed up, they headed our way. As they approached, they called out, “Ahoy, Sachem!” (the name of our boat), following the old sailor’s custom. We waved back, and after some friendly greetings, we invited them aboard. They agreed to join us for Happy Hour before dinner.

We waited impatiently. Around four o’clock, they arrived, climbing aboard with a massive—and delicious—plate of shrimp cocktail. We served them Dark ‘N’ Stormy cocktails and settled in.

And then… you should have seen the faces of the “Gossip Forum.” Standing before us was a young man and an older blonde woman.

For dinner that night, we didn’t eat the shrimp. We had to eat our hats, served right there in the cockpit, smothered in a thick Béchamel sauce.