It was a cloudy summer day in a small cove near Fishers Island. Dark clouds seemed to hang in the sky, waiting their turn to empty themselves.

We had sailed there from an anchorage at Duck Island—two friends and I, on their boat—through choppy seas and an unfavorable headwind. The persistent rain that accompanied us the entire way did little to enhance the pleasure of sailing, and we were looking for a dry, quiet place to anchor for the night. The boat owners had anchored there before, and this cove, familiar to them from past trips, satisfied them.

We anchored.

I thought that to truly enjoy a calm anchorage we should go farther in, toward a small bridge visible from the shore, but I was in the minority on board. My friends believe in paper charts and don’t trust GPS or digital maps at all. They navigate using old routes stored in their chart plotter. Because of that, they dropped anchor at the mouth of the cove. In my opinion, it was practically the open sea and obstructed traffic for boats entering and leaving the marina called West Harbor. When I enter a cove and see a boat anchored like that, blocking my way, I usually mutter “shitheads” through clenched teeth and carry on.

As we sat in the cockpit, shooting the breeze, we saw a boat entering the bay. We watched as it approached—naturally heading to the very spot I had suggested earlier as ideal for anchoring. Binoculars came out, and we followed their anchoring process. Instead of drama, we got a smooth, effortless maneuver—no shouting, no dropped gear, and no crew members falling into the water. During our inspection, we also concluded that their boat was the same model as ours, and its name was Sing to Me.

My friend’s wife and I also noticed that the crew was a couple, and the woman was blonde.

The moment they went below deck and disappeared from view, the gossip committee (her and me) sprang into action. We quickly decided that this was an older sailor who had acquired himself a trophy wife—a young, beautiful blonde.

My friend George didn’t participate in the discussion. As I said, he was busy shooting the breeze—which meant that, at that moment, more pressing matters of the world were of no interest to him.

About an hour later, we saw them lowering a dinghy into the water. After starting the engine, they headed in our direction. When they got close—but not too close—they called out, “Ahoy, Sachem!” (the name of our boat), as sailors do. We waved back and exchanged greetings. We invited them to join us on board, and they said they would come by for happy hour—the time just before dinner.

We eagerly awaited the meeting. Around four in the afternoon, they arrived and came aboard carrying a large plate of excellent shrimp cocktail. We treated them to Dark ’n’ Stormy cocktails.

And then…

Now imagine the faces of the gossip committee when we saw standing before us—a young man and a blonde woman… who was older.

For dinner, we had no choice but to cook our hats and serve them in the cockpit, prepared with béchamel sauce.