The ecstasies of the east drew me to the west. Hypnotized, I headed for that vintage wooden schooner at the end of Pier 6 in Brooklyn Bridge Park. Her masts seduced me with their rhythmic sway: a slow side to side, then an impetuous backwards circle incestuously doubling back on itself before a jump forward that drew me on.
Seagulls screeched. The masts’ sudden backwards circle coursed through my veins, stirring my blood. The sky. The masts. Then I beheld the wooden deck echoing the masts’ seductive dance. Would I have to leap into the East River and claw my way up the anchor line? I had to get aboard.
A sign: Pilot, built in 1924. Grand Banks style schooner and eligible candidate for the National Register of Historic Places. Originally a racing vessel.
Better than a sign, a smiling face. “Dinner for one?” She stepped aside to usher me onto a gangway. My first step onto it, even before reaching the rich wood of the Pilot’s deck, sent a thrill shivering up my spine: There it was, now resonating through my bone marrow, the deep sway side to side, the dizzying backwards circle that doubled back on itself, the climactic jerk forward…over and over again.
A restaurant. No need to leap into the East River to gain access. What singular good fortune. I perched at a table facing out onto New York Harbor. Several gulls paused in the air opposite me, their sharp glare reminding me that they were entitled to their share as I picked up the menu.
Oysters. Of course. (Though I could never bring myself to bite into anything still alive.) Caviar. I settled on a salad with Chianti-soaked cheese. I dined on shrimp and scallops. Fizzy watermelon dominated my drink. Dessert included dark chocolate, crème anglaise, and “rum-plumped raisins.”
I was in heaven. The boat swayed throughout, accompanied by a symphony of all its various ancient woods creaking. I caught the eye of the bartender, ruggedly tanned behind a bar patronized by a wild cacophony of folk, suggesting with just their clothing that no two of them hailed from the same continent, let alone country.
But then…just as I was wondering if constant exposure to the boat’s sway had so very favorably influenced that gorgeous bartender’s style of lovemaking…came the sounds of discord. The hostess’s smile now struck me as obscene when she seated a loud, beach-ball-shaped man at the table next to me who immediately attacked those unfortunate enough to be dining with him with proofs of a presumed expertise in all matters maritime that even I could see through…in between sinking his teeth into the oysters.
Helplessly horrified, I looked away and found the bartender looking at me. No hostess-style smile, but an unmistakable agreement with my assessment of the loud man in his eyes. In unison, the boat swayed us both.
