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Much Ado About Publishing

Lost at Sea

by Nina L. Diamond

You know all those inspirational and motivational books that promise you that in the midst of chaos, fear, and uncertainty, lies not only opportunity, but the potential for order, safety, and security?

Well, I have a little story to tell you that might give you a bit of comfort in these uncertain times.

Every word is true…

Uncle Herb’s old boat sat in the tall grass of his backyard like a shipwreck, gathering brown leaves and small children.

The 32-foot, double-ended whale boat didn’t have lights or navigational equipment on board. Uncle Herb said he figured he’d never use the boat at night, so why worry about it? Even though it was blue and white, he named it The Red Diamond, after the color of his hair.

On the Fourth of July when I was five, and living in a suburb of Philadelphia, Uncle Herb took us to visit my grandfather on the Jersey shore via the Intracoastal Waterway on board The Red Diamond.

The trip from Tom’s River, New Jersey to Atlantic City at five knots took about three hours, I’m told. I don’t remember much of the trip on the way to Grandpop’s. There was no reason to.

“Are you sure the boat is safe here? It’s not a regular docking area,” my father asked his brother, Herb when we docked a few blocks from my grandfather’s house.

“Yeah, it’s safe,” Herb replied. “Don’t worry.”

Dad worried anyway. He’d been a yeoman second class in the Coast Guard. As for Herb, well, he knew the hull was the part you put in the water, and that was about it.

We left the dock at 1:00 p.m. for the five-minute walk to Grandpop’s house. Our visits there were always wonderful. I think of the sticky sweet smell of salt air, the gritty feel of sand trapped in my bathing suit after sitting on one too many sandcastles, snacks of fresh strawberries on the sun porch, and the light blue hydrangeas that grew on rounded shrubs like puffballs.

But I remember nothing about this particular Fourth of July visit with Grandpop. I didn’t need to. Not yet, anyway.

At 5:00 p.m., we headed back to the dock so we could make it home before dark. No running lights, remember? This is where my memories kick in. I remember walking toward the water and wondering why I couldn’t see the boat. I’m only five, I’m too little, I thought. As we get closer, I’ll see it. But I didn’t. Until I stood at the edge of the dock and peered over the side.

There it was, on its side, in the mud.

The tide had gone out.

My father, Uncle Herb, and Uncle Saunder tried to move the boat. Go ahead and laugh. It wasn’t my idea. Of course, the boat never budged an inch. The only thing to do was wait four hours until the tide came in at 9:00. At night. In the dark. Under a boat with no running lights.

More than four decades later, as a reasonably logical grown-up, I wonder why we just didn’t stay over at Grandpop’s for the night and take the boat back the next day in the safety of sunlight.

Well, folks?

I’m still waiting for an answer.

At 9:00 p.m. that night, we boarded The Red Diamond, now floating at the dock. Uncle Saunder sat on the bow with a flashlight. He was our running lights. My father began looking for charts. He searched the cabin. No charts.

“Charts? I don’t have any charts.” Uncle Herb said, surprised that anyone would need such things in the dark on a boat in the middle of nowhere.

My father had brought along extra gear and had a pocket compass. It would have to do. That was all we had to get us through a very wide Intracoastal and back to the river. Dad had trusted that Uncle Herb would have whatever we needed, so he didn’t make any inquiries before we left the river earlier that day. And now we were in bad shape.

We ran aground.

We got unstuck, and continued on.

We couldn’t see land.

Uncle Saunder stayed on the bow with his flashlight. Dad eyed the compass. Uncle Herb was at the helm. Dad considered a mutiny. Mom frantically paced.

I was a curious five year-old, and would have preferred to stay up on deck amidst the confusion. But, according to custom, when things went from bad to worse, the women and children were sent below.

My mother sat on one of the wooden benches in the tiny gray cabin, yelling “May Day! May Day!” into the radio. At least Uncle Herb had a radio. My little brother, Bobby, slept, and I lay curled up on another bench. We bobbed up and down with the swells, but I didn’t feel seasick. Like a sailor trained to keep a fixed gaze on the horizon, I stared at a penny below me.

I kept my eye on that penny all night. It was trapped between the wooden-slatted cabin floor and the hull of the boat that carried us aimlessly down the Intracoastal Waterway, which was so wide it was as if we were in the middle of the Atlantic. Water sloshed over the penny, back and forth, back and forth. I was mesmerized.

The cabin wasn’t big enough to stand up in, even for me. And the boat was only eight feet wide. We stayed in there all night. I never fell asleep. I just watched the penny. For hours and hours.

We were now officially lost.

Mom yelled into the radio, but got no answer. Bobby slept. I was in deep hypnosis with the penny.

We learned later that when we didn’t phone upon the time of our expected arrival, my grandmother had called the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard searched the Intracoastal for hours but couldn’t find us. How could they? They couldn’t see us. We had no running lights, and they couldn’t see Uncle Saunder’s flashlight.

The waves crashed into the boat and we rocked and bobbed along, the grown-ups wondering if we’d make it, and if we did, where we’d end up. Dad said that we’d know we were near the dock at Tom’s River when we smelled something disgusting: the fertilizer plant that sat on an island in the river. Everyone eagerly awaited the foul-smelling welcome home.

The Coast Guard never did find us, but thanks to Dad with his compass, Uncle Saunders on the bow with his flashlight, and perhaps everyone’s noses, we made it back just before dawn.

Our three-hour tour (yes, yes, I can hear the Gilligan’s Island theme music, too) had turned into an eight-hour lost at sea adventure when we finally docked at 5:00 a.m. the next morning.

We never boarded The Red Diamond again. Years later, when we had our own boats, my father, a fine captain, taught my mother, brother, and me how to be captains, too.

Thinking back to that night, it must’ve been a harrowing journey for the grown-ups on board, but, oddly, it wasn’t for me. I wasn’t afraid. Not even for one instant. When I think of it now, that night 48 years ago was probably the very last time I ever felt completely safe.

* * * * *

Nina L. Diamond is a journalist, essayist, and the author of Voices of Truth: Conversations with Scientists, Thinkers & Healers. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, including Omni, The Los Angeles Times Magazine, The Chicago Tribune, and The Miami Herald.

Ms. Diamond was a writer and performer on Pandemonium, the National Public Radio (NPR) satirical humor program, for its entire run in Miami and select markets nationwide from 1984-1998. As an editor, she works frequently with other authors and journalists on both fiction and non-fiction.

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