The Eternal Dolphin Smile

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The Eternal Dolphin Smile

In spite of the old adage that "practice makes perfect," there are some things in life at which I really don't want to become an expert. Near the top of that list, I put burials at sea. This is not something I want to perfect, and after this last weekend, it appears that there is no danger of that happening. But my mother taught by example that when you feel like you're barely hanging on, you just have to smile.

Probably Not What He Meant by "Put Me In the Drink"

Anyone who has had a boat for a number of years has got stories about sprinkling ashes at sea. My first experience started in Honolulu, Hawaii in 1976 when my husband and I rented a slip at the fuel dock in the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor. We got to know some of the crew on the big catamaran head boats that did sunset cocktail cruises. They used to regale us with stories of the newly widowed Midwesterners on holiday who'd sneak the urn onto the sunset cruise and, not being sailors, they'd inevitably wait until everyone had a drink in hand, then they'd step to the windward side of the boat and let Fred fly, thus sprinkling more of Fred into the Mai Tais than into the sea.

Neptune Society Then

Then there was the time we were in a liveaboard slip in Channel Islands Marina in Port Hueneme, California in 1978, and the powerboat next to us did charters for a small organization called the Neptune Society. Once the guests had disappeared up the dock, he would break out the Jack Daniels and tell us tales about the ashes that fell out of the urn in chunks. When the seagulls swooped down and started fighting over the bits, he would evoke the image of the birds carrying their loved one up to the heavens – not how dear Fred would emerge from the seagull later. He would reenact his semi-sermons in stentorian tones that echoed across the water and we'd both laugh so hard we cried.

Fast forward twenty years and in 1998, I found myself looking up the Neptune Society for my by-then ex-husband and the father of my son, Tim. It took Tim and me a year before either of us felt up to it. We both played hooky from school on the anniversary and rented a runabout from Pier 66. Tim was 14 and we brought a picnic lunch, a cooler, fishing poles and a boom box full of Buffet tunes. It was a bright sunny day, and the seas were nearly flat, so we went outside and opened her up, flashing giddy grins at the speed as only sailors can.

Four years ago, it was my dad's turn and once again, I called the Neptune Society which was still a dinky operation in a dingy building in North Fort Lauderdale. On the one year anniversary, Bruce offered to take us out on Biscayne Bay on his boat so my brother, sister and mother joined me aboard Wild Matilda. That trip was easiest of all since I didn't have to worry about running the boat. We were able to drink toasts, laugh and cry with a very capable captain to take care of us.

Neptune Society Now

Mom died one year ago and the 2009 version of the Neptune Society was a far cry from that loosely organized society in California. When I drove to their new site in Pompano Beach, I saw this fancy new multi-storied building. Inside, a receptionist in the ultra-modern lobby sent me to waiting room number three where a huge 50-inch flat screen TV covered one wall playing a video of what looked like a nature documentary of divers swimming through the lost city of Atlantis. There were classic columns and stone lions in what the video told me was sixteen acres located three miles off the coast of Miami and they would be happy to sell me a piece of it for mom's eternal resting place. As I watched the video, I kept wondering how you get title to the ocean floor three miles off the coast of Miami, and I couldn't help but smile.

Screenshot from www.nmreef.com

Glass Half Full is Not Always Positive

So there I was last Friday morning, cleaning my boat up and getting ready for my sister and brother who were flying in to stay for the weekend so we could go sprinkle mom's ashes our way. I started my engine and went forward to clean out the cooler. After about five minutes, the engine sputtered to a halt. It had been two months since I'd fired it up. I decided it was probably dirty fuel filters, so I ran out and got diesel and changed the Racors. Still no go. Even though it was Friday less than one week from the start of the Fort Lauderdale Boat Show, I called the local Yanmar shop, hoping they wouldn't just laugh at me. They gave me the cell number for their mechanic and incredibly, he promised to come by at the end of his day. Sure enough, roughly thirty minutes before I needed to go to the airport, he announced from his position with his head under the cockpit floor, that diesels don't run on water. He lifted a shot glass to show what he had extracted from my injectors and there was a thin film of diesel on top of a glass half full of water. Miraculously, I got a guy from Gun Marine out to the boat the next morning at 8:00 a.m. to pump out the tank and filter the fuel and we were underway before noon.

Thar She Blows

The forecast was for winds 15-20 and seas 4-6 feet. I assured my brother and sister I knew what I was doing, and we would be fine. We tucked a reef into the main and headed out to run down the coast to Miami and slip into Biscayne Bay. Okay, it was a little bouncy, but our dad had owned sailboats and we had all sailed before. Once we got out of the slop around the entrance, I assured them, it will get better. Down off Dania Beach I decided to unroll a bit of headsail, and as I cranked on the winch to bring in the flapping sail, I heard that noise that every sailor dreads. Rrrrriiiippppp! The entire blue sun shade on the roller furling sail had decided to separate and the triangle of sail in the middle was flapping like a flag in the wind.

The Dolphin's Smile

When we'd more or less got the sail furled and wrapped round the forestay with the sheets, my sister quietly suggested that perhaps we should turn around and forget taking mom to Miami because, hell, she'd lived in Fort Lauderdale for the last 20 years. She was quite a swimmer, and she'd make her way down there and find dad on her own. So there I was, screwdriver in hand, trying to figure out how to unscrew the bottom of the burled wood box when my sister shouted, "Dolphins!" There looked to be about five of them, two adults and three juveniles enjoying the hell out of the rough water. "It's an omen!" and it felt like it was so. We said farewell to our mom and turned the bow back to port.

Tow, Tow, Tow the Boat, Gently Up the Stream

Not wanting to dock in the strong cross current, I suggested we go into Lake Sylvia and anchor for lunch while waiting for the tide. We told mom stories and had a feast, and around 5:00 p.m. when I went to start the engine, Click, Click, Click. Nada. I checked the bilge and it was full of fuel. So I swore my brother and sister to silence telling them I'd keel-haul them if they said anything about my background — and I called Towboat US. My siblings smiled and kept their word and the guys on the towboat never knew they were towing Seychelle's creator back to her slip on the New River.