out to sea

I have not been out to sea in years. I have stood at its edge. I have waded in—waist deep, and felt the curl of its waves on a hot summer day. But I have not been out to sea and gone beyond where the horizon meets land. I miss it this place. Its beauty is more than I can describe.

I often dream of sitting in the wheelhouse or pilothouse of my own boat. The diesel engines hum along as the bow, or front of my ship cuts through an oncoming sea. The boat rises up and down as we charge out into the middle of the ocean and nothing on land can touch me. No one can reach me and I feel a certain freedom that comes with captaining my own ship.
I love it out there in the ocean because I am reminded of my father and his father before him. I think of their stories and wish I could have been there for any of them.

I have always wanted to make this trip in the middle of winter. I have always wanted to make my way out to a place like The Dip.
The Dip is approximately 110 miles south of the Jones Beach inlet. Deep at the bottom, fish swim without regard to this thing we call winter. There is life out there. There always is and it lives without complaining.

I have not been out on the ocean in years. I have visited it like an old friend—as if my visit were the equivalent to an occasional telephone call, or a brief passing, to quickly reminisce of deep water memories. And like an old friend, a piece of my heart warms when I think of these times.

There is nothing like running your own boat and moving out from the inlet when the sun is on its rise. Small boats fish the bottom and bounce on the rolling waves that force in through the canal. The edge of Jones beach is on the left side of the inlet and Point Lookout is on the right. Ahead is the Jones Inlet Buoy and beyond that is the vastness of an empty, wide-opened sea, where overhead seagulls turn and hover above the ocean’s surface. They hang motionless in the air and look downward for baitfish to swim up to the surface so they could swoop down and feed.

The needle on the compass rolls on the southern numbers as we head passed the names of different fishing spots. We pass the local wrecks and the lobster pots. We pass the Cholera Banks and dry land has lost its view. We pass the Yankee Wreck, the H.A. Buoy, and the Virginia.
We are about 42 miles out now. There is no one around but the commercial boats, the long-liners, scallop boats, and draggers that spill nets in the water and scoop up all that they can.

We are more than halfway to the Hudson Canyon now. Its tip begins at 72 miles from the inlet. We are only a few miles short of the Bacardi, the Texas Tower, and the Chicken Canyon.
This is when the world truly seems round to me. I can see its edges smooth down as I look in a 360degree turn and realize there is no one else around. There is no one but me running my crafts out to feed from the wealth of the ocean’s deep. There is no one but me, the memories of my Old Man, and God the Father.

Sometimes, whales show themselves. They follow alongside the outgoing boats. These big, beautiful creatures move onward, charging forward, and they sound out with a spout of water blowing from the tops of their blowholes. They move as the great ambassadors and largest moving creatures on this planet. I feel as though they know why we head out there, and when the whales swim alongside the boat; I feel this is their way of greeting us.

I have a photograph of my father behind the wheel of an Owens, which was a 30’ lobster boat. I think of any picture I have; this one is my favorite. I keep it because though I have not been out on the ocean in years—I still have dreams of sitting in the wheelhouse or pilothouse of my own boat and heading out into the middle of the sea.

And after a long, hopefully plentiful day, the fish boxes are all full. The bait will be spent and I will return passing the wrecks in an opposite order; passing the H.A. Buoy, which means I only have 33 nautical miles left until I reach Jones Inlet. I imagine there will be some small crafts still working the wrecks and still bouncing around at the lobster pots on the Cholera banks. Almost home now. The sun is on its way down. Almost to the inlet where Point Lookout welcomes me on the left side of the inlet and Jones Beach is on my right.

I will make this trip again. I am not sure when or how long this will take. But someday.
Years ago, there was a commercial boat for sale. I kept one of the pictures of its wheelhouse because like I said, someday . . . .

Someday, this is where I want to be.