End Of A Tradition

November 23, 2023, home, Thanksgiving Day

Several years ago, I decided to write a detailed story about one of our familial Thanksgiving days in the 1970s and how difficult it was to get to Grandma's house for dinner that year. It's a rather long account of our struggle that day, so I am not sure how many people will read it. I just wanted to share it with you, so enjoy.

"The End of a Thanksgiving Tradition"

5 a.m., Thanksgiving Day, mid-1970s, West Islip, Long Island, New York

The alarm clock cried out that it was the morning of Thanksgiving Day, even though it still seemed like nighttime. I awoke with a start, the adrenaline coursing through my teenaged arteries, much faster than on any other day, because I knew that in about an hour, I would board my dad's 30-foot fishing boat and experience yet another nautical adventure. As was our tradition, we were getting ready to embark on our annual Thanksgiving Day fishing trip. The codfish were out there just waiting to be caught.

Dad and I loaded up the boat with our fishing gear, food, soda and beer, and impatiently waited for our usual group of fishing buddies to arrive. All aboard, Dad cranked up Engine No. 1 (port side), then Engine No. 2 (starboard side), unhooked the lines from the dock a few feet from our house, and we were on our way.

Dad piloted the boat out of the short river where we lived, across the bay, out the inlet and into the ocean. Then he gave it the gun, and we sped, cutting through the waves, the sea spray blasting in our faces and the bounce of the boat agitating the recently eaten, and traditional, tuna fish sandwich on white bread within my stomach. Dad had eaten his traditional Western omelette sandwich.

Back on dry land, grandma -- I called her Nana -- was preparing the Thanksgiving feast in anticipation of our arrival around 1 p.m.

Dad slowed the boat to check the depth finder. When the ocean, at a cool 57 degrees, hit 200 feet deep, we knew that it was only a short matter of time. We would just have to continue until it rose back to around 100 feet deep, and we would be set to drop our lines into that mirrored, undulating, somewhat-sullen water and start pulling out some fish.

There it is: 200 feet deep. Now for the agonizing anticipation: 197, 184, 175, 163, 159, 144, 137 ... hurry up ... 123 ... I can't wait ... 118, 103 ... Dad clicked off the port engine, then stopped the starboard engine, relative silence, and the boat continued to rock back and forth, up and down, on yet another cold, pristine Thanksgiving morning.

We had finally arrived, about two miles from land, just like we had done on this day every year for many years. We had everything we needed: rugged camaraderie, lots of fish just waiting to be caught, and, of course, tradition.

We fished for several hours, pulling rather large codfish out of the brine. OK, they weren't all that large, but it is my fish story, right?

Then came the inevitable. It was time to head back. We had to get to Nana's by 1 p.m., just as we had done, like clockwork, in all those prior years. Oh, well. I never wanted to go back, that is until I remembered that there, waiting for us, was turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and apple pie and...OK, let's go back.

Dad cranked up the port engine. Success. Then Dad cranked up the starboard engine. Click, Click, Click. Dad tried again to crank up the starboard engine. Click, Click, Click. Dad then opened the hatch to that starboard engine and, to our horror, we all saw what we really didn't want to see or even need to see: Both inboard engines were waist-deep in three feet of water. The electric bilge pump had failed, and we were sinking in rather cold water, 100 feet deep, and two miles from land.

Needless to say, a contagious shock of panic pierced us all, well, all except for Dad. Being a Commander in the Navy, who spent many years aboard ship in the North Atlantic, and, at one time, the youngest Eagle Scout in the United States, I suppose Dad was able to keep a level head about such things. He said, "We have to call the Coast Guard. Where's the radio?" He slid open the black-tinted plastic door of the cabinet under the steering wheel where we usually kept the radio. Empty. Where was the radio?

Dad went down below, into the cabin, found the radio (phew) in a wooden cabinet, plugged it in, and spoke in calm tones for the Coast Guard to save us. The life jackets were a little easier to find than the radio.

In short order, and to their amazing credit, two brave souls clad in diver's wet suits aboard a Coast Guard cutter arrived beside our boat. One guard, rather young and with a somewhat-unsure look on his face, flew through the air, jumping several feet from his rocking boat to our rocking boat. Then, the other guard dropped a four-foot-high, rather wide, orange-and-white barrel into the drink, and we pulled it to our boat with a rope.

We all then pulled the barrel aboard and, to our surprise, it contained a gasoline-powered water pump with two four-inch-wide black hoses. With one pull of the starter cord, the pump rumbled like a lawnmower, and soon water was spewing out of our bilge and over the side.

Simultaneously, a Coast Guard helicopter was hovering overhead. My immediate thought was: "Wow, we're going to be airlifted back to land. Cool." But, it was not to be.

We were escorted a long two miles back to land, at a snail's pace, making sure that our one working engine wouldn't overheat. When we reached land, Dad just about had enough excitement for one day, rather for one boating season. He threw up his hands and said, "Just put it in dry dock," and walked away disheartened. I was not to see that boat until the following spring.

Needless to say, we were late for Thanksgiving dinner. Dad and I arrived at Nana's at 5 p.m., yes, four hours late. There were no smiles, just worry, on the faces of our family members, who had already finished dinner. I'm not sure how the other members of our crew fared with their families.

We told everyone our rather implausible story as we ate the Thanksgiving feast that Nana had kept warm for us.

We never again went fishing on Thanksgiving Day, and while a tradition ended rather abruptly, the memory of that fateful day, and of my dad, who passed away in 1997, will forever fondly linger.

Oh, I forgot to tell you why our boat was sinking. We found out the next day that the vibration of the boat had loosened a quarter-inch-wide screw on a metal plate that secured one of the propellers to the back of the boat. Sea water was slowly seeping into the bottom of the boat during our carefree hours of fishing.