Very long ago, I read the words "out on the wine-dark sea" in Homer's "Odyssey," first as a student, then as a teacher of world literature. Homer the poet was besotted with the Aegean Sea, and I, as student and teacher, was besotted with Homer, though not yet inclined to dally in the waves and tides that sourced his ecstatic reflections.
'The ancient of the salt sea haunts this place . . . '
Eventually I swam in the lapping, tactile waters of the Aegean, off Crete, and experienced on my very own skin, the sensual reciprocity of Homer's sea. In fact, one day, my guy and I raced across Crete from the Aegean on the east to the Ionian on the west and back again to verify that that sensation was real. It was. Those Aegean waters do touch back! But my plunge was sail-less, minimally contentious, lacking Homer's sneering and vengeful Poseidon.
'Dawn's fingertips of rose opened in the east . . . '
I began sailing at City Island and the Yale Yacht Club and indulging in mid-winter windjammer cruises through the French Antilles and the British Virgins, booking alone, or with my adorable young daughter, or with my husband and daughter, or with friends.
Each adventure was magical, though not on wine-dark seas, but rather, on pale, opalescent turquoise waters.
We'd drop anchor at Guadalupe, Martinique, St. Barthelemy, St. Maarten, St. Thomas, St. John, Virgin Gorda, Tortola, and Jost Van Dyke, and play in Basse Terre, Plage de Saline, Gustavia, Smuggler's Cove, and the very foxy Foxy's on Jost.
We snorkeled with Rothko-esque tropicals, snooped around sunken vessels, and eluded the menacing barracuda that occasionally pursued us right to our hull.
Mostly, we sailed -- a small band of compadres, bonds forming quickly with passenger lists topping out at 25. Some of us, like me, took the wheel for hours while crew adjusted the hundred dove-white sails and climbed the masts to check the waters.
Flying Cloud, the boat my daughter and I boarded in Phillipsburg, was star of a ravishing fleet of windjammers that included the three-masted Yankee Clipper, the wrought-iron hulled Mandalay, and the infamous, ill-fated stay-sail schooner, Fantome, lost to Hurricane Mitch in 1998.
Aristotle Onassis once planned to give the Fantome as a wedding gift to Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier of Monaco, 'til he learned he wasn't on the guest list, so he sold it to Windjammer Barefoot Cruises.
'Young dawn with fingertips of rose made heaven bright . . . '
Six a.m.'s onboard came with steaming orange crepes, aromatic coffee, and the widest ribbons of rose and tangerine spread on the cloudless blue skies, the bands deeper and longer than a Manhattan boulevard with more expressive color than a year of New York City sunrises squeezed into those little pinches of sky. I'd store them up and take them home.
'Dawn came up from her couch of reclining. . . '
It took several windjammer trips before a light flashed in my brain, to wit: "One week a year aboard a boat. A single week? Are you kidding me? No matter, wine-dark, azure, turquoise, or blue, one week per annum only is nuts!" My darling guy agreed. We made a plan.
'The goddesses stayed home for shame. . . '
We were one sailor, me, one canoer with some outboard, shall I say, sophistication, and so of course we sought and bought a 30-foot Owens live-aboard — a big white stunner, broad of beam, high and proud.
And we preceded our purchase with great due diligence. Coast Guard Safety Courses, operating instructions, map and chart study, knot tying? None of the above. That's right! None of the above! How about: What shade of percale for the bunks, how many stainless pots for the galley, do we need new carpet for the poop deck, and where in East Hampton should we dock?
The answers, dark blue, six, no, and Dick Mendelman's Harbor Marina came easy. We were set. Ha!
Dinghy? Nope! Marine radio? Nah.
We found the Owens in Newsday, tracked it to its Lindenhurst marina, exchanged pleasantries with the owners, and boarded.
The boat was sopping wet. Very sopping wet! The sun was shining but it was soaked, inside and out.
"Rainstorms" and "very thorough clean-up!" were the straight-faced explanations. Ha!
Oh boy did it leak.
But it was a stunner. Sparkling white, as I said, with navy canvases and carpeting and absolutely voluptuous mahogany paneling in the cabin, even in the head.
What's the matter? Don't crafts run on aesthetics?
With on-board attendance taken — husband unfamiliar with single-screw steering, an eager teen daughter, a miniature schnauzer in a miniature life vest, and me (sailor, remember?) — we headed to the Shinnecock Canal from Lindenhurst, chart in hand.
Somehow, we made it. We were in and crossing, putt-putting gently through a particularly calm (that day) Shinnecock when the boat stopped responding to the wheel.
"It's not responding to the wheel!" shouted the skipper as we hit the side of the canal, bounced off, hit thunderingly, bounced off again. Schnauzer yelping, daughter clutching, captain turning pale, me rehearsing death, until a deep, dark voice intoned: "IT'S OK! I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!"
"Zeus . . . er, God?" I thought. "Has to be God! Thank you, God."
A black speedboat raced toward us from the Canal Cafe, with a blond, tan boater who left his lunch to pull up alongside us and tow us to nearby Modern Yachts in Hampton Bays.
The mechanics were gone for the day. We tied up, ordered pizza and Coke, and hunkered down for a very erratic sleep.
Next morning, we were told we'd lost a pin in the steering. "Minor repair. Likely done in an hour." And, one hour later, we paid and aimed ourselves through the second half of the Shinnecock Canal into the Great Peconic Bay.
Oh, Great Peconic was stunning. Water-shining luminescent. Few craft about. A collective deep breath -- collective relief.
'Zeus piled a thunderhead above the ship. . . '
Ten, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 -- BOOM! Ear-busting BOOM! The engine blew. Coal-black smoke streaked the cloudless sky. The mini schnauzer, and the rest of us, recoiled from the sci-fi horror of the moment.
What have we done to our lives?
A bay constable roared over, checked on our wilted selves, and towed us back to Modern Yachts as our dream began drowning, its cost growing exponentially.
'Grey-eyed Athena bestirred the fresh dawn from her bed of pale ocean . . . '
How, you might ask, did we get it back? Did we get it back? The dream, that is. How did we ever find our way to the ecstasy of Homer's wine-dark sea, of weeks aboard our own craft, mirroring the sundrenched sailing days in the Caribbean, close to nature's arc of dawn to dusk, replete with orange crepes at sunrise and 100-proof rum atop pools of silver moonlight, limpid sea shanties pulsing from my guitar.
Well, a brand-new eight-cylinder engine was installed and the boat thoroughly caulked. And on the weekend days that followed, we personally lemon-oiled the paneling and dutifully read relevant manuals as we made our way to Harbor Marina.
Upon our arrival there, the merry lights of Georgette's signaled that we were home.
'When dawn spread out her fingertips of rose we turned out marveling to tour the isle . . . '
Here began our personal love affair with the waters of the East End, with gulls as neighbors, with friendly fellow boaters, with our wonderful harbor master, Ralph George, with fresh breezes and freedom.
Prior to Dick Mendelman's patient instruction on backing up a single-screw engine, we bashed a few piers and pilasters, just lightly. But oh, did my captain relish the practice, inching out onto Three Mile Harbor, circling and coming back, then heading way out, chugging at the mandatory 5 miles per hour to the breakwater and flying, FLYING onto Gardiner's Bay.
'Clear sailing shall you now have, however painful all the past . . . '
Modest were our early cavorts: Louse Point, Sag Harbor, Coecles Harbor, until the captain grew in command and daring and headed us out to Montauk, Greenport, and Block Island.
We tied up for rocking nights in Greenport, then maneuvered edgily ahead of a towering, aggressive, following sea, all the way back to the bulkhead of homeport. Multitudinous other not-far journeys filled many memorable and blissful days. But, you know what? Of course you don't. So I'll tell you.
'We heard the muses sing in nine immortal voices . . . '
It was never the itinerary. Not for these weary world travelers.
In fact, back then, I wrote in The New York Times, "Stepping aboard a bobbing boat is touching the nerve of the earth, her heave and passion. It's super-alive to live by the tides and the position of the sun in the sky, to be arrested by the morning movement of birds, stalked by gulls. That's right, to live a poem."
When we anchored for swims, for dejeuner au soleil et sieste, right here at Gardiner's Island, in view of the windmill -- when we toweled off from those cold plunges and savored warm French bread, brie, and chilled Puligny Montrachet -- when Rampal played on the tape deck in counterpoint to the osprey's song, we learned contentment.
'Soughing from the northwest on the wine-dark sea . . . '
So what did Homer mean by wine-dark sea? Reams have been written about that. But, let us not forget, Homer was blind.
My hunch is he encapsulated in the phrase his intoxication with the sea, its undulations, the sport of staying upright on a craft, the scent and feel of sea air, the hypnotic ebb and flow of the tides, the roll of waves, the complete and utter helplessness of the senses against the euphoria of . . . nautical inebriation.
That's it! Nautical inebriation! That's what Homer captured with "wine-dark sea." And, that's what we attained, at long last, right here, on Gardiner's Bay, nautical inebriation, never to be sober again.
Susan L. Wartur, a retired associate professor of writing and world literature at Dowling College, is also a psychoanalyst and a former director of public relations and English department faculty member at the Fiorello H. Laguardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts at New York City's Lincoln Center. She has also written for magazines including The Doctor's Wife and TV Guide. She lives in Springs. Brief quotations from Homer's Odyssey are as printed in the translation by Robert Fitzgerald.