Before Robert Sullivan arrived, Tim Harrington prepared himself for our trip by reading about ‘The Raft of the Medusa.’
When he told his friends the night before that he was going out in my boat,
they joked that we would all end up like the Géricault painting.
I assured him there would be no cannibalism on my boat,
and before the sun had risen,
Robert, Tim, and I were paddling quietly toward the bay.
As a writer and native New Yorker, Robert Sullivan knows a lot about the Gowanus Bay and all of the New York Harbor.
As we paddled, he read a song written by Michael Shay in 1899:
“Way down in old Gowanus,
Slab City and Darby’s Patch,
Where squatters lived in years gone by,
all jumbled in a batch,
The frisky goat he roamed at will and chewed the verdant grass.
But ’tis years since any flowers grew,
down where they make the gas.”
He was reading the song out of a chapter in his new book, ‘My American Revolution”.
The book seems like a kind of almanac pertaining to certain historical phenomena,
all mapped against contemporary experience and perception.
The sun was just rising behind us,
as if it was coming out of the Gowanus flushing tunnel.
As we passed, Robert pointed out the Police Department’s ‘Evidence Vehicle Facility’.
That is where they keep all the vehicles involved in crimes in New York City.
We laughed as we imagined the infraction that implicated this pina colada machine.
Pointing to a passing cormorant, Robert said that the birds have been flying along these same paths since George Washington was camped out here in 1776.
“To them, all our development means nothing, a shore is still a shore.”
We were now in the pull of a strong flood tide,
and huge ships were moving in the harbor.
We’de be lucky to make it past the Brooklyn Piers before the wake and wind made the water too choppy.
I felt comfortable though, because Robert is an experienced boater,
and Tim was quite prepared in his Venetian Gondolier’s cap.
“That’s what is great about the East River,” said Robert,
It really is like that Heraclitus saying ‘You cannot not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you.'”
“It’s true.” I said,
but I was beginning to notice something worrisome about the river.
The molecules themselves might be different, but they were behaving in a familiar way.
The water was alive with little, peeked swells, created by the short spaces in between the pier pilings.
This is the kind of wave that sank my boat back in 2005.
“After this next pier, we are going to make a turn for the shore.” I told them,
and we paddled hard to get  out of the strong northbound current.
Back inside the cove, Tim got an idea.
“Drop me off on one of these pilings,” said Tim, “no one will know how I got out here!”
I remember years ago in college, helping tie Tim upside-down to a fence (at his direction).
It was a quickly conceived, physical gag, meant to surprise his friends.
It’s as though laughing is a little gift that he is constantly giving.
We carried the boat back to the truck,
and hung out for a bit, talking about exchange value and the premium on time in the modern world.
I wished the morning would last a little longer.
Thanks Tim and Robert!
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