A striped bass dinner capped off a perfect October day. The swarms of summer renters had disappeared toward New York City, returning Long Island’s Peconic Bay to the locals. My sister and her boyfriend, Walter, were staying the weekend. We were clearing the table when Walter came running into the kitchen, screaming for me to get my boat key. We ran to the dock and untied my Grady White center console as he explained that a small boat had capsized just outside the inlet.
About 700 feet past the entrance marker, we saw an old 12-foot Meyers aluminum fishing boat motoring in circles, unmanned, at about 8 knots. We spotted two heads above water, already 20 feet apart, drifting southeast, straight out the channel and into Cutchogue Harbor. They were in their 60s, a man and a woman, and they were not wearing life jackets.
The woman was closer, and I tried to get her first. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t respond when I asked if she was hurt. We had nothing to throw. Our lines were still on the dock. A teenager in a Boston Whaler approached. I signaled him to get control of the runaway boat. Twice, I tried to position my boat so the woman would drift into the beam. I couldn’t see her over the gunwale from the wheel, and I was hesitant to keep the outboard in gear.
I’d told Walter not to take his eyes off the man, but he broke protocol and tried to direct me toward the woman. She remained a few feet out of reach as the man drifted 30 feet farther away.
On the third try, I got within 5 feet of the woman, put the Grady in neutral and did exactly what instructors teach you not to do in safe-boating courses: I went into the water. I again instructed Walter to keep his eyes on the man, and then I jumped in, grabbed her by the collar, and swam her backwards. I cradled her up the swim ladder and Walter pulled her aboard. She collapsed on the deck and never said a word.
By then, the man had drifted even farther. When I swung the boat around toward him, I encountered the same challenges as with the woman. So, I put the Grady in neutral again and foolishly went into the water a second time. The man came alive when I swam up and grabbed him from behind. He tried to swing his arm over me and nearly broke my nose.
Walter came across the transom to help. “Stay in the boat!” I shouted. He got in the water anyway, but he had the sense to hold onto the swim ladder with one hand, extending the other to form a chain. I did the same, strong-arming the man from the back of his collar. By the time the man was in the boat, dusk was upon us. Embarrassed, he asked me not to tell anyone what had happened.
It was a promise I couldn’t keep. As soon as Walter and I had left our house, my wife had sensibly called the police, who were waiting with an ambulance as we returned. All of this happened nearly 30 years ago. I never even learned the names of the couple.
I’ve replayed my mistakes that day a hundred times in my mind. I left the dock completely unprepared. We didn’t have any PFDs, not even a cushion to throw. We left the lines on the dock. Communication with Walter was clouded in reactive urgency. Sending the teenager to gain control of the unmanned boat was a questionable decision. And going into the water with no person aboard who could operate my boat was the mistake of a young man still convinced of his own immortality. Today, I might have thought to loop out and cast the anchor line. Less exciting, but also less dangerous.
A few years after the rescue, I saw the man at the hardware store in town. At first, he didn’t recognize me, but then he tilted a nod that could have been meant for anyone.
November 2025
