M.T. Pockets

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• August 16, 2015

Not unlike many summer days from that time in my life, we were grilling burgers at Atlantique beach, Fire Island.  Running around in the sun all day, playing games and swimming, gave us kids quite an appetite, and we waited impatiently for our grilled meat, chomping down on some corn on the cob, and shoving fistfuls of potato chips in our faces.  I was with good company… the best company: my parents, my sister Lisa, my long time best friend Lauren, and my childhood bests, Wesley and Kyle, and their parents Liz and Harvey, (my brother was absent on this trip).

We’re laughing, and exchanging stories of exaggerated waves and adventure.  Dark clouds loom in the distance, and while my father was aware of the ominous clouds, the rest of us were having so much fun, we payed no attention to the fair warning of what was to come next.

It’s the summer of 2002 (I think).  We’re enjoying our cheeseburgers when the wind picks up, and the paper plates start flying.  We run to catch them.  We don’t litter our beach.  It went from windy to stormy in approximately three seconds.  Everything started to blow away.  Our boogie boards took flight.  Any loose clothing or towels was taken by the wind.  A satellite flew off a boat, and soared several feet in the air towards the playground.

The sudden increase in the wind prompted us kids to want to run down to the ocean to see the waves.  We asked our parents if we could go, and they said sure.  So, myself, Lauren, my sister Lisa, Wesley, and Kyle made our way from bayside to ocean side, which is about a six minute walk.  Have you ever been on the beach during a windy day, and the wind blows sand against your ankles so hard it hurts?  Imagine that, but all over your body.  We never did make it to the ocean.

The wind was so strong, the sand felt like needles all over our bodies.  We ducked behind a small cement wall, shielding our eyes.  All of us are wearing nothing but bathing suits and rash guards.  “Well,” we said, “I guess we have to make a run for it.”  So we jumped up from behind the wall and ran back to the bay side, covering our eyes, leaving just enough space between our fingers to see.  Not that we needed to see, since we spent so many nights playing (and dominating) manhunt games with the other Atlantique kids.  We knew every inch of that beach, from bay side to ocean side, and all the dunes in between.  The boat, that beach… it was home.

The wind caused chaos in the little time we left the marina.  Beach chairs were blowing away, umbrellas dancing in the air, the boats were rocking like crazy in the marina, as their owners tightened ropes and added extra buoys.  It was like a scene in the movie Twister.  The wind was howling, you had to yell to hear the person standing next to you.  Our moms were doing their best to pack up our stuff.  I asked where dad was.  He was in the bay, where our boat was anchored.  I looked out to the bay.  The bay had four foot waves, with more white caps than greenish water.  It was rougher than I’d ever seen it.  We ran to where my dad would be.  A wave from the bay crashed over the dock and soaked Kyle, and I don’t remember where he went after that.  Me, Wesley, Lauren, and Lisa, ran to the edge of the dock and watched my dad hold onto our boat from the rope of the anchor.  It wasn’t deep water.  Maybe waist high.  But the waves were crashing over his head, one after the other.  There were already two boats beached at this point, and soon to be more.  A huge sailboat capsizes, it’s hull crashing not far from my dad.  I thought for sure he was going to lose the boat.  He couldn’t hold it by himself.  Worse than losing the boat would be losing him.  It was dangerous out there.  I wanted to jump in, but I was just a scrawny kid, having trouble keeping my balance in the ferocious wind.  I was afraid to jump in.  I was afraid if I jumped in, my dad would have to abandon the boat to save me.

(Above is an aerial shot of Atlantique. It’s a short walk from the marina/bay side to the ocean.  To the left, where the boats are anchored, that’s where M.T. Pockets was during the storm.)

There she is… M.T. Pockets.

My dad held on for the life of his 26 foot Four Winns, aptly named M.T. Pockets.  My parents bought her used, and while it didn’t comfortably sleep a family of five, we’re a small people, and we never were uncomfortable on it.  I loved that boat.  My dad loved that boat.  We all did.  It was like our sixth family member.  We didn’t have a lot of money, and we didn’t go on many vacations, but my dad saved enough money to buy his dream boat, and when it was summertime on the south shore of Long Island, you could be damned sure the Palminteri’s were out on that boat, cruising the Great South Bay, water skiing, knee boarding, boogie boarding, surfing, crabbing, clamming, fishing.  We did it all.  Together.  The five of us, and M.T. Pockets.  It’s kind of sociopathic to love something that’s not human so much, but when you’re a kid and you live for summertime and your family, it was a vessel, both literally and figuratively, of some of my fondest memories.
“I wanna go in,” I said, watching my dad struggle, “but the waves are bigger than I am.”
“Don’t go in,” this older man who seemingly appeared out of no where said, standing next to us, “it’s not worth risking your life.”  And then he jumped in the water.  I swear.  It was so weird.  We watched this guy swim out to my dad, and they tied another rope to our boat.  Wesley, who was already ridiculously tall, and a varsity swimmer, jumped in as well.  I felt both small and helpless.

Map of Fire Island, Long Island NY

Just as quickly as the rain came, it started hailing marble sized balls of ice.  The hail struck our nearly naked bodies, and we all screamed “ow! ow!”  So, we ran to the nearest shelter, which was a public restroom.
It’s me, Lauren, and Lisa, hiding from the hail storm.  I jumped up on a toilet seat to close an open window which was letting in rain and hail.  We tried to come up with a plan.  What are we going to do?  What could we do?  The thought of M.T. Pockets capsized made me ill.  How could we help my dad?  How could we save M. T. Pockets? Then, my sister, who is notorious for her “blond moments” said, “guys, the window is open again.  Do you think it’s a ghost?”
“I’m sure it was a ghost and not the 60mph winds,” I was always a sarcastic wise ass.

The hail stopped, and we ran to the edge of the dock to see how my father was doing.  There were now four guys with ropes tethered to M.T. Pocket’s, keeping her from crashing into the marina.  There were several boats beached and/or capsized at this point.  My dad could have never saved the boat on his own.  But with the man power of three other guys, there was hope.  We didn’t know two of the men who jumped into the bay to help my dad, but I suppose when they saw my dad out there, wave after wave crashing over him, risking his life to save his boat, well… I guess they knew what it meant to him, and their boats were secure, so they didn’t hesitate to help a stranger.  Truth is,  if it were anyone else, my dad would have been the first to jump in to help.  I try to think of times like this when I absolutely hate humanity.

The Winter’s had a slip in the marina for their boat, which was bigger than ours.  Now that M.T. Pockets was safely anchored off shore, we all took shelter that night in the Winter’s boat.  We crammed in.  Wesley slept on the floor.  We borrowed their clothes.  We all took dramamine, and the calm after the storm gently rocked us to sleep.

Only a couple years later, gas prices spiked.  The boat was expensive to maintain, and a lot of work (mostly for my father).  Us kids were getting older, and becoming the assholes we are today, so the days of the whole family on the boat together were basically over.  My dad put a “for sale” sign up on M.T. Pockets, and  I felt like he was giving up a sibling for adoption.  Probably at that point in my life I would have rather he gave up Lisa or Mitch for adoption than sell M.T. Pockets.  It broke my heart.

The Great South Bay is home to all sorts of marine life.  Those lucky enough to live near it love Long Island.  It’s impossible not to.  Just a short hour away from Manhattan, the center of the universe, is this aquatic world of fishermen, surfers, and boaters.  Driving across the Robert Moses bridge, watching the sailboats, motorboats, and jet-ski’s, I can see M.T. Pockets, cruising the bay, carrying a family to their next adventure.  It’s not M.T. Pockets, of course.  And it’s not my family.  But just as a calm day on the bay reflects the clouds in the sky, the water remains a looking glass to a charming past.

After spending a few nights on a boat, when you’re sleeping in a house, you still feel like you’re being rocked to sleep on the water.  I miss that feeling.  It’s so peaceful.  It’s an illusion, of course, you’re on solid land.  I can’t help but wonder how much of the past is like laying in bed, feeling like you’re rocking, a deception of the brain, a fool’s paradise.