July 2004, Boston, Massachusetts

By Erin Chrapaty

Just over a week beyond my return to San Francisco, images of that magical weekend in San Diego flooded my senses. I sat in front of my financial district computer and my eyes took off blinking in enormous surprise at the sight of my inbox.

I stared at the adorable note displayed on my desktop screen. I couldn’t believe he had made his way back to Boston and emailed me already. Correction - emailed me at all. I gushed over each word of the letter for the tenth time.

Hi Erin!

I just got back from the trip this morning…. The night I had with you was the best. You’re amazing. You seem really down to earth. Maybe our paths won’t cross again but maybe they will. I hope they do. For now email me as much or as little as you like.

With love,
James

My heart beat a mile a minute. I was so down to earth that I could hardly control my urge to respond at that exact moment proposing we elope. I had no way to explain my elation. What was the real value of this email anyway? I had known takeout leftovers longer than this guy. And he lived on the other side of the country! It took every fiber of my being to coolly delay my response a few hours.

With no blooming love on our respective sides of the Mississippi, our casual correspondent romance morphed into a bona fide electronic relationship. Two months flew under the constant high of unabashed self disclosure and smiley faces created with punctuation. He was the most fascinating guy I had never dated. And a couple of months into the cold San Francisco summer, I fled east for a promisingly hot July weekend.

We sped through Boston, making the city-scenic way from Logan International Airport to James’ Somerville home. My nerves dissipated as he rambled on about the fun we were going to have. He motioned toward the Charles River and announced our Saturday sailing plans. My smile stretched from the north to south end of Boston as his green-brown eyes gazed into mine at a stoplight somewhere past Beacon Hill.

The next day the sun baked the lazy smell of sweltering East Coast summer into his open-air kitchen. I stood over the round oak table applying sun block in my Old Navy bikini, new purchase shorts, and the complimenting flip flops I couldn’t help but buy.

My heart leapt as he squeezed through his side screen door with a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee for each of us.

“Gonna be windy out there today,” he said grinning, placing the caffeine on the table and leaning in for a kiss.

I was momentarily silenced by my continuing infatuation. I exhaled casually and placed a beach towel for each of us in the (OK I bought the beach bag, too) Hawaiian patterned tote I packed for the water activities he had suggested in half a dozen emails.

“So, what exactly are we doing?” I inquired bubbly, not reminding him that my only water sport experience consisted of boogie boarding in Ocean City Maryland 15 years ago.

“Sailing,” he said plainly.

Visions of us parked serenely on the Charles, intoxicated by vitamin D, laughing and kissing, filled my brain.

“Just gotta keep the sail up,” he quipped with a tone of sarcasm that, if it wasn’t a euphemism, was alarmingly lost on me.

“What?” I laughed casually.

He moved across the room clutching a Ziploc bag containing what appeared to be his wallet and his proud nod to the most cutting edge technology of that summer – the brand new camera phone I had heard about more than his job or home town. I ignored my confusion at the sight of his smile. Upon suggestion, I shoved my cell, wallet, and Kodak disposable into the plastic container.

“Ready?” he beamed, rolling the Ziploc air tight and sealing with force before burying the goods with the towels and snacks.

We cruised off his street and into the proximate Boston city limits. I learned we’d be in a two-person sailboat and that I didn’t need to worry, he would be able to handle all of the work. I didn’t want to tell him I had no idea what kind of work was involved.

We emerged onto a sprawling riverside patio. The sun blanketed swarms of men, women, and children all hustling from docs to vending machines with life jackets tied tight. We stopped at the window of a small shed-like building and James conversed with an attendant dropping lingo and checking rigorously at a clipboard.

I kept my eyes fixed on the gaping Charles River. Chops of water rocked side to side underneath 100 triangle topped boats perched near and far. The hum of sails flapping furiously in the wind drowned the buzz of conversation all around. From boat to boat I witnessed an inexplicable series of ropes and ties being wrapped and thrown in what I could only assume was some sort of efficient sequence.

“All set,” James chimed, snapping me out of my investigative daze.

He pointed far to the right and I began taking steps beside him. At the water’s edge he stripped off his T-shirt and threw it into a small boat tethered to the middle of our doc. I wasn’t entirely sure the two of us could fit in this thing. He announced he was going to grab us life jackets.

As he walked away I stood nervously near the boat as if it was a pit bull in Golden Gate Park. I noticed the picturesque Longfellow Bridge in the distance and took a deep breath. I assured myself that this would be fun and fished the Ziploc bag out of our waterside belongings in search of my disposable camera. Squinting in the wind, I snapped a few shots of the rolling cityscape and replaced the camera. I slid my thumb and forefinger across the zipper seal and set the plastic case in the larger beach bag as James came striding back my way.

Twenty challenging and gusty minutes later we had somehow managed to move away from the doc. The wind whipped across the depths of the river as the boat rocked alarmingly far to the left and to the right. I began to affirm that this was not going to be the romantic scene I had once envisioned. The mood grew increasingly tense as water splashed into the boat with each sway. I looked on helplessly as James began pulling at strings and swinging the sail, frantically attempting to steady our ride. Conversation was completely out of the question. So was fun, for that matter. I felt useless, but he needed help.

“What can I do?” I shouted over the powerful gusts beginning to channel Voyage of the Mimi flashbacks.

Fear was beginning to overtake my senses as water poured into the boat with each tip. James’ face looked determined, but the wind was moving our ship like a feather.

“Here!” James gasped exhaustedly and flung 10 feet of horizontal metal pole right into my line of vision.

I ducked down in a reflexive snap. “WHAT are you doing?” I screamed.

The boat rocked intensely as his eyes bugged.

“I thought you wanted to help! You just made it worse!”

“I didn’t know helping required my forehead splitting open!”

There was no time to argue right now. The more the wind blew the less control we had.

“Do something!” I pleaded.

“I don’t know about this!” he announced loudly before trailing off into a full body struggle with the unruly sail.

I screamed as the boat rocked me backwards. I shrieked as the wind forced the sail forward.

“Ooooooh shhhiiiiiitt!” we roared simultaneously.

There was no turning back. The boat tipped dramatically to the side and I felt myself flying. My body submerged in the grimy river water and I kept my arms flailing for what felt like dear life. Before I had fully realized what happened, my head popped out the murky river water in desperate search of anything familiar. James’ head followed in similar fashion and the sail of our boat stretched pathetically along the river’s surface. We stared at each other in gasping defeat.

“Are you OK?” he shouted, swimming to meet me.

It was embarrassment more than fear that stifled my ability to speak. I looked in each direction at the many clumps of strangers that were now at a complete standstill. Hundreds of faces offered some combination of disbelief, concern, and inevitable laughter. From patio to water top, everyone was watching.

“I’m so sorry,” James offered, sounding humiliated.

“It’s fi-.”

He cut me off abruptly.

“Oh shit. Where’s our bag?” he wondered aloud, abandoning all concern for my well-being or that of the sunglasses and right flip flop I was going to have to report missing. Not to mention the flesh eating bacteria I was sure I had contracted in the brown water.

As a rescue motor boat team came barreling toward us, he swam a few feet to recover the Ziploc bag that floated near the scene of our capsizing.

After an ill-received lecture on boating safety and wind advisories, we reached the long awaited patio. We climbed out of the boat completely drenched and tried to ignore the abundant on-looking. I could tell something was amiss, and once the rescue team had left us behind James shoved the Ziploc bag in my face.

My eyes grew wide and guilt lumped in my stomach. Our once protected personal items now sat in a couple inches of dirty water. I knew that I must have not closed the bag properly when I took those pictures. He removed our soaking wallets and his face developed a look of excruciating pain.

“My phone!” he wailed. “It’s completely fucked!” he added for effect before shooting me a look of, albeit necessary, blame.

The events seemed to close in on me as I stood there soaking wet. Balancing on one shoe and squinting in the beaming sunlight, anger took over.

“So I guess I didn’t close the bag properly,” I shot in the same obnoxious and dismissive tone I’d talk back to my mother with in high school. “I didn’t exactly think it would be going swimming!”

Low blow, but I felt he left me no choice.

“How hard is it to close a bag?” he asked, implying I had the IQ of a sea urchin. “Do you know how much this phone cost!?”

The situation exploded into a war of blame, slinging insults and anger. It became suddenly evident that we hardly knew each other at all. The fantasy of James and our fateful relationship drowned in the pool of river water accumulating beneath us.

As we walked to the car in a silent, drenched, one-barefoot march, I had the overwhelming urge to go home. I cringed when I calculated my plane didn’t leave for at least 24 hours. I knew a cheap escape before then was highly unlikely. I couldn’t imagine us sleeping together that night. In fact, I had all but decided that I hated him.

But I did know two things for certain – this was the first and last time I’d fly 3,000 miles for a date.

Erin Chrapaty is a writer and dater in San Francisco, California.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, January 31st, 2007 | Email This Post

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