As an EMT, I have found myself on a boat in the middle of the night more frequently than the average person. The medevac trip to Rockland is occupied by patient care, but the way back can be a peaceful, quiet time.
Weather and temperature permitting, I’ve spent some pleasant moments on the stern as we steam back to North Haven, and on a clear night, it’s the best place to look at the stars.
It occurred to me this summer that it would be exceptionally pleasurable to go for a nighttime boat ride when there isn’t an attendant medical emergency, and particularly if there were some sort of astronomical phenomenon to view. I floated (pun intended) the idea past one of our medevac regulars, whose sleek and lovely Axopar is my favorite boat, and he was on board. After checking various astronomy websites for intel, we scheduled a 10 p.m. cruise to coincide with the beginning of the Orionid meteor shower’s peak in mid-October. There’d be no moon to dilute the view.
Another meteor, this one certainly an Orionid, zipped through the sky. The bioluminescent boat wake flashed in answer…
I’m blessed with friends who think my ideas (Let’s swim a 5K! Let’s start a punk band! Let’s get on a boat at 10 p.m. on a school night!) are fun, so another eight folks—four kids including mine and four adults—boarded the boat that night. It had been hazy during the day, and I almost canceled, but at 8:30 p.m. the skies had cleared, and so, bundled in Snuggies and hats and blankets and clutching a thermos of peppermint tea, we departed.
As we glided down the thorofare, leaving the lights of the town parking lot and the ferry boat behind, the sky overhead came into sharper focus. I lay back on the cushioned seat on the stern. The densely dotted stars glittered, punctuated by the steady glow of Jupiter and Saturn, with our view unimpeded by trees. Soon, the lightshow was echoed by sparks in the spume thrown by the boat.
“Bioluminescence,” said a friend, pointing it out to me.
As we rounded the back side of another island, the sparks expanded to glowing patches. We tied off to a buoy, the rope shedding points of light as it was hauled out of the water. We were perfectly positioned towards Betelgeuse, Orion’s red shoulder, which was just starting to rise above the tree line. The meteor shower would radiate outwards from there.
Some matters of scale became apparent as we bobbed in place. The sparking plankton, measuring at 30 microns, were about 1/50,000th of my size. The whole earth is 1/60 trillionth of Betelgeuse. We were giants and we were infinitesimally small.
We talked about physics and constellations and fears as we waited for Orion to emerge, in pursuit of Taurus and pursued by Scorpio.
We practiced finding Polaris, looked sideways at the Pleiades to make them pop into focus, and searched in vain for Comet Lemmon. Several meteors, including one particularly slow and bright one, burned across the sky, although none from the supposed epicenter of the shower. Some of the kids started to sing, softly. We could just make out the words to a Chappell Roan song.
I could have stayed ‘til the sun came up. The air was cool, but not frigid; the light breeze didn’t trouble us. But it was a school night, and the younger kids were starting to fade. At 11:45 p.m., keeping Orion perfectly framed over the stern, we headed back. Another meteor, this one certainly an Orionid, zipped through the sky. The bioluminescent boat wake flashed in answer, stars in the sea telegraphing a message to those in the sky.
The scene would have been identical without us there to observe it, minus the agitation of the water. But how precious to have been there, how fortunate we were, to have each other and a beautiful boat, a dark sky, a calm sea.
Courtney Naliboff teaches, writes, and plays music on North Haven. She may be reached at courtney.naliboff@gmail.com.
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