A couple of years ago, my husband, Adam, was a crew member aboard the Adirondack: a schooner located at Chelsea Piers in Manhattan. The boat sails around the Hudson, past the Statue of Liberty, and back to the pier. Occasionally I would ride along and enjoy the scenery, the wind, and—the people. I’ve met several strange and silly people as I’ve ridden aboard the Adirondack (probably because the sails include complimentary alcohol), but, by far, the silliest person I met on board was a man who called himself “Uncle Terry.” Although he claimed to ride the Adirondack all the time, I was privileged just the one time to be onboard with him and—fortunately—talk with him the entire sail.
Uncle Terry was mid-sixties, white-haired, thin-skinned, pale, and bony. He had just retired, and he and his wife were originally from Canada. Feeling like they were getting old, I suppose, they just recently decided to move to Manhattan for a year to live it up. The night I sailed with Uncle Terry, he and his wife sported completely round, black-rimmed glasses, and he and his buddy (whose wife was also on the boat) wore red sweaters draped around their shoulders, tied neatly across their chests—'80s racquet club style.
All night this man was cracking me up. He was getting drunker and drunker, and getting funnier and funnier—not because he was slobbering and reeling to and fro, but because his wit was (surprisingly) getting quicker, and his mood was getting jollier—and his soft, floppy wrist was getting floppier. He was saying things like,
"Adam, oh Adaaaam! Another drink for Uncle Terry?" and "Bonnie!" [the other sailor who also serves drinks] "We miss you!"
When I asked him if he'd been on the Adirondack before, he said, "Oh, honey, we come on this boat all the time! Adam's our favorite sailing bartender!" Okay, so he didn't say that, but he would have, had he thought of it. Actually, he said much funnier things, and—of course—things are much funnier when they're uttered by a man who prolongs his s's when he speaks.
Unfortunately, I really can't remember too many specific things Uncle Terry said except one extremely vulgar comment that I won't repeat regarding some fireworks coming from Brooklyn. Sadly, I laughed hardest at this comment because he was in the middle of wishing my friend, Kelley, a Happy Birthday when he randomly cried out, "Look Kelley!" and then, "*&$%*%@&!" We all lost it and covered our mouths, heaving out painful, guilt-stricken guffaws. Later, when the guilt for laughing at such a crude comment really set in hard, we banged our heads on the boom, repeatedly.
What was really funny was when he thought I was funny (I'm never funny out loud . . .). But the funniest part about what was really funny was that what I said wasn't funny at all. We were pulling in to the dock, and I smelled something fried, so that's just what I said: "Hmmm . . . something smells . . . fried." Well, boy, did he think that was something. Uncle Terry threw his white curls back in the wind and howled. Clasping his cold, fragile fingers tightly around mine, he said, "We just love you! Never leave him!" [meaning Adam] "He's so lucky to have you!" I didn't get it. (Do you?) But I laughed anyway.
Good ol' Uncle Terry. It felt like we'd known each other for years when the sail was over. Some people just do that to ya, don’t they? They whisk in and out of your life, make you laugh, laugh at your dull comments when they're drunk, and disappear forever. Uncle Terry touched our lives with laughter, filled our heads with air and the smell of stale alcohol, and stuffed our pockets (well, Adam's pockets) with tips. What more can a stranger do?
We’ve been back to the Adirondack each year, now, and have yet to spot Uncle Terry.
Uncle Terry, if you’re out there, I thank you for a night filled with laughter, strong breath, and feelings of false confidence in my ability to be truly funny.
Until we meet again . . .
