Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part II

 ... continued from Part I

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part II

“Now what?” I thought. Over my shoulder the downtown area of New London was visible in the distance. It didn’t warm my heart. I moseyed about the empty dock trying to think of what to do when I noticed another ferry dock up ahead. I walked toward it.

“Is there a ferry here?’ I asked.

“Orient Point,” was the reply. 

 

Never heard of it. I was told it was on Long Island. OK, I had been to Long Island once, a decade ago but remembered nothing about it.

Regardless, I bought a ticket on the last boat to Orient Point, an 8 PM departure. I watched as a couple of dozen cars and a few pick-up trucks rolled onto the boat deck. I was the only one walking aboard. I soon discovered why? Orient Point was not a town. The nearest town was ten miles away. This brought a wave of more anxiety. I started thinking that I had a history of impetuous, dangerous decisions. I couldn’t think of them all now but I felt, as I looked at the gathering darkness in the night sky, that it was true. And now it would do me in. My trouble was I didn’t think things through.

I stood on the top deck of the ferry and tried to bring positive thoughts to my mind. The water looked cold, dark, and unfriendly. There were two couples on the deck - lovers I presumed plus two teenagers that I struck up a conversation with. Finally I got to the point: “Could you possibly give me a ride into town when the ferry gets to Long Island?”

They refused. Said they had no room. I pretended to understand, remembering when, as a teenager, I turned down a hitchhiker who asked for a ride at a NJ Turnpike rest stop. “I promised my parents I wouldn’t pick up anyone,” was my excuse.  These teens were college students, I was a teacher. We told a few jokes, stories about studying, but mild discomfort remained – because of the ride refusal, I was sure. Eventually they went back to sit in their car. I watched them, trying to see if their car was really full, but it was out of view.

What soon came into view was Orient Point, or I should say a single street light appeared, because that, essentially, was all Orient Point was – a street light and an outhouse size ticket booth shed, plus the dock. That was about it.

After we locked into the dock I strolled off the boat trying to put a spring in my step, as if I knew what I was doing and where I was going. It was all for show, for the riders in the cars that were sweeping past me. The faint circle of light from the street lamp soon gave way to darkness on an unpaved, sandy road. Cars rolled by. I imagined people asking, “What is this guy doing here alone, walking?”

Who me? Oh I’m just walking along here, going off to sleep in one of these fields. Don’t worry, I’m the outdoorsy sort. Also I’m a successful businessman, person – just out for a little solitary jaunt. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Needing some solitude, that’s all. I’m fine.

I was reluctant to hitchhike, not wanting to be observed by the college kids I’d asked for a ride but finally, panicked, I stuck out my thumb. The next car stopped.

I climbed into the back seat mumbling how easy it was to get a ride as I tried to get a look at the driver and his female companion. They turned trying to size me up as well.

“Where are you going?” the driver asked.

“To civilization,” I quipped, “If it’s not out of your way.” I let out a nervous laugh, wanting to show just enough desperation to curry favor but not so much as to appear deranged.  

 I asked, “Can I get to the Hamptons?” A long ago friend, a New York savvy guy, often spoke fondly of weekends in “The Hamptons.” I knew it by name only, much like I knew the rest of L.I. - like I knew Block Island. It turned out to be a dumb question.

“You’d have to take two ferries. It’s probably too late for that.”

“Yeah,” I conceded. Who knew? “Are there any towns, where there’s a motel maybe.” I said betraying my despair.

“Greenport, there’s one there.”   

I didn’t ask if it was out of their way. I didn’t want to give any opportunity for them to refuse.

They dropped me in Greenport, in front of a motel.  “Do you have any vacancies?” I asked trying for a look that was needy enough to qualify for the presidential suite. But it was no luck.

“Perhaps, at the Townsend, they may have a room. I could call …” the clerk said. I brought up the forlorn look again as she dialed the number. I sighed relief when I heard, “He’ll be there in about twenty minutes. It may take him a while, he’s walking.” I thought that the last comment was not great because it could suggest vagrancy. I thanked the proprietor and headed out repeating the directions in my head.  

 I felt more at ease, being in a town. The earth felt warm again. Suddenly an earsplitting howl from a nearby yard startled me almost to my death. I lunged away from the sidewalk, scraping my forehead on a tree trunk before bouncing off onto the street. “This dog will kill me,” I thought just before I realized that there was a fence between us. 

 

With my heart still racing, I continued on my way. That the world is a dangerous place replaced my “warm earth” thoughts.

The Townsend Motel/Inn was wonderful. Charming colonial décor and built of mostly wood with an attached restaurant and bar - just what the doctor ordered. I felt safe finally.

I dropped my bag in the clean fragrant room and went downstairs to the bar to unwind with a beer. There were two partially inebriated couples at one end of the bar and one attractive woman at the other. As a sober observer I labeled the couples as attractive, but off limits as far as striking up conversation. As for the lone woman, I overheard her complaining to the bartender about working until 4 AM last night and then getting up at 6:30 this morning. “Surely she exaggerates,” I thought.  I wasn’t about to try to engage either party. I nursed the beer and then headed up for bed.

Sunlight through the window woke me. It felt great. I showered, shaved, and went downstairs for breakfast - eggs, home fries, toast and coffee – great again. I bought a copy of the L.I. daily, Newsday. I enjoyed the paper and thought maybe I’d send them an account of my trip. Yes, good idea - me, adventure man, writer - great. Where was I going again?

I left the motel at around 9 AM. In daylight I saw Greenport as a charming town with tree lined streets, sidewalks, middle-class homes and a nearby shoreline visible down the side streets.  I headed toward the shore. A fifties model car with a bumper sticker that said, “I’d rather be fishing,” rumbled by. OK - what to do now? One idea was the Hamptons; the other was catch a train and go back home – more or less admit failure. A drug store clerk offered that there was a bus stop on the corner down the street. “There’s a sign there. When a bus comes, ask the driver if he goes to the Hamptons.” OK, I could figure that out, but who knew when a bus would show up?

“Thanks,” I said and shuffled out thinking I would try the railroad station. I liked trains better than buses.

There was an old man – probably fifty – sitting on a bench at the station. “Train leaves in forty-eight minutes,” he said, “It’s a bus.”  

“A bus?”

“A bus takes you part way, then a train.”

My shoulders slumped as I strolled along a rusted side track. I stepped over a broken wooden fence,  ignoring a weathered “Keep Off” sign and walked onto a dilapidated pier. I watched small ferry boats crisscrossing the placid bay. An arriving ferry floated into a nearby dock. A hardy lad on board threw a thick rope to an old man standing on the shore. The man wrapped the rope around an anvil shaped piling and the boat glided snugly into its dock. 

I decided I'd get on. 

... continued - see Part III