Well, it isn't her sailboat, per se. But it belongs to her museum. Of which, I like to imagine, she is the queen of the art. The boat art.
It was fairly amazing. We sailed around Manhattan. Or a couple of sides of it, at least. In the EastHudsonPotomacMississipi River. Thing. (Okay, you got me, I am not really sure. I am very bad at NYC geography, even though I'm an expert at putting on my angry city face and appearing to be a local.)
Molly and I didn't bring any wine on board, though other people did, and next time --there will be a next time!-- we surely will. The wind was strong and the boat was a bit rocky, which was a teensy rough for my precious little tum tum, but my wooziness subsided eventually. Thanks, every once in a while, to a gorgeously cool spray from ther river (I choose not to think about the cleanliness of the water with which we were being sprayed, and chose instead to believe that it was pure ocean cerulean.)
The boat is manned by volunteers and I was especially intrigued by the the two youngest people, who spent a good amount of time chatting at the front of the boat, directly in front of where Molly and I seated ourselves. He was thin and blonde, not quite a full-fledged man, but capable in his sailing duties (that's him, silhouetted, above). She had curly pigtailed braids, glasses, and wore demin shorts with small embroidered flowers on them. (Of course, I took a picture of those, too, but I draw the line at posting pictures of girls bums.) She was one of those chicks who posesses a confidence level beyond her outward appearance -- a quality I greatly envy, as I can never shake off my own belief of how strangely different I am from most other people in order to come up with a way to engage. There really was an energy of connection between the two of them standing there in the sunset. Though, he eventually left her alone at the front of the boat, suddenly aware, it seemed of her glasses and tiny embroidered flowers.
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