Read Time: 3 - 4 minutes

In a frame, reflecting. 

Rhode Island, Narraganset Bay, 1986. My father and I were delivering Windigo to Newport from the Safe Harbor Cove Haven, a boatyard in West Barrington: a roughly 16-mile trip down Narraganset Bay on a serene July morning. In Newport, we’d take on more provisions and remaining crew: my older brother, Ian, his fiancé, Lisa, and my father’s friend Mauricio, a Colombian who’d settled in Rhode Island after graduating from RISD’s architecture program. 

The voyage my father had planned was a full circumnavigation of the globe, slated to take a year and a half, or maybe a bit more. Such details didn’t concern me much at that stage of life; I was along for the ride.

I sat on the foredeck, a skinny kid with hair buzzed short, as the 41-1/2 foot yawl motored along on the windless bay. I knew that boat well, knew how to sail her. We’d had plenty of practice over the years, and the previous year had competed in the Newport Bermuda Race, a five-day ocean passage. The punishing storms of that event had taught me to respect the ocean, and to fear it; but I was unfazed, still living in delusions of invincibility. 

I was clueless, reckless, and ready to go.

Out of this crew of 5, only my father and myself were planning to stay aboard for the entire voyage. At sixteen, I hated high school. Dropping out and missing the last year of it was a massive relief. And what of the year ahead? What of life after? These weren’t things that concerned me, largely because I couldn’t conceive them. Adventure lay before me, open seas and exotic ports — it had to be better than the drudgery I was leaving behind. 

Sitting on the foredeck that fine day, teak hot in the summer sun, I recalled an incident a few years prior…

One lazy summer afternoon, I was at the Angel Street McDonald's on the east side of Providence, my hometown. It was late August, school would be starting again soon. Thirteen years old, I was anxious about entering high school. Sitting in a booth with my friends Paul and Phoebe, we traded jokes and laughter as I ate my fries one by one. 

A couple of kids had followed us in, I’d never seen them before but sensed something wrong, back-of-neck hairs alerting me to danger. I was doing my best to ignore it. Moments later, one of the two toughs walked by and grabbed some of my fries, tossed them in his mouth and said, “Gimme the rest of those!” I pulled the fries away, shrinking in my seat. Cold fear washed over me as I looked up at his face, sensing his hatred, bewildered by it. What had I done to cause this? “No,” I said, “these are mine, get your own.” He paused, glaring down at me, then suddenly walked away. Tentative relief as I tried to believe that would be the end of it.

“Get out of here,” my friend urgently whispered. He was a little more streetwise than me and knew the danger hadn’t passed. I stuffed another handful of fries in my mouth, looked at him, then stood up to leave. “See you guys later, I guess,” I muttered through fries, and hurried out the door with a target on my back. 

I walked to the corner. I crossed the street. On the opposite corner, I looked back and saw he was following me, the kid who hated me for reasons known only to him. But I’d spotted a potential ally, sitting on the steps of Hospital Trust bank, so I sat down next to her and turned to face the approaching menace. Julia, while not physically imposing, was older than me, maybe eighteen, and a friend of my older brothers. My new enemy was closer to sixteen, bigger than me but not bigger than Julia, who’d suddenly been pinned with my hope of salvation.

Besides being bigger than me, this kid had muscles; he looked athletic, and scary as hell. What did he want from me? I didn’t get it, but quickly told Julia, after a quick hello, that I had a problem. “What’s wrong?” she asked, but the kid made that clear before I had time to answer: he stepped up and smacked me on the side of the head. It was a substantial blow but not intended to take me out, just daze me and start the fight. My left ear stung and rang loudly.

He was holding a McDonald's burger in the other hand, the one that hadn’t struck me; it was sitting in its open box, held to his chest. Without thinking, I immediately whacked the box from below, an instinctive response to being hit. The burger flew up, coming apart, buns and toppings and patty suspended midair, a slow-motion moment I can never forget. Everything landed on the ground, ingredients scattered, except one neon green pickle which had stuck itself dead-center on his shirt. I stared at it, not comprehending this terrifying experience. 

Something primal kicked in, and I stood up, yelling, “What do you want? You wanna fight, is that it?!?” “Yeah, let’s go!” he yelled back, pointing up the sidewalk, away from the steps, away from the intersection. Beating me to a pulp was a private matter. “Over here,” he said, “come on!” and started walking that way, making sure I’d follow. And I did follow, began walking behind him toward a more secluded spot at the far side of the bank. I don’t know why I followed, but it felt like the Hands of Fate had gripped me then, and whatever would happen next was inevitable.

With the fear and stress came tunnel vision, so I didn’t see that Julia had jumped up too, and was suddenly in the middle of us. “Stop!” she yelled, “No fighting, this isn’t happening, just stop now!” The kid turned to face us, and we all froze. How could so much be happening in the span of 3 seconds? I was still gripped in terror, still believing the fight would happen, looking at Julia with gratitude for getting in the way. She looked at me. “Get out of here,” she said, “make tracks.” One last glance at my foe and I did just that, turning north on the main drag, Thayer Street, hustling past bookstores and shops, sensing a degree of safety by staying near retail. 

I made it three blocks before he found me. He’d gone to get his bike, the better to chase me down. “Hey!” he yelled as he pulled up next to me, throwing the bike down, and approaching aggressively. I was just as skinny and terrified as I’d been 3 blocks south, and he knew he had me, a deer in the headlights. I glanced left, a women’s clothing boutique down a small flight of stairs, fifteen or twenty feet away — I made a run for it. The kid chases me, but I’m through the door and running to the counter in the back, not daring to look behind me. I reached the counter and turned, seeing him stopped at the entrance. “Help,” I panted at the woman by the register, “I’m being chased!” 

I was a skinny white kid in a new Izod shirt who couldn’t understand, but now I do. 

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To be continued…