W26 and West Side Highway - The Dockworkers (Part 2)

Three workers climb down to the river level ten feet below onto a raft tied to the dock. This "raft" was really a single plank of old growth wood maybe 3 feet wide, 12 feet long and 9 inches thick. It had to be at least 50 years old and, just like the workers themselves, had taken a beating from the elements and dangers of working between this threshold of land and water. It still serves its purpose flawlessly despite being deeply scarred and worn.

The three workers walk randomly up and down the raft to inspect the steel brackets they had installed the day before. Each dockworker's step causes the raft and his coworkers to bounce precariously up and down though each continues their inspection as if they were on solid ground, a skill undoubtedly gained through decades of experience. "Everyone falls in at some point," the foreman said. "It sucks." The orange life vests do serve a purpose.

"How's it look?" the foreman yells down. A voice emanating from somewhere under the dock replies, "This will last a hundred years." The foreman orders everyone back on the dock and radios the crane operator to prepare the bridge for installation. The crane's engine roars to life and the damp river air is infused with the industrial musk of exhaust, oil and metal.

Within a few minutes, the ton of steel that is our bridge hovers above the gap between us and our boats. It starts to pour rain. The bridge amplifies the sound of drops hitting its metal structure seemingly announcing to all of us that it will soon come to be.


--------

The time is 6:45AM. The City continues to glow in an orange mist. The bridge is in place softly clanging as it rises and falls in rhythm with the waves of the river. The floodlights are off and the boathouse is once again shrouded in darkness. The men are back on the barge quietly preparing to undock. The distant sounds of trailer trucks downshifting along the West Side Highway start to increase as the land dwellers wake with the rising sun.

Bleecker and Lafayette - The Fortune Cookie

In order to capture a city, first capture the heart of the people.
Lucky Numbers: 2, 21, 30, 33, 40, 50

W26 and West Side Highway - The Dockworkers (Part 1)

It's ten minutes before six in the morning and I head to the Pier 66 Boathouse as I do every Tuesday and Thursday to go rowing with my crew. They say the City never sleeps. In fact, it takes a much deserved nap between 4 and 5:30 in the morning. The streetlights are reflecting off the wet streets intensifying the orange glow of artificially lit asphalt.

I enter the dark boathouse and am startled by one of my teammates. She looks distressed which is a sharp contrast to her usual upbeat demeanor. "We have a problem," she says. We walk to the end of the boathouse and open the roll-up door that leads to the dock and our boats. The darkness of the boathouse quickly fills with a blinding light as the door cranks opens. As my eyes adjust to the brightness, I see our boats sitting on the floating dock in their usual position but the 20 foot bridge leading to it is nowhere to be seen.

My eyes gravitate towards the source of the blinding light. Several flood lamps are pointed in my direction from a floating barge next to the dock. Above this barge was our bridge, a few thousand pounds of steel softly swaying in the breeze suspended 30 feet up from the boom of a crane.


One by one, grizzled men in flannel shirts and bright orange life jackets emerge from the end of the barge. We explain to them our predicament and they are very accommodating, promising us they would have the bridge in place in a half hour. We decide to stand back and settle in for the show.

...to be continued...

E86 and York - My Client's Maid

"The best lobster is in Rhode Island," according to the Maid. When the elderly woman before me craves them, she hops in her car and drives the distance for a fresh catch of Rhode Island lobster perfectly steamed. Then she drives back to the City.

Her eyes widen behind her wire frame glasses as I reveal that I am an avid outdoorsman. "You have to go to Maine!" she blurts out. "I take day trips to Maine every month." As she fills me in on all of the hiking trails and vista points of Acadia National Park, I was fascinated by the vision of this compact bundle of energy (she is barely 5 feet tall) driving several hours away to hike in Maine and then return to New York.

"I can't drive as far as I used to anymore," she said with a slight hint of disappointment. "The most I do these days is the 8 hour drive to Ohio to visit my friends for the weekend." I suddenly realize her trips were never really about the destination. Her fulfillment in life came from the journey itself.

I compliment her on her ability to endure the endless asphalt of the American highway and begin my four avenue trek to the 4/5/6 train.

Broadway and E8 - Hantavirus Man

I was at a bookstore gathering my typical stack of outdoor magazines, Adventure, Backpacker and the like. I sat down just as an older man in his 70's was slowly getting up from the table next to me. He happened to glance over and notice my stack of wilderness magazines.

"Do you camp?" the man said abruptly.
I acknowledged that I did.
"Got a pen?"

I reached into my bag, pulled out my pen and handed it to him. He picked up an insert a previous occupant left on my table. (Apparently, I can get 79% off of Cosmopolitan magazine if I reply by 11/01/07). "Look this up when you get home," the man directs. He slowly and methodically writes and dictates 'wilderness camping: camper in CA or WA catches.' He pauses a moment as if to add to the suspense. Then, without saying a word, he writes the word "hantavirus" in big letters.

Having done a good amount of wilderness activities in the West, I told him I was familiar with the hantavirus. The Man, in the same serious and stern tone he had maintained throughout our conversation, decided to fill in all of the blanks in my knowledge of hantavirus.

"It was discovered in the US in 1993." He further lectured how all of the coastal states with port cities have outbreaks of hantavirus from infected rats stowed away from overseas. "California, Washington, New York, Massachusetts...but Texas and the Gulf states are really bad." I was fascinated not only by the information he was teaching me but that this Man just happened to know so much about the virus.

He ended the conversation as abruptly as he started it. We both said goodbye and wished the other would not contract the illness. He slowly walked away. I look at the card he left with his hantavirus information scribbled across an image of Jessica Biel.

E86 and York - Maid for Success

"I'm leaving in a few years and going back to the Phillipines," the maid responded when I suggested she convince my clients to hire additional help to maintain what will soon be a 4000 square foot apartment.

"I don't like living in the city." she continued. She moved to NYC a few decades ago as a single mom with five children. As a maid and nanny, she managed to send all five of her children to college who are now successful in their own rite. The money left over was spent investing toward her longtime dream of returning to and living comfortably in the Phillipines.

She bought a house, then another. "I have 5 houses now that I rent out in Manila," she said proudly. "I also own a grocery store which my brothers are running," she added. "But I don't like living in the city so when I go back, I'm going to live on my coconut farm and help with the harvest." That was how she grew up and, judging by her excitement, was obviously the happiest time of her life.

Funny how many of us work so hard with the goal of reliving our childhood. In any case, I may be harvesting coconuts in a few years.

Uptown 1 Train - Walt Whitman. To You

STRANGER! if you, passing, meet me, and desire to speak to me,
why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?

(from the MTA "Poetry in Motion" ad campaign in NYC Subways)