Welcome aboard the Plum Island ferry!
except… we‘re actually leaving Orient Point for New London. A pea soup fog is smothering the north fork of Long Island and southeastern Connecticut. It‘s lunch time and we‘re expected in New London at 1:36 according to schedule. The harbor at Orient Point gives a wide birth to our departure. Our visibilty is down to less than a quarter mile. The ship’s fog horn is going to get a work out.
Today is Friday, September 8, 1967. The Plum Island is carrying 6 crew members, 32 passengers, a refrigeration truck, and a dozen cars. As an ex-Navy LST or landing craft, she was designed in the early forties to carry much more than that. Picture Normandy without these 318’ behemoths and there‘d be no landings, no end to the war for another year.
Haze gray and underway… just a bit slower today. She’s got a bit of rust and wear showing beneath her slip, especially after the summer season, a month or so before her annual overhaul.
Heading northeast, we pass to port Orient Point Light, that is, we hear it, we see nothing nothing, only the dull gray waves of nature‘s indifference at our feet. On the bridge, a neon-green dot appears on a small round screen as a blip, the result of radio waves vectoring in on a single point after bouncing off metal objects, one by land and two by sea.
Credit to Michael Victor
Five minutes later, on the same heading, we approach Plum Island Light to starboard, feeling our way past, all ears, while eyeing ship‘s radar. A restricted government area, vulnerable and blind as we, though they claim that blindness sharpens other survival skills.
Credit the Long Island Press
Now in the welcomed openness of Long Island Sound, we take a heading of 45 degrees and soon cross the watery border into Connecticut. At five-second intervals the Plum Island continues to announce her passage across the sound, confident of a clear channel. The fog persists.
At half speed we enter the Thames River with Ledge Light welcoming us to starboard and, moments later, Harbor Light welcoming us to port. Our leeway is now gone. Straying from the channel means bumping into more than furniture in the middle of the night. While there’s no scheduled traffic heading out at this point, moored sailboats bop in shore to our left, small craft below our radar could be off to our right. Visibility down to 500‘. The captain orders throttle back at slow speed, his first mate logging time and position. This‘ll set us back another 8 minutes, he says to no one in particular.
Surprise, surprise, surprise.
Harry checks his watch as he and Harriet squeeze into their ˋ65 Chevy Impala.
We should be there by now… he says to himself.
Harriet is freshening herself up in the car‘s rearview mirror.
Harry, how much more time before we reach Providence? I‘m getting hungry, I don‘t feel too good.
About a fraction of the time we been stuck on this old tub… he starts to answer.
At that moment both husband and wife are jettisoned forward by the invisible, irresistible force of moving objects hitting a brick wall. From down under the sound of plate steel mating with bedrock reverberates throughout the hull of the Plum Island.
Harry, Harry!
I‘m still here, dear.
Did you feel that… that jolt?
Did I feel that?! My head nearly hit the windshield like a ripe melon dropped a hundred feet onto the sidewalk. What do you think?
Their stunned silence lasts five seconds in the silence now surrounding them. The droning of the engines has stopped. Harry shrugs, then starts rubbing the rolls of fatty skin on his neck.
We must have hit the dock… pretty damn hard if you ask me. Say, your brother the lawyer back from Bermuda yet? We might have a case for him…
Harriet stares forward, The Impala is first in line.
Harry, why aren‘t the doors opening. If we‘re at the dock, then why aren‘t those goddam doors opening? I‘m getting claustrophobic, I want outta here!
She reaches over and sounds the horn, again and again. Another driver follows suit, then another, and another. The captain is making an announcement on the ship‘s public address system, but nobody hears it.
Five minutes pass before the car horns take a time out.
A lanky teenager dressed in dirty blue coveralls and grease-caked work boots emerges from a nearby hatch and looks around. Harriet recognizes him as the line-handler who told her she was in a restricted space.
Young man… young man!
The teen turns, adjusts his Mets ball cap and saunters over between the cars with the ease of a used car salesman. He stops at her door and smiles.
Why, aren‘t the doors opening, young man?
Simple. We‘re not at the dock.
But… but the boat‘s not moving.
You wouldn‘t either if you were pinned to a rock.
Harriet remembers to close her mouth. She glances down at the floorboards.
Will we sink?
The deck hand waves the question away.
Nah… we just ran aground in the fog, on a rock, you see? That rock‘s going nowhere and neither are we.
The captain requests that all passengers muster on the main deck. His first mate stands alongside and explains that the Plum Island is aground on Hog Back rock and it will be necessary to await high tide before any attempt at moving her. There is no immediate danger and no injuries have been reported (yet). In an hours time, a Coast Guard patrol boat will transport the passengers to the ferry terminal, roughly 1000‘ away.
What about our cars?
Another ferry, the Orient Point, is being readied at the shipyard up river to handle the movement of vehicles from the stricken Plum Island to the ferry terminal.
How long will that take?
Passengers will be the guests of Plum Island‘s owners at the Tradewinds Restaurant, just around the corner from the ferry terminal. There you may relax and enjoy some refreshment.
How long will it take for us to get our cars back?
We‘re looking at a time frame of three hours.
The grumbling starts. A man pulls from his hip pocket a section of yesterday‘s Day newspaper and shoves it into the captain‘s hands pointing to a display ad on the entertainment page, Yes, it’s Harry.
Well, what about this? It‘s Friday, ain‘t it? Broiled lobster it says, anyone can see that!
The captain frowns as he reads the offerings now expected by at least some of the passengers. He addresses the group for the first time.
The management is making arrangements to serve you all in their private banquet room. Fare will be the Businessmen‘s Luncheon, that is, an appetizer, main course, dessert and beverage.
The grumbling subsides. The fog appears to be lifting. Some of the other passengers have taken note and are smiling.
It says they offer cocktails… Again, Harry.
Listen, the captain states in a flat firm voice. It is my duty to see that you all depart here ready to go home or wherever you are headed in a safe, sober manner. The restaurant management is prepared to offer coffee, tea, fruit juice, milk and soft drinks. That‘s it.
