OnSouthStreet

Cleaning out the Bilge

By Captain Arthur Samuel Swift

Though I often thought I would be yet another relic for Robert Ballard to discover at the bottom of the East River, my freedom has been won and I have been completely cleared of smuggling charges.

With the radio ankle bracelet removed, I have been traveling while waiting for my next ship assignment. However, it appears that the former Enron executive who was responsible for my false incarceration is a close associate of Nafir Caut, the president of Talialbanqaeda Lines, my present employer, and I may be collecting shore pay for some time. Next week, I will start to search the classifieds in Marine Log and call old friends to find a new master.

At the moment, however, I am happily ensconced on the bow of a friend-of-a-friend’s 36-foot Chris Craft, the Mr. Bilge. Though we are ostensibly fishing in Sandy Hook Bay for fluke (a cover for the wives), in fact we are headed, at my suggestion, to a berth near South Street and cocktails at St. Maggie’s with the inimitable Arthur Benoit at the helm of the taps and bottles. Though with the spray in my face this Coors Light is refreshing, with the grocery bag full of fresh mint socked in the hold, I long for an afternoon of Benoit-made Mojitos and invigorating banter.

As we pass under the mighty Verrazano Bridge and round Bay Ridge, my beverage crisply takes the salt off my mouth. As I wipe the residue off my Ray Bans and remount them, I catch the first glimpse of a place that wipes the smile off my face. It used to quicken my pulse when we first spied it sailing into New York Harbor from points around the world. Whether it was Rotterdam, Buenos Aires, or Sydney, there was nothing like it. Today there is nothing like it as well, but I remember the good acquaintances and good Americans lost on that day that started out so beautifully.

I remember a hail fellow that I met several times at St. Maggie’s. Keith was young, good-looking, smart. He gave me the new business cards that he had just gotten, Cantor Fitzgerald. He had just started a few days before. From my years of being on the sea and learning much of what there is to know about human nature, I knew he was a good person. When St. Maggie’s opened back up, I sat stunned when told he was one of the people we lost.

Me, with 40 years on the sea and thousands of chances to be washed overboard or caught in a winch line and dragged to the bottom, still here. Keith, safely at his desk working equally hard, taken.

As the Mr. Bilge cruises past Governors Island, my friends start to prepare to tie up. I man the bow line as the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan loom over us like winter waves in the North Atlantic.

Finishing my libation, I see the Citibank sign on their Wall Street branch and think of the conversation from the previous hour about how Citibank, along with Arthur Andersen, was involved in Enron’s manipulation of finances. If, when I started Swifties Charters in Key Biscayne in 1984, I had just instructed my accounting firm, Tou, Willing, Tou & Pleize LLC, to change a few zeroes on my tax returns, I could have been successful as a businessman. I might even have been able to become the CEO of WorldCom, Tyco, Merck, or Bristol Meyers.

If that had happened, I might at this moment be standing on the bridge of my own 50-foot Viking getting ready to board my "real boat," a 186-foot, custom designed, six cabin yacht with a crew of five. I could cruise not only the East Coast, but also the world. Of course, never actually sailing myself, but meeting up with the boat as it docks in Nice or Hong Kong.

Yet, as an international corporate magnate with arithmetic attention deficit disorder, at this point, I would have forced thousands of well deserving retired grandparents back into the work force so they could make ends meet after losing their retirement funds. Solely from desire for my yacht, I would force thousands of my employees into unemployment lines and thousands more from our suppliers and vendors, as I was caught floating imaginary numbers.

Seeing St. Maggie’s, I again think of young Keith, who would never have considered adding, subtracting, or misplacing even a number on his score card at minature golf, much less the billions that the Kenneth Lays of the world have done. Keith is what America is about: good, honest, hard working people.