I’ve been trying to figure out how to relay this tale for a couple of days now. Still not sure I have it nailed, but the story must get out….bare with me as it’s a long and sordid tale.

A small cadre of your friendly neighborhood Dukes lit out this past Saturday for a tranquil day to be spent plying the waters of Peconic Bay on the Sea Senorita. It was a perfect stage….hot, sunny and with ample wind. We had our chippery laid up, plenty of water, a bandoleer of sailing juice and cruised on over to the protected slip where the sloop laid awaiting. It was an auspicious start, the sort of day that gives you a tingle in your stomach, an innate comfort. Like suckling at the teet of life; a knowledge that, yes son, good will ultimately triumph over evil, pie does trounce cake and god-damn-it the natural order of the universe works.

So you can imagine our surprise when we got to the slip and found no sign of the noble craft. No boat. No mast. No nothing.

It was like loosing your breaks at the top of the hill…pump pump pump, but nothing left save shrieking and ruin. Or the sinking doom of a refrigerator burglary most grievous; you’ve just gotten home after working 18 hours straight and, no matter where you look in the fridge, that last damn beer you had so skillfully camouflaged as a condiment is gone. And the flurkin store is long closed.

It’s a sinkhole of despair that wrenches open one day just close enough to your split-level SoCal trackhouse to gobble up your garage and menace, day by day closer. Bringing with it the slow, tumbling, hungry certitude that this spring’s vinyl siding, and the new putting green you fought for and which now sits directly between you and the yawning maw, were not, after all, the wisest investments.

Well, maybe it wasn’t quite that horrible, but you get the picture - it sucked.

Now, when it comes to a general perpetration of laid-back grooviness, the Dukes always try to excel. But we can also spring into action like a scalded ferret when the situation requires. And spring we did. We scoured the cove, interviewed neighbors, interrogated gulls and very aggressively scratched our heads. “Would be an odd thing to steal”, we mused, “not worth a whole lot, no sails aboard and such”. And there’s no reason it could have run afoul of the local authorities; twas safely resting in our good chap WB’s slip, which is deeded to his house. And he sits on neighborhood home owner’s association, which can’t hurt.

Nope, we concluded, only one thing is possible: the Sea Senorita fell victim to a dastardly sabotage sortie by rival running club Los Compadres.

We’ve long known the feral deeds they’re capable of, with their speedy ways and their unflagging spirit. I’ve always suspected that news of a DOFB naval acquisition would be met with clear understanding. The Compadres are students of the game and would have to innately grasp the precipitous shift in the NYRR balance of power that only naval superiority could evince.

Yup, they must have paddled her out and scuttled her to protect themselves. Almost can’t blame them really.

So off we trundled to the Shelter Island Police Department to file a report and express our grievances. After some sleuthing we were even more astounded, appalled even, to learn that no, the Sea Senorita had not met with a fiery/wet end. In fact, she currently resided at a town mooring for floating scofflaws. Yup, the sweet ‘rita had been impounded!

It turns out that there was far less, ahem, clarity regarding the ‘rita’s accommodations than we understood to be the case. In point of fact, some nice lady is quite sure that the slip in question belongs to her. The floating constables had spent some days trying to ascertain to whom the boat belonged, but were unable to track us down on account of the visible registration being long expired and in another’s name (the Sea Senorita is sub 17′ and, having no external propulsion, is exempt from registration requirements under NY boating regulations).

To further complicate matters, the kind maritime officer Pete told us that he was unable to release the boat without solid proof of ownership. Title was far out of hand and we were momentarily stymied. “Hmmmm, well, Pete, do you have a computer at the station we can use for a second?” we asked. He said sure and we were admitted to the inner sanctum of the SIPD whereby we pulled up this very blog and drew his attention to the initial Stable Report post on the ‘rita.

There was no doubting the authenticity, heck, Fayth was there and Graham was even wearing the same jaunty hat. Pete chuckled and said that, while unorthodox, it might just do. We printed out a copy of the entry, stapled it to the complaint report and, after some further paperwork, an explanation of our creed & general dedication to good times, the pivotal naval role the Sea Senorita plays in said, not to mention a topical overview of the Dukes of Flatbush campaign for world domination, Pete was convinced that she did indeed belong to us and should be returned forthrightly. Or maybe it was the “FREE THE ‘RITA” chants that seemed to spontaneously ring out across hill and dale.

Whatever the cause of our emancipation, it was with thudding hearts that we watched the Sea Senorita freed from her solemn purgatory. Pete was a hell of a guy and expertly towed us out of the Deep Impound Cove (ed: so deep) and into the harbor. He also lent us an anchor on account of his concern for our maritime safety. All in all, he helped us make the best of a shiza situation so we could salvage our day with the only tonic that mattered: the windy, curative balm of a delightful sail.

The saga continues. Ownership determination of the slip will likely involve some wrangling on the part of our dear friend. I’ll be appearing in early August to relay the tale and plead for the leniency and good humor of the court. And, for now, the ‘rita is once again trailer-bound.

But the important part is that we have the ‘rita back. Our naval stratagem is preserved, we’ll live to sail another day and the very presence of this blog made it all possible. Res Firma Nitescere Descit