rarebit

I want to tell you about a boat I love—an antique wooden boat built in Brooklyn in 1939 called Rarebit. The boat is a Wheeler Playmate, the same make as Ernest Hemingway’s Pilar, and is often docked at the marina in Brooklyn Bridge Park. There are other boats at ONE°15 Brooklyn Marina—Nite Cap, Jaydee, Enchantress, One More Day—but I love Rarebit best.

I walk to the water almost daily. When I first saw Rarebit, I wanted to place my palms against the black hull so badly, I nearly hopped the marina gate.

I’d never seen a boat like it. I love the ferries and the tugboats in the harbor, but this was something else entirely. More fishing vessel than escape boat, it’s still the one I’d sprint toward if I needed to make a break for it, leaping onto the deck as it pulled away from the slip, bad guys in hot pursuit. 

The first time I saw Rarebit was in 2021, and seeing it present among the sailboats was like being kissed on the neck for the first time or some other wonderful and generous thing you didn’t know you needed. 

It was autumn, and I’d just handed in a revision of my book to my agent. I’d been writing about Ophelia—playing her, how it changed me, how making theater with my friends saved me. I wrote a book about motherhood and art-making and the great generative, creative forces of our lives. But all the threads of the story were held by the container of the character, of Ophelia. I spent years thinking about and living alongside a drowned girl. Now I wanted to imagine her afloat—not just on a boat, I wanted Ophelia on a sunset pleasure cruise.  

I have a friend who keeps a bottle of champagne in her fridge for good luck, to prepare her for the inevitable arrival of good news, an invitation. Rarebit is my bottle of champagne in the fridge. I decided on the day I saw it that if my memoir ever sold, I would charter Rarebit for a trip around the harbor to celebrate.  

Years later, and the book is out on submission now. I’ve been waiting—waiting to hear that the right editor loves it and wants it. At the beginning of the process, I didn’t feel much. A few weeks have passed and now, for the first time, I’m uncertain about the book’s future. Now there’s a bit of a pang every time I see Rarebit, the faint taste of champagne in my mouth every time I walk toward the piers. 

I’ve been wondering if I am a person who hopes too hard, if this is a fault of mine. Talking to a friend last week, she said, You really want this. It sounded vaguely like an accusation. I try to be content, but often I vacillate between two moods: Anne Sexton’s, “It is June. I am tired of being brave,” and Sharon Olds’, “I am tired of the laundry, I want to be great.” July is here and I am tired and sometimes the dishes in the sink feel like too much and I never know what to write anymore and still, still I want to be great. 

When I shared this with her, my friend took me by the shoulders and said, Life is short. Just book the boat. But I’m learning to be still with my want, learning to try on patience, to befriend my not knowing. I don’t know if the book will sell, but I do know that Rarebit is beautiful in early summer. Something about Rarebit makes me feel carried. I feel just like it would hold me well. Maybe someday.