An August evening on the East River waterfront in the 30s: a row of yachts (so-called ‘party boats’) preparing to depart, and a thick crowd of people is waiting to board. As my companion and I grow closer the crowd sorts itself into a series of queues, each snaking around in byzantine fashion, sometimes overlapping the others, or jumping the sidewalk where security fencing and posted guards maintain an open passageway. It’s through this gauntlet that we’re forced to walk – there is no other option without crossing the avenue to the other side of the RFK – and in so doing we’re nearly swallowed up by the overeager pasengers-in-waiting. The air is thick with anticipation and excitement, the barks of security guards, calls of people searching out family members or friends. As we pass through this barely-organized chaos another order starts to emerge: each line belongs to a different group – i.e. one dressed in formal attire, another in beach clothes, still another clad entirely in white. The yachts have been rented for different occasions by different groups, and only happen to share their berth and departure times. There’s something very New York about this whole scene, but the whole idea, I realize, is one enormous trigger for me: loud music, cramped quarters, an uneven, rollicking ride (I tend to get seasick on ferries) – and yet, on a late summer evening, with heavy weekend traffic, all the endless headaches of the city and the promise of a few hours on the water with cocktails and a party atmosphere – I’m not too much of a curmudgeon to see the appeal…