Fenway Park does not appear on nautical charts as a prominent landmark (as it might have, if either plate tectonics or the Ice Age had reshaped the landscape differently and it had warranted the name of, say, Cape Fenway or Fenway Sound) or as a navigational hazard (Fenway Shoals), or as an ominous seascape of mythic proportions (The Fenway Triangle.) Nonetheless, I knew better than to sail too closely to the home of so much wailing, murmuring and gnashing of teeth on a date when so much of the future could be decided.
Put another way, the 7th game of the Boston-Cleveland series was starting at 5 p.m., D.T. (Desert Time) on Sunday and I knew the tide of history might very well be against me if I tried to sail at Lake Pleasant, or even at the comparatively local (115 miles away) Tempe Town Lake, which is just off the rhumb line between Phoenix and Baja Arizona, before beating back to Tucson.
I could have sailed Sloop Dogg around islands at Lake Pleasant or sailed a Laser to the wind shifts that flow from the islands of high rises around TTL. Instead, I realized Island Time was Fenway Time. Instead of being in a big rush, I could be there with Big Papi.
Even though the days are getting shorter, or maybe becausethe days are getting shorter, it made sense to take it slow, mon, stay home, and watch, and listen, and cheer with so many voices from that distant shore.