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FUN SPOT was the name of the boat we inherited after Grandpa Murray hung himself. It was an offshore sport fishing boat with a cabin and a flybridge. But, we couldn’t afford to put it in the water, get a dock slip, or even buy enough gas to take it out. So, it sat in a large wooden cradle on a dirt lot at Guy LaMotta’s boat yard above the harbor. We’d go on weekends to wax the fiberglass body and polish the chrome railings and cleats. When we got there, we would “climb aboard” on a ladder leaning up against the hull. The cleaning supplies made me  nauseous, like sea sickness but without ever touching the water.

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I grew up in Port Washington on the North Shore of Long Island in an area built on a former sand mine used to build skyscrapers in New York City including the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. Soundview, our neighborhood of cookie cutter houses, consisted of streets with nautical names like Driftwood, Schooner, Angler, Marlin, Dock, Sandy, and Seaview. But there was no seaview from Soundview.

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During World War II Murray piloted a B-17 bomber named “Baby Steve” after my father. He painted the nose with an image of a baby wearing a diaper and aviator goggles riding a bomb. After the war, he made a series of scenic oil paintings that hung salon style in our house. I’d stare at them looking for clues as to why he took his own life but I found nothing.