“So we found it,” Stefan said. “The HMS Hussar. Incredible.”
“Totally in-fucking-credible.”
“How deep do you think it is under the street?”
“I don’t know, but the detector was beeping like crazy!”
“Still, it must be down there quite a ways.”
“Yeah I know. We’ll need a pick and a shovel, for sure. We can take turns digging. It could be ten feet deep, maybe more.”
“Ten feet is a lot.”
“I know, but we can do it. We’ll just keep digging.”
“That’s right.”
Then their motor lost all power. Immediately they got their paddles out and started paddling, working together to keep the boat headed toward the shallows of east Manhattan. But the ebb tide was strengthening, carrying them down the East River, which as everyone said was not really a river but rather a tidal race connecting two bays. And now it was racing. Already they were approaching the Queensboro Bridge. The East River got nasty under it when the ebb was strong—a broad muscular rapids, not whitewater exactly, but a hard flashing scoop of a drop, impossible to paddle in.
They rode the flow down, bounced onward. Below that the flow eddied toward the city. “Hey, here’s some kind of a roof reef coming. Let’s see if we can catch it with our paddles and take a rest.”
They tried poking the top of some sunken building, but with the ebb running so hard their paddles only briefly scraped the top of it, and then they were sideways to the current, trying to row around to keep the bow upstream. It wasn’t easy. And the current was still strengthening.
This had happened to them before when they were eight or nine, one of their first misadventures on the water. A trauma in fact, well remembered. Now they paddled desperately, coordinating their strokes as best they could. Roberto was a little faster under conditions like this.
“Together,” Stefan reminded him.
“Go faster!”
“Pull through better.”
Nothing worked. They spun like a coracle as the current got stronger. For a while it looked like they might be able to pop into one of the last canals before passing the end of Manhattan, but the current was just too strong: they missed it.
Now it was a matter of hoping they could run aground on Governors Island and wait out the tide. There was a salvage landfill there that they had enjoyed scavenging in from time to time, but staying there through a tide was a bit of a grim prospect, they would end up cold and starving. Actually it wasn’t even certain they could angle over to it. Again they paddled hard, trying to do that.
Then, even though they were out of all the traffic lanes, a little motor hydrofoil came flying downstream right at them. It didn’t veer, it didn’t slow down, it was going to run them over. Possibly it was high enough off the water that it would pass right over them, but then again its foils extended down like scythes, perfectly capable of slicing them in half, not just their boat but their persons.
“Hey!” they shouted, pulling harder than ever. It wasn’t going to work. They weren’t going to be able to get out of its way, it even seemed to be turning in just the curve that would intercept them and run them down. Stephan stood and stuck his paddle directly up in the air and screamed.
Just as it was about to hit them, the hydrofoil abruptly turned to the side and dropped off its foils into the water, with a huge splash that drenched them utterly, and swamped their boat too.
Even with their cockpit completely full the boat’s rubber tube sides were so big it would not sink, but now it lay very low in the water and would be nearly impossible to paddle. They would have to bail it out first to get anywhere.
“Hey!” Roberto shouted furiously at the zoomer. “You almost killed us!”
“You swamped us,” Stefan shouted in turn, pointing down. They were both standing knee deep in their cockpit, soaked and getting cold fast. “Help!”
“What the hell are you doing out here?” the pilot of the zoomer said sharply. Possibly he was angry that they had scared him.
“We ran out of battery power!” Roberto said. “We were paddling. We weren’t in any shipping lanes. What are you doing out here?”
The man shrugged, saw they would not founder, and sat down as if to push his throttle forward again.
“Hey, give us a tow!” Roberto shouted furiously.
The man acted as if he hadn’t heard them.
“Hey don’t you live at the Met on Madison Square?” Stefan called suddenly.
Now the man looked back at them. Clearly he had been about to leave them out here, and now he couldn’t, because they would report him. As if they couldn’t have just remembered his boat’s number, which was right there over them, A6492, but whatever, he was now heaving a deep sigh, then rooting around in his own cockpit. Eventually he threw a rope’s end down to them.
“Come on, tie off on your bow cleat. I’ll tow you home.”
“Thanks, mister,” Roberto said. “Since you almost killed us, we’ll call it even.”
“Give me a break, kid. You shouldn’t be out here, I bet your parents don’t know you’re out here.”
“That’s why we’ll call it even,” Roberto said. “You run us over, we’re freezing our asses off, you give us a tow, we don’t tell the cops you were speeding in the harbor, Mr. A6492.”
“Deal,” the man said. “Deal at par.”
PART TWO
EXPERT OVERCONFIDENCE
Efficiency, n. The speed and frictionlessness with which money moves from the poor to the rich.
Overall, the transfer of risk from the banking sector to nonbanking sectors, including the household sector, appears to have enhanced the resiliency and stability of the financial system—mainly by widely dispersing financial risks, including throughout the household sector. In case of widespread failure of the household sector to manage complex investment risks, or if households suffer severe losses across the board due to sustained market downturns, there could be a political backlash demanding government support as an “insurer of last resort.” There could also be a demand for the re-regulation of the financial industry. Thus, the legal and reputation risks facing the financial services industry would increase.
a) Franklin
So I nearly killed these two little squeakers who were out fucking around in a rubber motor dinghy on the East River, just south of the Battery. They were maybe eight or twelve years old, hard to tell because they had the runtish look of kids underfed in their toddler years, like those tribes they thought were pygmies until they fed them properly in toddlerhood and turned out they were taller than the Dutch. These kids had not been included in that experiment. They could barely reach the water with their paddles and the ebb was running full tilt; they were basically drifting out to sea. So they were lucky I almost ran them down, alarming though it was; there’s a narrow blind spot straight ahead when I’m zooming in the zoomer, but it only extends fifty meters or so, so I don’t know how I missed seeing them. Distracted, I guess, as I often am. Ultimately it was no harm no foul, or little harm little foul, as I had to haul them back into the city, because they knew where I lived. They were denizens of my neighborhood, unfortunately, a little cagey about where exactly they resided, but they appeared to know the super of my building. So I towed them back, and countered the smaller and browner one’s continuous criticism by informing them I had saved them from death at sea and would tell their responsible parties about it if they didn’t keep quiet. This gave them pause, and we got back to Madison Square in a little pact of mutual assured damage, with both sides to walk without complaint.