Daily Archives: 1 16 August 12

30 July: Ocean Isles

There are eight or nine “Isles of Shoals,” a cluster of small islands straddling the Maine – New Hampshire state line.  That is, if there is such a thing as a state line six miles out in the Atlantic.  Regardless, most are claimed by Maine but the preferred anchorage is Gosport Harbor on the north side of Star Island, considered part of New Hampshire.

Having heard many recommendations on the order of “you’ve got to stop at Isles of Shoals,” and with a favorable if weak southerly in the forecast, Steadfast slipped her moorings at 1000 Monday morning and headed almost due north out of Rockport Harbor.  With a bit of a boost from the following two-to-three-foot seas, and picking our way among the lobster pots that litter the approach between White and Star Islands, it was just after 1400 when Kate snagged the mooring line (free! courtesy of Portsmouth Yacht Club) and Steadfast was set for the night.  A pleasant motor sail averaging five knots.

The relatively early arrival allowed time to row ashore for a walk around the retreat center compound that has evolved over the years at the site of the former Oceanic Hotel.  The small chapel, the many single-story stone residences, monuments to founders of the early community and the weathered stones in the cemetery all harken to the island’s hundreds of years as a settlement.

Views are stunning in every direction, with waves breaking on enormous slabs of granite that huddle shoulder-to-shoulder in defiance to the inexorable assault of the Atlantic.

But Blue Hill beckons so, anxious to make landfall in Maine, we started early Tuesday and set off on the 48 nautical miles to Portland.  Again, a light southerly belied the three-to-four foot swells off the starboard quarter that made hour-on, hour-off shifts at the helm the routine for the day.  An hour standing at the wheel, steering ‘tween lobster pots and the ever present (it seems) floating sea weed, and a person was ready to sit a spell!

Maintaining the heading became a bit easier in the afternoon as the thin charcoal chalk stripe that was Cape Elizabeth became more defined.  Steadfast made decent time, averaging five-and-a-half knots, and she rounded the Cape about 1530, passed Portland Head light, then turned at Spring Point Light to enter the harbor at South Portland.

From the mooring at Centerboard Yacht Club, Portland reveals her impressive waterfront and the skyline beyond.  We’re headed there by launch this afternoon to explore and, just maybe, see what’s on sale at Hamilton Marine.

Steadfast, out.

2 August

There was not a lot of movement on the waters of Portland Harbor this morning.  At least, movement that was visible.  Most of the moorings at Centerboard Yacht Club could be seen, and sometimes the clubhouse, too.  But the Old Port side of the harbor hid behind a grey velvet curtain and the only vessels we saw head out had radar guiding their way.

Along with lobsters and the rocky coast, fog is one of the defining characteristics of the Down East experience.  There’d been so little this trip  to date that its possibility was not part of the float plan.  That changed this morning and the cruise to Boothbay Harbor was delayed in favor of a walk to Hannaford’s Supermarket.

A return trip to J’s Oyster House on the Old Port side–we were there last evening–is in the offing tonight and, we hope, enough wind for the sail across Casco Bay tomorrow.

Steadfast, out.

03 August

To the north, where the village rolls up the hill, sirens–at least three of them–scream through the wind.  The lights flicker off, then on in the restaurants, shops and hotels along the waterfront, then die.  Far off to the west, beyond the stately homes that stand among the pines, the slate gray sky  is split by the brilliance of a jagged electrical charge that ignites the harbor.  NOAA’s “slight chance of a thunderstorm” has rolled across Casco Bay.

In particular, the chance became reality for the hundered or so work boats and yachts moored in Boothbay Harbor, ME.  Steadfast is one of ’em, by God, and her crew is glad of it!

This was the first time boat and crew probed the gloom of a Maine fog, slipping the moorings at 0957 beneath a bright sky, with the promise of 10-12 knot winds from the south, but a blanket of fog that kept secret all that lay a mile beyond the bow.  Oh, and the “slight chance of a thunderstorm.”

The departure for Portland was interrupted, though, when Ms. Wes began to smoke and gasp in a most unladylike fashion.  Her hollow cough was the first clue that something was amiss and most likely in the sea water intake line that helps her keep her cool.  A cove just beyond Spring Point beckoned with the secure mooring that fit the immediate need: a sheltered spot, away from the tug, tanker and fishing traffic, from which the clear the sea grass that continues to plague our dear Ms. Wes.

First aid applied, she surged back to life at full strength, pushing off into the fog and swells of windless Casco Bay on a heading of 082 degrees, bound for Boothbay Harbor.  Not long after, a pair of porpoise crossed her bows as if to say, “don’t worry about a thing, it’s gonna be great!”

Not long after passing south of Halfway Rock, about 1300, a single sea lion swam slowly across the path of Steadfast.  The crew again kept diligent watch for lobster pots and the streams of sea weed that seemed always to threaten to choke Ms. Wes once again.

By 1500, Cape Small was abeam and the decision made–despite the “slight chance of a thunderstorm,” Steadfast would pass Sebago and push on toward Boothbay Harbor, another couple of hours beyond, at least.

The fog ahead seemed to thicken, just as Steadfast left the open waters of the Atlantic and came closest to the rocky shore.  But after rounding the outcrop called The  Cuckholds, the fog lifted, the sun warmed the cockpit and–guess what?–two porpoise leapt across Steadfast’s bow.

Waddya think?  Same two as up by Portland Head?  Naw, couldn’t be, no way.

At 2020, the wind’s laid down, rain moved on  and laughter now can be heard aboard “Lucky Seven,” the 90-foot motor yacht at the pier.  The lights are on in the restaurants, shops and hotels of Boothbay Harbor.  And Steadfast rocks quietly to the easy rhythm of the tide.

Steadfast, out.

05 August: Long Term Tenants

It’s early.  Either the sun has yet to rise or it’s raining.  The steady “splat” on the hatch overhead suggests the latter.  Rising from the bunk, peering through the droplets that cling to the outside of the port, the fleet that had filled Tenants Harbor the night before has disappeared.

Fog.  Not your average, run-of-the-mill what-you-think-of-as-fog-in-Virginia stuff.  This is Maine fog which, contrary to forecasts and sailors’ hopes, is about to consume this Sunday on the west side of Penobscot Bay.

True to the forecast, there is wind this morning, a perfect ten-to-15 so’westerly for a sail north to Buck’s Harbor, the intended next stop for Steadfast.  But instead of blowing the fog away to the east, this wind seems only to blow more fog into the harbor.  The morning hours pass and the only part of the day that becomes clear is that Steadfast will not sail today.

Those whose boats and homes are here on Tenants remain undeterred.  Fog is a fact of life on the Maine coast, after all, and life goes on.  So a red kayak slips quietly past the bow.

A cheerful “Good morning!” receives a like response.  A yellow companion boat reveals itself from behind the workboat moored off to starboard.  Then a handsome old wood catboat carries a laughing crew spanning three generations.  Six paddlers propel dark green canoes, then another catboat, an eight-foot dinghy and, moments later, a 13-foot Boston Whaler skiff scoots noisily past.

“It’s the Long Cove Regatta,” shouts the gentleman at the helm of the Whaler.  “Come on along!  Whatever boat you have, doesn’t matter.”

A cannon charge explodes off the far bank, somewhere in the fog, to signal the regatta’s “official” start.  And as quickly as they appeared, the mongrel fleet disappears again, and moments later the fog swallows even the laughter.

Hours later, a dark hulled thirty-something-foot sloop emerges from the gloom that still shrouds the harbor entrance; an Island Packet 38 does likewise later.  Half a dozen other yachts seek shelter here as the afternoon–and the fog–roll on, each boat displaying a common installation in its rigging: a radar dome.

On the Maine coast in fog, radar’s like American Express – “don’t leave home without it!”  Lacking either, Steadfast swings securely in Tenants Harbor.  The next harbor waits ’til another day, when lobster floats and rocky shores are clear to the eye of her crew.

Steadfast, out.

8 August: Back Underway

A three-second slur-r-r-sh, then pflitt, pflitt, pflitt.  A brief pause and the sequence repeats.  And again and on.  It’s the rhythmic sound of the skiff sliding along behind as Steadfast sails gloriously up Penobscot Bay.  She’s making five-knots or more on a broad reach, the 10 knots out of the so’west pushing her along at first on a broad reach, then a dead run, sails “drawing full and by,” as they say.

This had been NOAA’s promise when, after being graced with the hospitality of Mary and Jim at East Anchorage for a couple of days, the fog lifted on the drive to Tenants Harbor and the mooring pennant slipped off at 1027.  Dodging lobster pots and clumps of seaweed, the turn was made to 050-degrees to run up Muscle Ridge Channel.  There were boats out there, lots of ‘em, workboats and yachts for the first time.

Ash Island went by to port at noon, the lovely harbor at Owls Head at 1241 and not long after, the so’westerly breeze picked up and the heading shifted to 060′ to run up the east side of Isleboro Island.  It was a glorious four-hour sail, first on a broad reach then a dead run, “wing-and-wing” with main over the port rail, genoa to starboard, making a steady five-knots.

Rounding Green Ledge, the heights of Western, Pond and Hog Islands were enough to block the most of the wind, but Ms. Wes woke from her nap and finished the rest of this leg into Buck’s Harbor, yet another lovely little anchorage with handsome homes standing watch from the steep rocky banks that ring the shore.

With these 30-plus miles under her keel, Steadfast now is just a day’s sail from Blue Hill, her ultimate goal.  Buck’s Harbor staged a dramatic sunset as if to celebrate.

Steadfast, out.

9 August: Friends

Picture this – a fairly narrow 12-mile long passage between the mainland and a string of islands to the south, running roughly southeast to northwest, or vice-versa.  That being the case, with the prevailing so’westerly winds, a sailing vessel transiting this passage would be on a “reach” in either direction.  Hence, it is suspected, this passage became Eggemoggin Reach.

The east-bound sailor takes Eggemoggin from Penobscot Bay to Blue Hill Bay.  The Reach presents iconic images of the Maine coast, with towering pines lining the shores of its rocky harbors, while the steady breeze fills the sails of classic yachts of all types and sizes.

That is, when there is wind and no fog!

On this Thursday morning, Buck’s Harbor awoke under a damp blanket of fog.    But after a row ashore to Buck’s Harbor Market for coffee and muffins, bright sun filtered through the pines, boosting confidence that visibility on the Reach would not be a problem.  In fact, boats passing a mile off could then be seen clearly from the harbor.

So with showers in the forecast and a light southerly barely stirring the harbor, the crew conferred and the decision was made: Blue Hill beckoned.  Steadfast bravely motored off her mooring at 1050 and headed out into Eggemoggin Reach.

A quarter-mile-long suspension bridge spans Eggemoggin Reach at Bayard Point, a couple of miles east of the turn out of Bucks Harbor.  It’s a handsome bridge, or so we are told.  All that could be seen of it from the deck of Steadfast was the north tower!

But, hey, that’s from a mile away.  That mile “hole” in the fog will move with the boat as she goes along.  Right?

Well, not exactly.  As the fog closed in, Ms. Wes slowed to just 2 knots and Kate moved to the bow to stand watch for lobster pots and, worst case, other boats.  Some west-bound boats did emerge slowly from the gray but few.  There were no “close calls,” they and Steadfast cautiously moving from one landmark, one buoy to the next.

Fog lifted, shorelines emerged, then after teasing for fifteen minutes or so, disappeared, playing hide-and-seek down the length of Eggemoggin Reach.  The turn nor’east into Pond Island Passage was made at 1342, then–after picking her way between pots, weeds and rocks–Steadfast turned into Blue Hill Bay on a heading of 350′.  But the fog wasn’t done!  Visibility shrunk to just a few dozen feet in any direction, just enough so Kate on the bow could warn of pots when those popped up.  And there are quite a few at the southern end of the Bay!

All this time, Ms. Wes kept turning her faithful 2,200 times a minute.  The main was raised on the Reach, less for the wind and more to make Steadfast more easily seen by others.  But now the main began to draw, the fog lifted and–for the final five miles to Sculpin Point–Ms. Wes rested and Steadfast glided quietly up Blue Hill Bay, wing-and-wing, a stately conclusion to her grand Down East cruise.

At 1648, she was riding pertly on the mooring ball marked “Crawford” at Kollegewidgwok (yes, that’s how it’s spelled) Yacht Club.  Mary rode the club launch out to greet us and, by golly, we’d made it!  How crazy is that?

One other detail worth noting: Mary’s welcome, while gracious, was not the first we received on our arrival.  Blue Hill’s resident seal, Matilda, had broken the surface with her nose, then swam playfully to greet Steadfast as she entered the harbor.  Ah, but it’s great to have friends!

Steadfast out.

15 August

Those who’ve been anywhere in Maine know it is a world unto itself.  The coast is a little different.  The towns are a little different.  Mainers are a little different, too, “Ay-ya-a-a-ah.”  For natives of the Maine coast, life has required they be resolute, resourceful, hard-working and…early to rise.  The summer sun is up at 0430 and the lobster fishermen crank those big Detroit diesels with first light.

Of this remarkable world, Blue Hill may as well be the capital–a just-the-right-size village on a snug hurricane-hole-type harbor–and for the Kings, anyway, East Anchorage is the White House.  East Anchorage is Mary and Jim Crawford’s summer home wherein evolved, a year ago, the crazy idea to sail Steadfast to Maine.

The visit included a hike to the peak of 900-foot Blue Hill with panoramic views across the bay to Mount Desert Island and beyond; lots of fresh Maine blueberries; daysail on Jim’s classic wooden sloop “Molly Bawn”; ice cream at the Fish Net drive-in; lunch on the patio watching the Atlantics racing; and, well, you get the idea.  Among all the unique and wonderful experiences and places, picking the most outstanding is difficult if not impossible.  But Perry’s Pound is a strong candidate!

The pier is on a cove east of East Blue Hill that harbors a handful of pleasure and work boats, offering a stunning view across to Newbury Neck (I think).  The lobstahs are in tanks under the tent.  Customers are at well-worn picnic tables under the bright umbrellas.  The waitress is from Georgia.  The food from heaven.  Buckets of steamers to start, then the lobstahs, cawn-on-tha-cob, etc.  And it’s BYO so you know the wine is delicious!

Wonderful, unique, unforgettable.  Choose an adjective.  Or just say, in so many ways, “Blessed.”

More later.  Steadfast out.

 August 16

Oh, Kathryn.

The walk from East Anchorage, down the drive to the left then up the Ho Chi Minh Trail, seemed like a good idea at the time.  It was mid-afternoon and the others were getting ready to board Molly Bawn for a sail, the wind just filling-in and all.

And the partnership of a steady breeze and bright sun would make the perfect time to let our little Steadfast breathe.  The poor girl’d been choking for days, what with the fog Saturday morn, then the dreary drizzle Sunday.  So it’d be good to open her up, all around.  Let her get a good breath of air.  Good.

And, the thought was, it’d be good for her skipper, too.  Get busy, do something productive instead of moping about, feeling lost.  Which basically is how he felt, despite the breeze and sun.

But after the turn up the ‘Trail,’ here’s what he saw.

Slender pines reaching–no, struggling to reach, yearning to reach–the heavens.  The forest floor below them dank, dark, the sun favoring these trees or those with its light and warmth. This isn’t the happy image that was hoped for.  But it suits.

Yes, I miss you.  I can’t think of these past two weeks without breaking into a grin.  Oh, what an adventure we had, just you and I.  Oh, what fun fog can be.  Oh, how hard it can be to say good-bye.

Oh, Kathryn.  I love you.

Good night.