A Thousand Miles

A nautical mile is 1.2 times the length of its cousin, the statue mile. It is a minute of latitude and since latitude is read off the side of a chart, it is a convenient mile marker. Latitude is the horizontal marker of the world. The lines run parallel east to west, and are measured north to south from the equator.

All this is to say that Carrie Rose passed the thousand nautical mile mark this year. Chesapeake Bay, where we began, is but a distant memory. To date we have anchored, moored, or docked in 35 different harbors, coves, rivers, cities, etc. If all goes well the final number will be 36 when the fine folks at Atlantic Boatyard pull Carrie Rose out of Herrick Bay.

Herrick Bay is as far out of the way as any place we have stayed. The bay dries out at low tide revealing many extra feet of the bottom. There is a dock but it is only for the dinghies of everyone out on moorings where it is easier to deal with the 11 foot tides. When the tide is out the ramp from the dock is at about 45 degrees. The walk up shortens my breath and the walk down is dangerous.

Before we left on our present cruise to Northeast Harbor on Mt. Desert Island, I hung over the rail at low tide and had an enlightening conversation with the boatyard’s manager. He is a big strapping guy who looks comfortable in his ever present Hawaiian shirt. I fired off one question after another trying to familiarize myself with this newfound place.

I asked about lobster fishing and he spoke of being a lobsterman. I asked about all of the critters that came up with the mooring line and he named them with their biological names, the knowledge of which he had gathered during gaining a degree in marine biology. I self diagnosed my engine problems, and he quietly listened much as I did with my know-it-all patients, and then steered me confidently in the correct direction.

Once on the hard we will spend another few days tidying up, which is to say change the oil, wash, wax and buff the hull and deck, oil the wood inside and out, try to repair the poor dinghy’s varnish, and replace the weeping fiberglass exhaust tube. There is more but I won’t bore you with the details.

Of course, Carrie Rose is an inanimate object but objects can have personalities. And those personalities, whether we like it or not, become part of our psyche either driving us forward to explore, or to seek shelter and lick our wounds.

This all comes with this year’s thousand mile cruise, which began south and finished Down East. Carrie Rose is a striking boat but also an aging one that has been crossing the parallels of latitude and the meridians of longitude for 27 years, and hopes to continue doing so.

Fog

Castine, on the Bagaduce River, is ghostly this morning, shrouded in fog. Carrie Rose faces East Penobscot Bay in a strong flood tide. The incoming current overcomes the rivers outflow causing the surface of the water to swirl. Boats jockey back and forth on their moorings. Not far from our port bow the red “2” buoy is tilted upstream by the flow. Many aquatic plants pass by along with an occasional log.

The humidity is 100% and the world is white. Carrie Rose is covered in dew. I take advantage of the fresh water to wipe the salt off the deck, rails, and windows. I want to hear a foghorn if for no other reason than to confirm the view in front of me but none sound.

Though the sun is obscured behind the thick haze, it rises and with that so does the hope that the fog will dissipate. When it does, it does so incrementally. The town, where we are, clears first. It is a common mistake to mistake this for a sign to head out only to find that the fog is thicker on the bay.

The fog retreats over several hours and when the mooring line is finally let loose a thin mist barely obscures Turtle Head, Islesboro Island’s northern most point. The wind freshens dispersing the hazy remnants of the fog. The ghost gives up the day to the blue.

Another Nice Boat

For someone who has spent an inordinate amount of his life looking at boats, Maine is a treasure. It is like finding Eldorado. In Pulpit Harbor, North Haven Island, one of the premier anchorages on Maine, one sailboat after another came to roost. Most were larger than Carrie Rose, some close to 100 feet.

Now Carrie Rose is further Down East and the boats are no less classic but of a more manageable scale. Of course, this excludes the schooner fleet we just left behind at Camden. We swing in a mooring field surrounded by a multitude of Herreshoff 12 ½’s, Concordia yawls, and other beauties of unknown design but all of wood with varnished topsides and painted white hulls.

The fiberglass boats are also vintage good old boats. There is even a boat Charlotte and I coveted before turning to power, a Hallberg-Rassy 32. Our beloved Lenore was of an older vintage from this Swedish builder of wood lined ocean ready sailboats.

It was a twenty mile cruise today from Camden to Castine. The seas were calm and though cloudy, the rain held off until almost into the harbor. It was turning into an uneventful day (if that can ever be said about a day spent on the waters of Maine) when I noticed the bilge pump’s red light flicker on and off.

Of course, this light should not be flickering. Charlotte took the helm and slowed us a bit. We informed our cruising companions of what was taking place and I began to investigate. First, I looked at the engine gauges. All was well, nothing overheating. Then, with flashlight in hand, I skipped down the three stairs into the saloon and took the floor panel off.

The bilge pump was cycling on and off as the water rose and fell. The propeller shaft was turning and its seal was intact. The various other potential leaks were also intact, so I replaced the floor and focused my attention to the engine room.

Back up the stairs, I removed the port side pilothouse floor. Noise and heat and crankcase fumes filled the space. Clear water was lapping under the main engine. I pointed the flashlight around, stopping at each possible water source. All looked undamaged. The search was narrowing. The water was clear so it was not engine coolant. The raw water valves and hoses that bring in cooling water for both engines were dry. I quickly moved to the starboard side.

Charlotte had to move to the far right, so I could slide that floor panel over. Using the high beam, I started the next inventory when I saw it. The cold water hose for the water heater was spewing like a garden hose. I turned the water pressure pump switch off and the leak ceased.

Now imagine if you can a 6 cylinder 220 HP turbo diesel and a 2 cylinder 23 HP diesel running side by side in a narrow compartment in a boat mid channel on East Penobscot Bay with Islesboro Island on one side and Resolute Island on the other with the heat, noise, noxious fumes, and the intermingled fumes that reside in the bilge despite all my attempts to eradicate them . . . well, it is not the kind of place to lightly crawl into.

I procured the few tools I needed and lowered myself on to the battery box, wedged into a space confined by the thumping main engine and the waste holding tank. Careful not to scorch my right arm and shoulder, I reconnected the hose. It was not complicated, just loosening and tightening a hose clamp.

By now, the bilge was dry and we informed Sir Tugley Blue that we were coming back up to speed. Forty five minutes later at the dock of the Castine Yacht Club, we replaced the seventy gallons of water that had emptied into the bilge. In another thirty minutes we were attached to mooring “3” in 68 feet of water at low tide on the Bagaduce River.

Charlotte made lunch and I did something I rarely do, took a nap. As I lay across the pilothouse bench, covered in a cotton blanket I took a last glance at the nice boats Carrie Rose was privilege to be part of on this rainy eventful day, and faded off with dreams of varnish and wood shavings, expectant of the next Eldorado.

Castine, ME

Inspiration

How does one find inspiration . . . Is inspiration necessary . . . Is inspiration or the search for it an excuse for not doing the work? I find myself contemplating these questions while Carrie Rose swings on her anchor just offshore of an inspirational friend’s home island, North Haven.

The sun rose behind Pulpit Harbor’s inner harbor, and I was, as usual, awake to witness it. Several of the larger lobster boats left for a days work as the sun cleared the horizon. I suppose for lack of dock space on land, much of the lobster fishing gear resides on piers anchored to the harbors bottom.

I saw a similar thing on Tangiers Island in Chesapeake Bay, though those were more like man caves complete with electricity to keep the bay’s water flowing over molting crabs which had been handpicked to spend their final days becoming soft shell crabs.

Here I watched unique lobster boats with backward slanting pilothouse windshields tie up to the floating pier and shovel small silvery bait fish from barrels into receptacles on their decks. Most of the lobster boats in Pulpit Harbor are of the smaller variety, half the size of the boats we saw miles offshore when first entering Maine.

These boats have to contend with Penobscot Bay and not the North Atlantic, so that may have something to do with it. Or maybe it is the lack of capital available to folk coming from such tiny islands.

At the islands only grocery there were two 8 1/2 by 11 sheets listing phone numbers, one blue and the other yellow. The former listed the full time residents and businesses; the latter consisted of summer residents only. A hand full of surnames filled the roster of the full timer’s roster.

Once the sun was 45 degrees above the horizon, the solar panels begin to replace the electricity used to keep the refrigerator and the anchor light functioning at night. Each morning since crossing into Maine, the propane cabin heater has been put to good use taking the cool damp air out of the saloon and out of our bones.

Now that the lobster boats have departed, the sailboats began to stir. Sleepy figures appear on their decks coiling lines, taking sail covers off and warming up engines. Despite all the activity around us, Carrie Rose is going nowhere. She will witness the comings and goings as the tide rises and falls ten feet every 6.25 hours. In the meantime, inspiration may come . . . or not.

Situational Awareness

If there is anything that dictates life on the water, it is the weather. For a boat our size and for its crew’s preference for comfort, this can mean leaving a harbor early or extending a stay. We have done both since starting the cruise with Nentoa, the North East Nordic Tug Association. We stayed a day longer at Block Island, skipped Cuttyhunk Island altogether, and left Provincetown after only one day.

On the 60 mile run from Block Island to Onset, MA, we passed across a stretch of the North Atlantic into Buzzards Bay. These are storied water, Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard lie to the east, Wood’s Hole to the north, and the whaling capital and famed boat building town of New Bedford to the west. It was a shame to blow through it at 8 knots but we were on a mission.

Buzzards Bay begins miles wide and narrows into a few hundred feet at the beginning of the Cape Cod Canal. The destination for the night, Onset, is just passed the canal’s entrance. While motoring up the bay, Carrie Rose stayed north of the shipping channel but as the bay narrowed, was drawn into it. A long earthen wall delineates the canal from the rest of the bay.

A mile or so before the above and now 6 hours into the cruise, though I did not think so, I was on cruise control. I had lost situational awareness. With my foot propped up near the throttle, I was scanning the gauges, chartplotters, and the radar but not analyzing the data. I take pride in my piloting skills but not this day.

Into my right peripheral vision (the side that has the right of way) came a large white object reminding me I was on the water, in a boat going 8 knots, in the vicinity of a large ship’s channel and probably more recreational boats than most places in the world.

The captain of the sailboat which was quickly coming into full view would reasonably assume — or maybe not — that I would give way and passed about ½ block ahead. I snapped to attention, stood behind the wheel, and saw another object to the right. This one was black and orange and stood about five stories high, it was the Coast Guard Cutter… It was in the channel that we would soon be entering, but it still gave me a start. I checked its speed on AIS and slowed just enough to let it pass by.

I pulled in far behind the cutter and began to make preparations for the 90 degree turn into the channel that lead to Onset. Cape Cod Canal is known for its swift current and it was flowing across the entrance, which is marked by an incongruous two green markers. Waiting until just at the north buoy, I turned hard left, buried the throttle, and plowed into the disturbed water passed the no wake sign and into the skinny channel.

Minutes later Charlotte attached the mooring line to Carrie Rose and we were swinging in a beautiful little bay with the charming, well preserved village of Onset, MA beckoning us. We bought beer, had a slice of pizza at Marc Anthony’s and met up with our fellow cruisers for a drink and debriefing on the day’s journey . . . situational foibles and all.

Light

Okay, skip my reference to the heart of darkness in the last post. I am of Italian heritage and prone to the occasional histrionics. Maine is beautiful, blessed with picturesque towns, finely designed and built boats, and friendly people. The tidal range has increased the farther down east we have travelled, as has the number of lobster buoys.

The Chesapeake was good training grounds for avoiding the colorful jellybean like objects that carpet the surface of the waters here in Maine. Charlotte regularly informs me that our next destination has the highest concentration of buoys, which is hard to imagine as where we are floating now averages a buoy per square foot.

Carrie Rose has encountered them as far as 4 miles offshore in 200 feet of water and packed into bustling harbors. One long time Mainer told us to “Go right through ‘em!” in a similar vein to Admiral Nelson’s famous cry before decimating the French fleet. Not possessing Nelson’s hutspa, I’ve demurred.

We have encountered them in flat calm, in dense fog, in current strong enough to pull them under the water, and on the North Atlantic in wind and waves that obscure their presence until the last moment. Since crossing into Maine the autopilot has been more off than on.

I have made a study of lobster boats intricate dance amongst the buoys. They race from buoy to buoy barely slowing as the fisherman gaffs the line that attaches the buoy to lobster trap . Through a series of deft moves, the line is hung on an overhead pulley as the buoy is deposited on the gunwale. The line is wrapped around a hydraulic spool that pulls the trap up. When the line tautens it stops the boats momentum, swinging it broadside and then the trap appears hanging on the side of the boat.

In another set of choreographed moves, often involving the help of a deck mate, it is pulled up flat on the rail, opened, cleaned, restocked with bait, and picked clean of its lobsters. Some are haphazardly thrown back into the sea, some into a waiting large white wet well, and others carefully measured . . . a few millimeters deciding their fate.

The boat accelerates as the trap is let loose, its line careening down the side of the boat and off the back. This is done with a studied grace that I would not expect from the usual beefy crew. But I do a disservice here: men, women, children both svelte and rotund perform the task with equal ease whether in a bay’s oily calm or the roiling North Atlantic swell. It is impressive and well worth the occasional change of course to avoid becoming entangled.

A lobster boat is a fine craft: pointy, its knife like bow steeply plunges into the water with a slight backward curve. The beam quickly widens and is carried to the flat stern. After an initial rise, the shear flattens to a working height a couple of feet off the waters surface. A cutty cabin seamlessly blends into the pilothouse’s slightly stern tilted windshield and ends amidships. Seen from the port a lobster boat looks almost recreational but from the starboard, it is eviscerated revealing the inner workings.

They rumble by with dry exhaust stacks pointed to the sky. Small midline boxes conceal the many hundreds of horsepower gulping either gasoline or diesel. I’d say these lobstermen are the last to carry on the tradition of the muscle car.

Maine is carpeted with colorful buoys, with every inch of its water (both above and below) patrolled on a daily basis. Maine is rocks and breaking surf on tree lined coasts. Maine is sea birds — petrels, gannets, and guillemots —never seen before. And Maine is sea creatures that pop up have a look around and a breath and disappear into the depths. Carrie Rose will see what else Maine is in the coming months as it comes out of the darkness into the light.

Darkness

Portland has been home for four days. Due to visits from friends we stayed longer then expected, and in the mean time saw a bit of the city. Carrie Rose is docked in South Portland, a community, as you would assume, just south of Portland proper. The marina is tucked into deserted freighter piers, so the entrance absorbs the swell from each boat that passes out on Casco Bay.

The north pier protrudes out into the bay. It is a long dock for unloading crude oil. The oil unloaded here is pumped to Montreal’s refineries. A tanker appeared one afternoon accompanied by three classic red and black tugs. It rose higher and higher as its cargo was discharged. The bulk of it, seen at such close quarters is arresting. Early this morning it let out a long low wavering horn blast to signal its departure. Half of Portland must have woken up.

The same tugs appeared, and amidst their toots and whistles the now more orange than black ship was quietly backed out of the pier. While I was monitoring the VHF radio channel13 (the channel designated for communication between ships) I heard the pilot announce that they were heading to sea and New York Harbor, bringing back memories of our recent trip through those very same waters.

We have been privy to several conversations here at Spring Point Marina concerning what to expect the farther north we venture. And though there seems to be agreement that mid and northern Maine are beautiful, its praises are spoken with a few caveats. The two most often cited are the number of lobster buoys and the fog with the peculiarities of the more isolated inhabitants coming in a strong third, and oh, I forgot about the rocks.

This caused me to temper my enthusiasm for the next portion of our cruise. The talk has a gnarled edge that can’t help but be reminiscent of Captain Willard preparing to enter the heart of darkness after Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. Just like the movie, there is no turning back from riding the swell into the unknown.

Maine

Seven hundred miles ago, in the back of my mind, I thought how will Carrie Rose ever get to Maine. It seemed a world away and as it turned out, it was. From a rudimentary study of Zen and a 30 year practice of Chado, I knew that life is lived one step at a time, one failure or success, one plan at a time. And so, in the back of my mind I forgot about Maine and focused on the next day’s destination.

First, the boat needed care on land and after a couple of intense days the bottom got wet. Then we had to say goodbye to George and Lisa, our caretakers in the Chesapeake. It is difficult to break free from stability. Next were the hurtles: Chesapeake & Delaware Canal, Delaware Bay, New Jersey coast, New York Harbor, The East River and Hell Gate, and Long Island Sound. Each presented the challenges of open water, tides and currents, weather and just plain geography. The waypoints on the chart represented Carrie Rose’s hull moving across the water.

I am thinking of this as I sit in the pilothouse, facing east into a spectacular crimson sunrise. It is not yet six o’clock and the lobstermen are the only thing moving on the water, the rest is calm. A buoy’s bell clangs lethargically in the distance. Seagulls mouth off as a flight of geese nosily cuts across the view of Wood Island and the rising sun.

Wood Island Harbor is only a harbor in the least of terms. It is mainly open water with some protection from the south and east but open to the north and west. Carrie Rose is attached to the bottom via mooring 81, which offers some peace of mind. This is not a place to linger and just as well, we have a coast to explore now that we are a world away.

Portland, ME