Today was interesting (as if the other days here haven’t been). Bar Harbor was left behind. The cruising guides warn about rounding Schoodic Point. Tourist Maine ends and serious Maine begins. The books list the attributes that boats and their crew should possess to venture further east. Yes, that is what I said, east. This section of Maine is referred to as Down East, so when I sense that I am travelling north I am actually travelling east.
Today was the calm after the storm. The waves on the Atlantic consisted mainly of southern swells, which at times were large enough for our cruising companions about a quarter mile off our stern to disappear while in the trough. The following swell pushed us into the ever changing fog with an extra knot. As we moved into it, the air chilled. The fog, sometimes thick with no blue sky above, sometimes diaphanous with the solar panel completely exposed to the sun.
Though the fog provides fewer visual clues, it heightens the sense of awareness. I am glued to the radar. Each of the three front windows receives a good look searching for lobster buoys. Of which there were at least four new varieties including one as large as a beach ball. The buoys would pop out of the fog and require quick evasive maneuvers.
As I did this, I inadvertently favored the unseen coastline when suddenly Charlotte saw breaking waves on rocky islands and implored for more sea room. Her wish was granted.
The radar screen requires almost constant attention in between scanning the front windows. I search for new sickly yellow blips and try to discern if they are stationary or moving, and at what speed and direction. This is exhausting.
Carrie Rose passed through a narrow channel defined by rocky islets. At times the rocks were visible and at times not. Several miles away from our destination at Cross Island, the fog deepens. On the radar, the fishing weirs, which were clearly marked on the chart, became visible as four small grouping of jagged lines. And there was the blip of an earlier seen lobster boat.
Lobster buoys appeared in clumps before me, and unexpectedly from above the fog, multiple red and white latticed towers appeared as if strung together with gossamer threads. They seemed too close and spooked me. I took a deep abdominal breath and remembered that Cutler (the closest village) is the base for a long range submarine communications facility. Charlotte took pictures of it as the fog cleared revealing the true absurdity of what lay before us.
It was time to head for the nights anchorage. The fog mercifully cleared as we turned into a space defined by the larger Cross Island to the south and Mink Island to the north. About a quarter of a mile in the anchor dropped in 21 feet at high tide. Later at low tide with the water eleven feet lower, we had backed into two lobster buoys. They threatened to entangle Carrie Rose’s anchor chain, rudder, and propeller. This is not a good situation.
With the urgings of our friends on Sir Tugely Blue, the preparation of a dinner of fried polenta with sautéed carrots, zucchini, and onions in a light tomato sauce was interrupted so we could gingerly extricate Carrie Rose from the offending buoys and anchor in a safer location.
The procedure was done efficiently without much fuss and that is when I thought that little by little, we seem to be getting the hang of this thing called cruising.
St. Andrews,Canada
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