Wind & Current

There is a constant battle here between winds and currents. Each boat reacts differently. Boats with deeper longer keels and less super structure, i.e. sailboats and generally Carrie Rose, tend to favor the current; boats with more super structure and shallow keels, if keels at all, tend to favor the wind.

So, dealing with the multiple factors of wind strength, direction, current and tides, and numerous other things such as location, moored and anchored vessels point in different directions.

The anchor must react to these changes if the boat is going to stay in place. CR’s anchor is called a Bruce. It is a big upside down scoop with bat wings and a rounded snout. It weight 22kg (do the math) and is oversized for Carrie Rose. I have seen many boats twice our size with punier anchors. Though I cannot see what is going on, I hope that as Carrie Rose spins the anchor digs deeper and deeper.

In Maine, quite a few harbors/anchorages have moorings. They are there for the taking but of course being outsiders, we never take one unless we know whom it belongs to and whom to pay. The law, as has been explained to me, is that if a mooring is unoccupied it is there for the taking and no one, not even the owner, can kick you off for 24 hours. But, of course, being outsiders we do not push our luck. We anchor.

Now Carrie Rose is a mooring field called Warren Island State Park, which is nestled in Islesboro Island just south of the ferry dock. Islesboro Island dissects Penobscot bay into East & West. It is a long craggy jumble of rocks, other island, and channels. The ferry courses West Penobscot bay to Lincolnville every hour on the hour. It is the only way off.

Warren Island has eight moorings to choose from. The one we picked up had $20.00 and ½ ton written on it with magic marker. The ½ ton refers to the weight of the slab of granite that holds the mooring in place. It is one of Maine’s peculiarities that the moorings are not classified by length but by weight. The reference for this designation is not in wide distribution, so I am not sure how much granite should be holding us in place. Though, now that I write this I will endeavor to find out.

The fog cleared while we hike the perimeter of the island. The island has dense fern lined forest and open mosquito ridden fields. The tide was out and the island’s bedrock of sharply tilted green igneous sandstone appeared with small rounded rocks of every description scatters about. Some of the bedrock still showed the striations of the last glacial age, as did the large eccentric granite boulders lying about here and there.

A few campers populated the shore side campsites and the busy ranger kept showing up to say hi at different portions of our hike. In the early evening, the fog reappeared, and after a peaceful night, I awoke to fog even thicker fog then the evening before.

Today is a lay about day. Carrie Rose has no destination. Tomorrow she will head for Pulpit Harbor on the slice of an island called North Haven to anchor in a well protected harbor. There we will visit friends and wait out the expected heavy winds. Wind enough that I am sure will keep both sail and power boat pointed directly into it.

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven, ME

Reel & Jig

Many horror stories exsist about the downtrodden people of the British Isles transported to the maritime regions of the new world. I will leave the retelling to the historians. But this year Carrie Rose has been a beneficiary of the diaspora at several Celtic musical festivals.

There was one in Bar Harbor & one in Belfast, and there are several more on tap on various islands about Penobscot Bay. The performers have been young and the organizers middle aged. There was been many tributes to their teachers and inspirers (if that is a word), most of whom have passed on.

The music and dance have centered on the Celtic tradition: Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Maine, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and I am sure am leaving a few out like Galicia in Spain. The performers were gracious and sincere. They praised those that came before them. It was obvious that they benefited from an education that many of the founders never had, and that they used their newfound knowledge to extend their virtuosity.

I will not feign to explain the difference between a reel and a jig. Both are spirited and both, if the dancer is skillful enough, can be danced to. Both are lighting quick and demand foot tapping by the audience. One young woman in an attempt to differentiate the two said a reel is like wa-ter-mel-on and a jig is like rasp-ber-ry. Good enough for me.

Fiddles, pipes, flutes, guitars, a few eccentric folk instruments, but not a drum kit was to be seen. There was the occasional bodhran but feet drumming on the stage provided the rhythm. It made me yearn to have been born further North to learn to clog as a matter of course, wishful thinking.

My plan is to read the history of these forsaken people when I get home in the fall, but I think instead I will let the reel and jig speak for them.

Pulpit Harbor, North Haven Is., ME

The Layout

Carrie Rose’s layout is a bit confining. A good land based example would be a studio apartment. Carrie Rose has approximately 250 square feet of sleeping, cooking, pooping, relaxing, and piloting space. Place about three hundred pounds of Homo sapiens within and it can get quite small.

The designer was Lynn Senour. He designed fast fishing boat that worked the waters of the Pacific Northwest. He was noted for his interiors. Our vintage 32 foot Nordic Tug (1990, #44) benefited from his skillful touch.

The boat is divided into four spaces: salon/kitchen, pilothouse, head, and bedroom. The interior has three levels. To go from the salon to the pilothouse is three steps up; to go from the pilothouse to the bath and bedroom is four steps down.

Charlotte and I have designated spots. These were gleaned without any discussion. It happened naturally. I spend my time stretched out athwartship on the long pilothouse bench. Charlotte lives fore and aft on the salon’s port couch with her back propped up against the back wall.

There is no wall between us to hinder conversation. Though I had not thought of it before, the fact that there is no TV or video limits the need for a common space. We read, write, paint, and of course, seek distraction with our smart phones, when there is a connection that is. These are mostly solitary pursuits.

A small table on the starboard wall of the salon functions as the dining table. A sophisticated Norwegian oil lamp swings above it. The kitchen is mid ship and faces aft. I stand with the stove/oven in the middle, the small frig to my right. There is a workspace above it. To the left is the sink. It is very convenient.

Storage is scattered throughout: some above and behind the kitchen, some below the salon’s couch, some tucked along the side of the starboard wall. Everything has a place but still we end up hunting and pecking, not remembering where the pasta and the sauce, the crackers and the cookies are stored.

Wine and beer are a different matter. We always know where they are. The bedroom is offset. This was done to provide the semblance of a double bed as opposed to the usual V-berth. It has its pluses and minus, but it does provide for a small seldom used seat to the port. The previous owners explained that under the seat cushion was their liquor cabinet. Except for the unholy hot Chesapeake, the bubble wrap padded space is always cool, and so wine and beer is stored there.

The pilothouse sits on top of the engine, really the machinery room. The main engine, generator, holding tank, batteries (3), various pumps and filters, and a whole lot of wiring and hoses are accessible by lifting two heavy hatches in the floor. There is enough room to get most jobs done without standing on my head. It is a space I know intimately.

Like I said, the bedroom is offset. Behind our heads is the head. It is a tiny space but a functional one. Years ago I got rid of the electric toilet and reverted to a manual one; another thing that has pluses and minuses, but mostly works.

Since we are in the habit of cruising for weeks on end without a stop, the shower comes in handy. I can barely stand in it. The walls are close and usually cold. I have been known to wrench my back from violently twitching upon contact with the wall.

The first person in has to get the water’s temperature regulated without wasting any. This means a cold drench to begin with. The second person has to clean up, so either way it is trade off, and I usually am first. As scant as the shower is, it is hard to describe how refreshing it is. Well worth the contortions needed.

So, Carrie Rose is 250 square feet of efficient well used space. It has kept us sane after weeks of confinement. Though, maybe, I should reconsider the use of the word sane.

Holbrook Island, Maine

Antsy

Carrie Rose has been travelling in the fog. Fog is often depicted as a contiguous mass but is the opposite. It comes and goes, lightens and thickens, rises and falls. It blows across landforms like syrup defying gravity. Add to this a boat moving at 8 knots (I should slow down) and the possible outcomes begin to multiple.

Fog is the result of the dew point and the temperature coinciding. For the last week both have been in the mid fifties. The fog has been undulating in and out of the anchorages and harbors but has never completely cleared. Living in a cloud has its downsides.

The 100% humidity turns every surface cold and clammy. Nothing dries and it is difficult to warm up. I began to wear a wool sweater and watch cap, a funny sight in July even for Maine. Lobster boats venture out to do their daily work, but the cruising fleet huddles deep in the harbor.

This self imposed quarantine does offer a respite from daily travel. There was time to do laundry. The hardware store aisles were explored. One hundred dollars was left at a classic used bookstore whose owners are retiring after forty years. New suede boat shoes and a bright yellow polo shirt with an embroidered lobster and pine tree was bought.

Back at the boat, I drew what was directly in front of me. I struggled with the background and then it was gone, obscured by a white cottony haze. It began to rain. There were thunderstorm in the forecast and then, sun in the morning.

That would be welcomed. The cruising community is getting antsy. Dock lines cannot wait to be cast off; there will be a mass exodus at the first sign of blue sky. But in Maine, the fog is never far behind.

Just to remember 7-10-2018

High Tide

Campobello Retreat

View from guest cottage

FDR's and Eleanor's bedroom, scene of childbirth and polio

Low Tide

1 – Woke up at 6:30, left industrial lobsterland at Head Harbor at 8:00.

2 – Big black back of whale (minke, I think) surfaced just to our port side outside of before mentioned harbor’s entrance, then many smaller whales were sighted along with porpoises and razorbilled auks.

3 – Tied to the pier at Roosevelt Campobello International Park.

4 – Had “Tea with Eleanor”, a heart felt presentation by the local staff who also served tea and Eleanor’s favorite ginger cookies.

5 – Left the pier to anchored a 100 yards off because of shallow water at low tide.

6 – Anchor was reset twice due to not holding the first time . . . a rare occurrence.

7 – Windy! from the SW.

8 – An unexpected thunderstorm rolled in from the north and just missed, but did washed the salt off the deck.

9 – Fog crept in from the SW engulfing Eastport, Maine a mile across Friars Bay, and then cleared.

10 – A beautiful sunset as the wind quieted.

Mistake I. Harbor, ME

Industrial Lobster

I am not sure how to capture the level of, well, anxiety is not the word . . . so, what is the word . . . that cruising new areas brings. Carrie Rose and Sir Tugely Blue (our cruising companion) spent two nights in a big bay in New Brunswick where we were the only boats within sight. A few small local boats appeared but we were alone. It was rolling; both stabilizers were deployed as well as ninety feet of anchor chain as the tide went from 14 feet to 32 feet twice each day.

After two days the anchor was raised to cruise to Head Harbor on Campobello Island, the Canadian island made famous by the Roosevelt clan. To get there, Letite Passage, a place renown for outrageous tides, current and generalized maelstroms, needed to transit at near slack tide and then, with a favorable current.

By the way, did I also mention that there are a couple large ferries crisscrossing the passage every half hour? Carrie Rose entered at 7.7 knots and exited at over twelve with the help of the current. It is not that any of these passages are worse than say, Barnegat Bay in New Jersey; it is the anticipation that causes the stomach juices to churn.

The water east of Letite Passage opens to the Atlantic and is peppered with many small islands. Canada had extended the lobster fishing season by nine days this year and today was the deadline to get the traps in. Lobster boats were out in force scurrying from one buoy to the next.

Head Harbor is tucked behind a beautiful red and white lighthouse perched on equally striking weathered rocks. There are two ways in, one direct and the other around a small island, a detail I had not paid much attention to. Suddenly at the squeeze point, a smiling lobsterman was looking at me from his quickly moving boat. I pulled my throttle back to idle to access the situation.

The description in the cruising guide described this as a working harbor; really, it is a narrow inlet. There are two substantial wharves consisting of tall creosote wooden piles capped with concrete. And as seen in Chesapeake fishing communities, the rest of it is a haphazard collection of spindly sticks holding various floats and sheds in place. Two lengths of these headed back into the narrowing inlet and made up a channel. I told myself not to go down there but never the less did while searching for where to tie up.

This is the infrastructure of a worldwide lobster distribution system. It is downright industrial. I know that as a species we push to extremes and this place looked ready to burst. If the lobster catch plummets the lobstermen, their intermediaries, the bankers, and then the communities will disappear. I am stating the obvious. It is the same for any natural resource: plunder while plunder can.

The lobster boats populating Head Harbor were distinctive. The newer of these Canadian boats are almost square. In Maine the lobster boats are sleeker, retaining a higher ration of length to beam. And it is the odd lobster boat in Maine that has an inward facing windshield, whereas they all do in Canada.

Other differences between the two fleets are that the U.S. season starts May or June, and the Canadians are done in June only to start up again in November, while most of the U.S. boats are pulled for the winter.

This in itself would require unique design considerations. There are the intangibles of any design: what worked for my ancestors is good enough for me. The traditions and the specific requirements (i.e. water depth, weather, type of fishing, etc.) are what make each regions boats distinctive.

But to get back to my original thought, a word that is similar to anxiety but not anxiety. In Head Harbor, I was perplexed as to where to tie up in this morass of rough looking floats and deserted lobster boats. Dave on Sir Tugely Blue did the smart thing and asked the first lobsterman he saw, who was unloading his traps with a crane some twenty five feet up onto the wharf. Next, I heard on the radio, “We will tie to the blue boat and you tie to us.”

So I tied to Sir Tugely Blue, Sir Tugely Blue tied to the blue lobster boat, the blue lobster boat was tied to a float with a shed on it, which was loosely tied to the wharf. And this conglomeration of fine recreational craft, well worn working boat and decrepit shed were raising and lowering 17 feet every six hours.

To add to the excitement, substantially wide boats doing the work of a lobster boat repeatedly passed close to our stern. They streamed down a channel just wide enough for their width, spun around with feet to spare, docked, unloaded their traps, dropped off lobsters at the various sheds waiting to process them, and repeated the process until dark.

As I took it all in, I realized I had just done the same thing with no prior experience, in a foreboding place, and with the help of a cooperative local lobsterman and our fellow cruisers. I relaxed, but only a bit.

Tomorrow another new place, and the next day and the next, it has been that way for nine years now. There is a feeling of boredom (not the correct word either) when at home that takes weeks to unravel. The bungalow doesn’t move, the streets do not rise and fall, the city deals with our waste, and the utilities supply ample electricity. A drive to another state does not require contacting customs.

Once home, it is blah until it isn’t . . . and then it is time again to leap into the unknown. But it is not time to think about that yet. Now it is time to leap!

Mistake I. Harbor, Maine

Chamcook Harbor

Chamcook Harbor is a small inlet off Passamaquoddy Bay. Passamaquoddy Bay is a larger inlet off the Bay of Fundy, and the Bay of Fundy is an even larger inlet connected to the Atlantic Ocean.

The tide here is seventeen feet, so when anchored in 21 feet at low tide enough anchor chain had to be put out for in six hours it would be 38 feet. 120 feet (all I have) of 3/8 inch chain was lowered connecting Carrie Rose to a hopefully well buried 45 pound anchor.

Chamcook has a pair of loons. Loons keep their distance unless they are trying to dissuade you from approaching their youngsters. The Chamcook loons did not get much closer than a football field. I was to begin my daily shakuhachi practice (Charlotte is a saint) when the loons started calling to each other. As much as they are the butt of jokes, their call penetrates the soul.

It was a cool night after a 94 degree day. The 100% humidity made it seem warmer than it was. I had a vivid dream about trying to find my apartment at the hospital, and got wrapped up in the sheet and blanket, quite frustrating.

The cloud shrouded sun rose at 4:50 AM. I managed to ignore it until six. I boiled water, made tea and toast, and sat down to eat when I noticed five black dots about 200 yards outside the port salon window. At first, I thought they were the eider ducks that flew by low to the water the day before. I grabbed my camera and took a few pictures before using the binoculars.

What I discovered was the loon family out for a swim. There were the parents and three young football sized youngsters. My experience with loons is that the kids are kept near the shore hidden from danger. The parents will be fishing but aware and will intervene if anything threatens their babies.

Carrie Rose has been stopped in her tracks by a couple of determined loons. So, to see the five of them together in the middle of the bay was a surprise and a treat. I went back to breakfast and when I looked up again there was only the parents. They had stashed the kids near the shore.

There was some commotion and suddenly the parents were airborne. One flew direct at me. I grabbed the camera again but it would not focus on the grey underside silhouetted by the sky’s homogeneous gray background.

Loons are big birds and powerful fliers once they manage to get off the water’s surface. Their large black feet stream behind the tail feathers. They joined in formation with one leader and a tail gunner, and flew out the opening of the harbor into darkening clouds and fog.

Sometime later, I thought I saw them again but there were only four. These were eider. A male I think and three young brown birds. They paddled to shore and simultaneously disappeared beneath the water only to pop up and start to preen. Carrie Rose makes a good perch to observe the local waterfowl.

Later that morning, mother loon and two beautifully marked siblings spent a few hours fishing to the north of us. The wind steadily increased from the west. We received some strong gusts but the bulk of the wind was pushed over us by the low slung hills.

All morning we had loons to the starboard and eiders to the port. The loons were more active but then they were older, already decked out in their adult plumage, whereas the eider mom had four small rust colored children to contend with.

She would fish ahead of them as they floated downwind. Each time she came up, she looked back to see them farther away until judging the situation untenable, she swam back to corral them and moved forward. They stayed in a neat little buddle, while the loons roamed freely.

The wind sped up and with one particularly strong gust, a large black bird flew over the western hills. It clawed high in the sky, hovered, blew downwind, and repeated the same maneuver until it was out of sight. It was big. I thought B-52, but then a B-52 would not have finger like feathers pointing horizontally in line with its long slender wings.

I captured a fuzzy picture of it hovering directly in front of me and noticed whitish feathers under the wings close to its body. It was an immature bald eagle fishing in the harbor, off the bays, attached to the Atlantic where Carrie Rose spent an eventful morning spying on the bird life.

Chamcook Harbor, NB, CA

Library

When in a new harbor town we make it a point to visit the library. It is a place to obtain local information; often it has local art and artifacts, and many times books for sale. The State of Michigan’s towns have the best selection of unique books. A few of them kept me entertained for years while cruising up and down the Great Lakes.

I wondered why these little libraries had such great books. Is it because a population of well-heeled summer folk with eclectic taste occupies the towns, or are the locals beneficiaries of a first rate education and the curiosity that comes with it. I admit to a big city prejudice in my thinking.

Here in St. Andrews, New Brunswick the library had a book sale in the sub basement. Though the books were not of interest to me there were magazines at five for a Loonie. I purchased four Small Craft Advisor and one The Sun. Small Craft Advisor is self explanatory (boats, of course) but The Sun requires an explanation.

The Sun is a skinny literary magazine with a few black and white photographs. I first found it online when I was trying to publish something, anything. They never did publish my work but I continued to read it in paper form when I occasionally bought a copy at the Women and Children First bookshop in Andersonville, on Chicago’s north side not far from my home.

After a few rejections, I realized my nonfictions stories were not depressing (or insightful) enough. The magazine is a beautiful piece of work and extremely well edited. It is palpable for the eyes, if that is possible. I was immediately drawn to it, and then, once reading had to stop.

I know that all is not right with the world, and due to my years in health care, I have experienced much of it. But my life has been blessed. The issues I have had have been of my own making.

I was raised in a loving family, had a delicious meal almost every night, did not want for much and the things I wanted I mostly got. I obtained a comprehensive education several times over and I am writing this from the pilothouse of my boat hanging on an anchor in a small cove in maritime Canada.

So, when I saw The Sun I thought I would give it another try. A poem, several letters to the editor, a compelling piece of non-fiction, and I had to put it down: too melancholy for a warm sunny day in New Brunswick.

Chamcook Harbor, NB, CA

Rafted

Welcoming Sir Tugely Blue

Our Vacated Pier

Night Scene with Fog


A quiet night spent rafted to Sir Tugely Blue due to Carrie Rose having to vacate the pier so as not to be burned to her waterline due to the Canada Day fireworks show, and due to the mornings subsequent cleaning of the pier by the St. Andrew’s fire department, and this was all due to the harbormaster having only one mooring available and due to me winning the coin toss but somehow ending up on the pier.

The sun came up clear and calm. The new inverter provided AC current to toast the bread, and a can of butane to boil water for tea and coffee. As the above was enjoyed, a small British racing green dinghy decisively rowed to a small sailboat of the same color.

I recognized the type of sailboat from a decades old article in WoodenBoat magazine. It is a Thunderbird made of plywood (a new material 60’s) in southern California, but don’t hold me to the particulars, you know how memory plays tricks.

The boat is distinctive because of its reverse shear: convex where most boats are concave. With the slight backward bow of the mast it looks tightly strung ready to spring off its mooring.

A middle aged man with some tawny hair intermix with grey, spent a long time futzing with the mainsail. He raised and lowered it. He flaked it on the boom and replaced the white sail cover with a green one. He was methodical.

In the mean time several whale watching boats came and went from “our pier”. The fire department drove down the quarter mile long pier and slowly hosed off the cinders left over from last nights (Canada Day) fireworks display. Fighter fighters seem to have all the time in the world until they have no time at all.

Carrie Rose and Sir Tugely Blue bobbed and spun around the mooring quietly apart even while connected by multiple ropes and separated by four large bulbous white fenders. My man on the green boat disappeared below only to throw up a sail bag and disappear below again.

It was a beautiful sight St. Andrew’s harbor that morning. The wind filled in robbing the morning of its calm warmth. I fetched my skull cape and flannel shirt, then blue jeans and a fleece vest. I stopped at the socks. It is July after all even if we are in the far Down East.

St. Andrews, Canada

6/30/2018

Very Low Frequency Antennas at Cutler, ME

Sunrise Over Mink Island, ME

Atlantic Clouds

Lobster Buoy On Steroids

Welcome To Canada

Canada Day Fireworks!


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