Busy Little Harbor

The hatch above my bed starts to lighten at around 5 AM. For most of my time on Carrie Rose, the hatch was opaque due to years of sun exposure and harsh cleaning. This year over the winter, it was reconditioned due to a leak that I had effectively but grossly fixed with black duct tape.

So now, when I look up I can see the state of the sky. Most often this summer it has shown an amorphic white due to fog and low clouds, and so it was that morning. There was also a crocodile skin pattern of water droplets left by the rain from the night before.

I quietly slid out of bed not to wake Charlotte and climbed into the pilothouse. Grey with low clouds and mist, not really rain and not really fog. Here in Maine, it rains but the droplets are so fine that they defy gravity and stay suspended in the air. It is not so much that the rain falls on me but that I walk through it.

The first task was to warm up the boat. To do this I venture out on the stern and open the rear storage/propane locker. Many years ago I gave up on the electrical solenoid system for managing propane and replaced it with a series of valves connected to a regulator. It requires diligence but the simplicity more than makes up for the extra effort.

That done I made a cup of tea and stood looking out the front window towards the shore. The lobster boats were beginning to move about. They crossed in front and to the side. They backed off the harbor’s wharf, and spun off their mooring and floats, while their rough workboats scurried back and forth. There is always the soft rumble of diesel engines idling when lobster boats are about. They run from the moment the captain get on their boat until they leave for the day.

As I pondered this the Cranberry Island ferry and mail boat both arrived, loaded their passengers and gear, and left. Little and Great Cranberry Islands sit about two miles south of Mount Desert Island and these two small boats supply most of their needs. The islands endure most of the Atlantic’s swell and storms making Northeast Harbor a comfortable refuge.

Now boaters from other parts of this long and narrow harbor start to make their way in to the overflowing dinghy dock. The first of them had anxious dogs mounted nose first straining for the odor of land and not stinky fish. The next wave of boats pass with various parcels and bags headed for the harbor’s showers and the town’s only grocery store.

The dinghy dock is a conglomeration of small boats of every description. They swing in the current and wind. And this being a premiere boating location, plus the epicenter of traditional craft, the dock, though mainly inhabited by rubber monstrosities, has many examples of finely crafted wooden boats and their fiberglass equivalents.

The approach to a dock like this can be daunting. The boats form a bulwark, there seems to be no place to tie up. As the amorphous mass comes into more detail, we search for any weak spot in the wall of pontoons and outboard motor propellers. When a weakness is seen we head for it and usually, some head butting is required. Boats are swung left and right as our dinghy’s nose nudges in. Once tied up, de-dinghy-ing is another story for another entry.

The boat’s salon is warm now, so I go to the stern to turn off the propane, and there noticed Poseidon. I have seen her before. She is a beautifully muscular example of a lobster boat, a little on the large size but perfectly proportioned. I need to provide some details about lobstering for the rest of the story to make sense.

Lobsters must be a hardy lot for all the manipulation they are put through. To begin with they are trapped in metal cages where they can spend many days before being harvested. To do that they are pulled up from as far as 300 feet, and if they are the proper size and gender thrown into a tank of circulating seawater with their other brethren.

Once the boat returns to the harbor, they are sorted and packed into ubiquitous grey plastic crates that weigh one hundred pounds. The stern men will, after attaching them to a common line, unceremoniously throw the crates into the water. I have seen these crates float for days besides the lobster boat’s mooring. They constitute the lobstermen’s bounty.

This is where Poseidon comes into the picture. As far as I have observed this system is unique to Northeast Harbor but I could be uninformed. As I said it is a large open ended boat with a captain and two stern men. With its center mounted crane it travels from mooring to mooring fishing out each lobstermen’s crates.

They are loaded on the after portion of the boat like piling up bags of cement on the bed of a pickup truck. It has an unique sprinkler system that keeps the lobsters watered. There are so many crates that the boat seem perilously low in the water and unusually sluggish to maneuver. Full of crates, it makes its way to the wharf where the crates are lifted off and into a waiting refrigerated truck.

It is the end of August and I have overheard the summer people asking each other when they are leaving. Soon recreational Maine will give way to wintering Maine, and the busy little harbor will be left to its business without interference.

The cold will bring a respite, if not from the weather than from the tourist. This busy little harbor will be left to pursue its real purpose, supplying the world the hard shelled creatures that make Maine viable. And so, a day goes by in this busy little harbor on this busy little island.

Northeast Harbor, Mt. Desert Island, Maine

Phenomena

Phenomena

At first light, the lobstermen wake Carrie Rose as they transit to their boats. And not long after sunrise, other lobster boats wake Carrie Rose as they stream in to check their traps. I am usually up with the former, go back to bed and have the latter wake me up for good. Fishing is just one of the phenomena that occurs here on mooring ball #14 in Herrick Bay, Maine.

When the moon disappeared this month of August, the tide was particularly low. Where I usually have 8 to ten feet under me at low tide, there was less that five. It rendered my outboard useless at the floating dock where the water was less than three feet.

All the obstructions to navigation around the dock became visible. New smatterings of rocks appeared throughout and the bay’s boat traffic halted for several hour pre and post low tide.

Then there is the fog. Locals have told me that this year has been particularly bad. It rolls in and it rolls out. It hugs the water only to rise and hug the shore. At times the water particles that make up the fog are visible, each one its own entity. And with the fog comes the cold. One moment there is the sun’s warmth, and the next the fog’s chill. It makes choosing the day’s wardrobe a lesson in compromise.

One morning I awoke to a fog so dense that I could not see the boats around me. A steady breeze was blowing from the southeast and there was a hint of blue sky above me. I was tinkering in the pilothouse when I noticed that the fog had cleared around me and had coalesced into a parabola shape streaming off Carrie Rose’s bow and stern. It was rainbow-ish: more shades of browns and purples than the usual Technicolor.

As the boat swung, it undulated but stayed attached. I went to the bow and took pictures and a three minute video, and then I thought that I should just watch it. And so, I did until it slowly widened and disappeared deep into the bay. I know you are going to ask if I checked the boat for a pot of gold, I did not, figuring that boats are more generators of debit than revenue.

The night before my personal rainbow I was sitting below in the salon. It was dark and foggy. There were only a few dim lights visible on the shoreline and the ghostly yellow hue of my solar garden light illuminated the stern. The lights in the pilothouse were off as I walked up the stairs where I confronted a brilliant 7/8ths blood orange moon about 30 degrees off the horizon. Its reflection was streaming towards me and the entire bay was ablaze.

It took me by surprise. I was expecting a void and instead I saw an otherworldly landscape of water, islands, and boats silhouetted by the moon’s bronze glow. I almost fell back into the salon. Of course, I went for my camera in an attempt to capture the few photons streaming around the boat’s wobbling platform, impossible. Again, as with the rainbow, I gave in to the image and watched.

Some days later, after a day of rain and fog and threatening thunderstorms the skies began to clear. It was close to sunset, so I kept watch on the western horizon. The skies were chaotic enough to offer a chance for a stunning sunset, always welcome after days of low clouds.

A thunderstorm passed in the distance. It’s lightening was audible as it headed to the northeast. The girth of the storm seemed to draw in other substantial clouds, which began to organize on the horizon. I have seen clouds like these before. They are roll clouds that form, if I am correct in my analogy, like the vapor seen on the front of jets wings. Pressure causes the humid air to condense and become visible.

Though these clouds look formidable, they usually do not presage a violent occurrence. Nonetheless, I do not ignore them. My eyes were drawn into their pure symmetry and relentless movement. I prepare for the worst but am most times relieved by their inconsequential passing. They seem to signal an end to the chaotic weather, but on occasion portent a worsening. So, I stay beware and count my blessings if they pass silently.

There are other stories but my computer’s battery is getting low and the two fingertips that I am using to type this are sore, so I will stop. Phenomena are one thing, despite the challenges, that keep folk like me on the water. May they all be benign!

Brooklin, Maine

Photo Montage

Sunrise in Herrick Bay

Osprey on Pulpit Rock

Fog Rainbow on Herrick Bay

After the Storm on Herrick Bay

Schooners in Pulpit Harbor

Off the Stern, Herrick Bay

Companionship

Conferring in Northeast Harbor, Mt.Desert Island, Maine

Seal Bay, Vinalhaven Island, Maine

Seal Bay is an anchorage on the east coast of Vinalhaven Island. It has a circuitous route in. Carrie Rose left North Haven Island to the east and passed between Oak Hill and Burnt Island, and then into a small channel defined by North Haven’s coast with Dagger and Downfall Islands to our port. This lead into East Penobscot Bay where we skirted the Fox Island thorofare to the west and entered Winter Harbor.

Before heading in too far we turned 90 degrees to the left and motored between Hen Island and the pile of exposed rocks that separate the channel from Penobscot island. Now in Seal Bay, we took another 90 degree turn to the right to avoid another pile of rocks, and then left 90 degrees to miss Hay Island, which was directly off the bow and then looked for a place to acchor.

Carrie Rose dropped the hook in 11 feet at low tide just before another Burnt Island. There are numerous Burnt and Seal islands, bays, and harbors on Maine’s charts, which I suppose speaks to the history of this distinctive state. Sir Tugley Blue followed us in and anchored 50 yards to the port.

Two Cape Dory sailboats were anchored just in front of us. These are nice examples of good old traditional fiberglass cruising sailboats. Next came two older but upscale sailboats, one of which rigged their dingy with a sail and took what seemed like grandpa and grandson for a brisk sail around the bay. After a short instructional sail the floppy hatted boy was let loose on his own where he showed much aplomb.

Later in the afternoon a 40-ish chunky trawler and a sleek black sailboat anchored across the channel from us, and in no time their dinghies were lowered and tied up together on the back of the trawler.

While I was watching their reunion, a classic cream colored wood day cruiser and its companion sailboat festooned, which was with water toys for a gaggle of kids, snuck in and anchored behind us.

So, except for one large trawler anchored deep in the cove, Seal Bay was populated with five pairs of like minded folk. Five pairs that were safer for travelling together.

As the night settled in, the wind calmed. Anchor lights popped on like so many fire flies, and everyone I am sure slept sounder knowing that their companions were close at hand.

Blue Hill, Maine

Precautionary Tale

Flexibility is important when cruising. Wind, water, waves, and machinery require a close watch. Situations can change at a moments notice and it helps if precautions have been taken to mitigate the damage or inconvenience. Along these lines is also the home front. I do not have many concerns at present but Charlotte has two 93 year old parents, one of which she is the caretaker.

This is the seventh summer that Carrie Rose has disappeared over the horizon. Wind, waves, weather, and machinery have had their issues but the home front has been quiet except for this year. Charlotte’s dad [Hi Seymour, I hope you are feeling better] had, let us just say, some gastrointestinal problems and was hospitalized.

As the drama unfolded, we were anchored in Seal Bay on remote Vinalhaven Island. The phone miraculously worked and through consultation with family, friends, and support staff, Charlotte decided to head home. This meant getting back to Herrick Bay and Atlantic Boat Company, our home base.

A route was entered into the Garmin chart plotter and other sundry devices. With the diesel fired up, we started for Herrick Bay. The bay is 21 lobster buoy infested miles away through Merchants Row and up Jericho Bay. The next morning at first light the Honda headed for Bangor International Airport and Charlotte to Chicago. So, until Charlotte gets back Carrie Rose and I are on mooring #14 in the middle of the bay.

Out on the bay, the tides rise and fall ten feet, the lobstermen leave at 4:30 in the morning, and the dock is a two block dinghy ride east. Carrie Rose has to deal with whatever weather develops. The bay has long fetches from the south and the north, so when the wind pipes up from those directions it can get rough. Add to this the effect of the current running in and out all day, and it can get uncomfortable.

The third night out the weather got nasty. I listened to the weather radio and somehow dismissed the forecast. Do not ask me why. Wind, rain, and thunderstorms were clearly announced. Usually forecast with T-storms get my attention but that night it did not connect through my torpor.

I had drinks and dinner with the crew of Sir Tugely Blue and motored out to the boat through a fine mist. Once on board I realized that even though Charlotte had only been gone a day, I had cluttered every flat surface. I can’t live like this so, I started to tidy up, and as I did the weather deteriorated.

If Carrie Rose was anchored, I would have been paying close attention but moorings breed complacency. Finished with my tasks I grabbed a book and went to bed. The boat was gyrating; rising, and falling as the sizable waves passed under her. It was noisy: a combination of the wind hollowing, the waves crashing, the boat creaking, all normal sounds in rough weather. I settled into pages of 15th century Florence and Rome papal intrigue when I heard (and felt) a couple of loud thumps. It could only be one thing, the damn dinghy I left on a long painter tied to the back of the boat.

My standard practice with T-storms in the forecast is to put the dinghy in its proper place out of the water on the swim platform. Of course, this meant the outboard engine needed to taken off and stored. Since I was too lazy to do it when there was light left in the sky, and the waves and wind were small, I now had to do it in the dark with the wind and waves building.

I put the 15th century down and proceeded to get suited up: rain jacket and pants, sou’wester hat, boat shoes and life vest. With a flashlight in my pocket, I ventured out the backdoor into the rain. The first rule I learned on the first sailboat was: one hand for the boat and one hand for yourself, in that order. It was told to a clueless eleven year old in the utmost seriousness by the manic captain of the Thien Hau. I continue to heed his advice.

Here are a few boring details that need to be mentioned. The dinghy, when stored, rests on the back of the transom attached to the swim platform by two oddly shaped clamping mechanisms which require two stainless steel loops to be placed on the platform. These two loops are held on by two clevis pins, and have spent most of their lives attached, except for that night.

I assumed it was going to be a rough night and since the dinghy has a tendency to float up behind the boat and whack into them I had taken them off. Now I know what you are thinking, if I went to the trouble of removing them why didn’t I put the boat away…I know, stupid. So, when I pulled the water filled dinghy up to the stern and put the dinghies clamping mechanisms in place and went to clamp the boat on, I realized that the loops were not there.

These loops are tenuous at best. They hang off the back of the platform and are held in place by small pins. Even in the best of times, putting them or taking them off requires concentration so as not to lose them overboard. I let the dinghy stream back into the night and retrieved the loops.

Now here I needed two hands for the boat, one to hold the loop securely in place and the other to put the pin in. I did this while kneeing on the gyrating platform with the water slapping its under side, and me all the while thinking Charlotte will never forgive me if I fall off into the bay’s fifty degree water.

With the tasks completed, I drew in the dinghy and snubbed the painter in. Now I had to swing the recalcitrant dinghy sideways to attach it to the loops but I had tied the painter too tight. The dinghy could not lay flat against the platform. Another thing I have never done and I did it twice that night.

I reattached the painter and with a little muscle (all I have left at this point), it clanked in place. This is not a position that it likes to be in. It bounces, it slaps, it threatens to tear its connections apart. I never leave it there for long, always pulling it up on the back of the transom where it rest proudly and displays the name Carrie Rose and its homeport of Chicago. That night though, I had to get the outboard motor off.


This is not your average outboard. It is a quirky three piece lithium powered GPS monitored West German made electric contraption. It is in the middle of the bouncing dinghy just barely within arms reach. Remember the one hand rule, well it worked to get most of it apart. It has two electrical cables that need to be unfastened. Then the throttle and tiller arm can be detached. Next comes the large awkward battery that needs to be pivoted 90 degrees. They say it will float but if it fell in here, it would float into the North Atlantic and beyond.

Then the tricky part, the shaft with the motor and prop. It is attached to the back of the dinghy's transom by two vice like screw clamps. I could not reach it without getting in the dinghy and I was not going to do that. So, I started to pull the dinghy up to the stern. This was harder than usual because of the shaft and the accumulated water resting in the bottom.

I slowly pulled and it slowly came up with the shaft pointing up to the dark sky in a precarious angle. I huddled on the swim platform and let the dinghy rest on my shoulder while I loosened the clamp with one hand and held the shaft tightly with the other.

There was no way around it, it was going to drop, and drop it did. The prop and a good half of the shaft splashed salt water in my face as it hit the bay, but I had a good hold on it.

Now out from under the dinghy, I made fast the lines. I slowly made my way down the stairs into the salon. Took off my wet gear, stowed what I could, and lay down in the berth to pick up the 15th century where I had left it 30 minutes before. I awoke with the sun and looked out into dense fog and the now mirror flat bay we floated in . . . a little less flexible.

Oxford, ME