Why?

Boats get a grip on people. Though I am one of them don’t ask me why. It has been so since I was a kid. And despite being prone to seasickness and terror during some of the worse weather Lake Michigan can throw at a small boat, my obsession has not faded.

I have like minded friends with whom I constantly chatter about boats but never does this aspect of boating come up. Many of us have blogs or Facebook sites. These venues do not usually lend themselves to psychobabble, so the topic is not discussed.

This year’s (2019) cruising is ending early. There are health issues that should not be delayed but believe me, when to end the cruise was given much thought. The common refrain being, “Well, it will only be a four . . . . three . . . . two months delay. What difference can that make?”

I should and do know better, so two months was decided on and here we are anchored in thirty feet of water at high tide with two days remaining.

There is a warmish south wind blowing over the North Haven bluffs. The sky is clear and a kind of blue grey. A classic Herreshoff 12 ½ sailboat is tacking back and forth across the harbor. The occasional gust surprises and it points into the wind to spill the air captured in its sails. This is an ideal spot.

We both had luxuriant hot showers by Carrie Rose’s standards. Soon the water will be drained and we might as well waste it on ourselves.

There are only a few sounds. The drum like dinghy plops in the short chop that streams by the boat. On shore, children exclaim their joy. A small plane appears over the treetops buzzing into the wind as it slowly climbs. The flag rustles.

See, this is what happens. I began with a philosophical purpose and now I have devolved into listening to a flag rustle. I mean what the hell else is a flag supposed to do!

Augusta, Maine

Pulpit Harbor

Osprey Landing Its Catch


There is a Hinckley masthead sloop off our port side. It is probably forty feet long and though its lines are sleek, it bobs in the light swell like an eider duck. Unlike modern sailboats that fill the water up with their entire length, this beauty has long overhangs: maybe not as efficient but striking.

These boat are the pedigree of Maine. The market has moved on to other things, so now Hinckley produces a classic series of state of the art powerboats. They have managed to keep their boats distinctive. The owners of these crafts treat them like fine watches. I have never seen one that was not perfect.

There are many fine designs represented in Pulpit Harbor. There is the resident mix of working and pleasure craft, and then there are the transients, like us, that come in here to fantasize about being part of this world.

It is a small subculture of summer people and natives, and I suppose us cruising folk that show up for a few days a year to anchor in the mud are part of the mix. The harbor is often the first or last stops for the windjammer fleet sailing out of the towns on West Penobscot Bay.

Carrie Rose tends to get into harbors early and that means she is able to pick her spot without the interference of other boats. The chart plotter has several anchor icons representing where she has placed her anchor before. This makes the process of anchoring less stressful. The correct decision has already been made, so now there is no need to fret.

Glide to the mark, let go the anchor, set it with a few reverse thrusts, and then settle in, look around, and wonder after fifty years of dreaming how did we end up here . . . .

Augusta, Maine

Floating

Maine is a magical place.

The land comes and goes, as do schooners,

Enveloped in fog, drenched in rain, and on occasion,

In gloriously warm sun.


Seal noses pop up from the depths.

Osprey fly off the tops of towering conifers to hunt in open bays.

Fish jump into circular waves that interact

And dissolve into chaos.


Unobtrusive lobster boats appear to do their circular jig

And depart in a cloud of black exhaust.


Tides and currents reinforce the natural world.


There are raindrops on the water.

There are campfires on the land.

There are clouds of mosquitos at the screens

Trying to bludgeon a way into warm mammalian skin and blood.


Beethoven’s first Piano Concerto sounds in the foreground:

Pastoral and aggressive . . . .

This moment floating off West Penobscot Bay.



Warren Island State Park, Maine

Antsy

Morning comes early in Maine. By 5 AM with the sun barely over the treetops, it is bright. The air is clear, barely anything exist here to pollute it. The sun’s rays travel unimpeded and in the process fill Carrie Rose’s batteries with electrons.

It is cloudy this morning. Not rain threatening cloudy but high broken clouds that are slowly moving to the NE. The band of blue sky over Camden will soon be over us.

At 9 AM, I am already four hours into the day and getting antsy. The launch, which will transport us off the water and on to the mainland has been ferrying boaters since 8 o’clock. It occasionally passes by and throws a wake our way.

There are racing sailboats crisscrossing the harbor, sailboarders doing whatever they do, and there are departing cruisers leaving the two red markers, which delineate the rock free passage, to their port.

The sun appears and with a flash, the harbor is full of rusty reds, dark greens, blacks and whites, and here and there, blues. The water is a deep violet blue speckled with dark grey. Polished metal glints in contrast to deeply varnished wood. And throughout these observations, I am thinking it is time to get going . . . . but going where?

With the sun, the pilothouse goes from the 60’s to the 70’s and it is time to lose the flannel shirt and socks. It is summer after all even if we are in Maine where the North Atlantic creeps in with every high tide.

Since I awoke, the barometer has risen two points to 30.00 mmHg. So maybe, the high pressure is pressuring me to get the day going even if in the end it is going nowhere.

Camden, Maine

Stinky

Some may feel that two people, especially if married for decades, might find a 32 foot motor yacht (no matter how well designed) confining. If a months long cruise, many times without the ability for onshore distractions, is added to the equation, then the argument for incompatibility grows stronger.

From me you will find no argument with the above. These tendencies need to be anticipated, discussed, and through negotiations and the occasional mediation, overcome. The fact that Carrie Rose is able to swing at anchor in Maine is a testament to the fact that it can be accomplished.

There are times when continued cohabitation is challenged. It is not like these are planned. They evolve from a series of unforeseen circumstances. This recently occurred on Carrie Rose.

Think of the boat as a high end RV with a propeller. There are numerous mechanical systems and as mechanical systems are prone to do, despite conscientious maintenance, they fail. There are (to borrow a word from past committee work) multiple root causes. In today’s crasser world the phrase that comes to mind is, shit happens. And that aphorism is especially true in this instance.

In the confines of the Great Lakes, it is forbidden to pump black water or effluent or whatever else it is called, overboard. To be caught, as unlikely as that may be, would result in keelhauling by the United States Coast Guard. Most fresh water sailors disconnect the overflow plumbing. That way if ever boarded by the Coast Guard there is plausible deniability. Carrie Rose found herself in this state.

But in the state of Maine, as long as not in confined spaces, our poop may mingle with that of whales and seals and porpoises. But I get ahead of myself. Boats can be particularly stinking places. There are countless offending agents. And many of them lurk and mingle, in dark, humid, and airless crevices.

Engine oil, diesel fumes, antifreeze, molds and mildews, errant holding tank gases ferment with salt and fresh water; it is a potent mix. It is a mark of a true yachtsperson to be able to brag of a dry bilge. Despite Carrie Rose’s numerous virtues, a dry bilge is not one of them.

There have been moments when no offending agents exist in the nether world but faith intervenes and the process of hunting down the source or sources begins anew. This was recently the case.

I feel I must warn, like on the radio when a racy or violent program is about to be aired that the more sensitive listeners turn the volume down for the announced time span. This may be the time to look away from the page.

A decision was made that due to Maine’s lack of holding tank pump out facilities Carrie Rose should have a way to empty her own waste tank. Of course, this would only be done outside the three mile limit of the United States territorial waters. It involved the installation of various new hoses, a Y-valve, and a device worthy of a starring role in a horror movie called a macerator pump.

I considered the task doable and even bought some of the parts, but as the winter progressed the thought of wedging myself into the confined and smelly place brought me to my senses. Thus, it was decided to let the mechanic at Carrie Rose’s boatyard tackle the installation. It proved to be a smart move as I had underestimated the complexity of the connections.

The process was completed with my constant cheerleading. Carrie Rose was now in the water and I was itching to try the new system out. There was only one caveat it needs to be full. Due to our finely honed and frugal head usage, this could require a month. To circumvent the delay I suggested we forgo the usual precaution against a fetid head and flush with salt water.

Understand that salt water is not a benign substance. It is corrosive. It is packed with the denizens, albeit tiny, of the deep sea. And there may be remnants of Maine’s ten common seaweeds. To seal these into an airless tank along with other unmentionables, to use a worn out cliché, is a recipe for disaster.

Now I might have got away with the experiment had I not forgotten that the holding tank vent filter had been done away with several years ago. The instructions state yearly replacement but at a cost of eighty dollars, it stayed in place for a half a decade. When it finally blocked the clear flow of air, I dispensed with it services.

The experiment went well for a few days. It was cold and there had been minimal intake but that was to change. Canada and Maine decided to break high temperature records and we had inhabited the boat for a week to ten days. Without warning, flushing the head enveloped the usually pristine Carrie Rose in a cloud of noxious fumes.

Charlotte, whose nose is not typically that sensitive, called out in fright. I, of course tried to minimize the severity of the situation we found ourselves in. We began to warn each other when the head needed to be used. And though there is no place to run and no place to hide, Charlotte would station herself on the aft deck in anticipation of the oncoming stench.

Our usual docile relationship turned contentious: mine with futile denials of being the causative agent of this disaster and Charlotte’s with demands for an immediate fix. Both were implausible. I immediately tried by phone, Internet, and on foot to procure another filter. All my efforts were stymied.

Out of frustration, I confided in Dave of the famously, on many coasts, pristine Sir Tugley Blue, our traveling companions. He had a solution, that if I could find the correct fittings, he thought it would work. It was a humble RV charcoal water filter. The charcoal provides the barrier from the stinky tank to the outside world.

I searched through my stash. It looked promising except for one adapter. By this time, the unhappy crew of Carrie Rose had made it to Belfast, Maine for the upbeat Celtic Music festival. Belfast is a thriving town with an old fashion hardware store, and a rare owner that knows where every piece of inventory, no matter how insignificant, lives.

I searched the unlabeled drawers and became dejected. Then I enlisted the help of a young sales assistant, who after taking one glance at the mess, mumbled that only the owner would know if the part exists. A stooped but smiling tall and lanky middle aged man appeared, and inquired as to what I needed: ¾ threaded to a one inch hose fitting adapter.

He hesitated for a second; his hand reached into the hidden depths of an outwardly random drawer and came out with the part. The rest was mere mechanics.

Within twenty minutes the part was installed, tested, and pronounced a success by the first mate. Life went back to normal but then I suppose if a normal life is what Carrie Rose’s inhabitants wanted they would not have left the bungalow on Talman Ave. nine summers ago.

Warren Island State Park, Maine

Windshield Time

Taking on fuel in Southwest Harbor, MDI

Sunset in Seal Bay, Vinalhaven, ME

Sir Tugley Blue in twilight blue

J.O. Brown, North Haven, ME

I practiced chiropractic in Mt. Prospect, IL during the 1980’s. One of my patients was a fortyish male who resembled Falstaff as portrayed by Orson Wells. He was a Bell Telephone technician. His back suffered from poor physical conditioning and from long bouts of what he called “windshield time”.

It was the coveted time spent driving from one assignment to the next. He would fondly describe listening to the radio while snacking on the junk food of the day. Though it didn’t help his back, he was content to erred towards the sedentary aspects of the job.

Out on the water, chugging along at seven or eight knots with no obstructions for miles ahead makes me think of my windshield time. And though the distances covered are trivial in terms of ocean sailing, I ask myself if I covet the passages or not.

In the Great Lakes, it was common to cruise for 50 to 90 nautical miles at a time, and to have no land in sight for much of the trip. Most of the time there was only the occasional 1000 foot freighter to contend with, and they stuck close to the shipping lanes.

Once out on the lake and away from the shore with its gaggle of fishing boats, the autopilot would be set, and the feet would be kicked up. An occasional glance out the window and at the radar was enough to assure a safe passage.

Piloting Carrie Rose up and down the east coast of Canada and the USA requires a bit more concentration. Here in Canada and Maine there is the constant presence of lobster buoys, and variations in tidal currents and sea levels. It calls for an odd combination of alertness, and for the loss of a better description, spacing out.

It is difficult to maintain constant awareness. Even when focused, other tasks need to be attended to. Before altering my attention, I scan the horizon, review the chart and course, note the engine gauges, and make sure the autopilot is engaged. It sounds like a lot to do but it only takes a few seconds.

Despite these precautions, more times then not, something will require an immediate response. Of course, it helps to have Charlotte’s eagle eye stationed in the pilothouse.

I wonder about the inevitable story after every accident involving a behemoth ship’s crash of there being no one at watch. These stories seem to me to be disingenuous. It may be that the crew and its leadership is incompetent, but it is difficult to imagine leaving a hundred million dollar vessel to fend for itself.

My original intent was to write about how windshield time plays with the mind. How hours and hours of starring out the window, no matter how concentrated, allows the mind to catch up with itself. To sort out, in all the neuronal crevasses, the connections, past and present, that needs to be eliminated or filed.

When on Carrie Rose for a while it is usual for distant faux pas to appear out of nowhere. I have accustomed myself to disregard them for there is no resident psychotherapist on board. Happier moments also via for time in the mind’s eye, and occasionally there is a struggle between the light and dark side. May the best memory win out!

I in the meantime will keep my eyes pealed for the slightest hint of trouble out the windshield . . . no matter the time.

North Haven, Maine

Eddies

The Bay of Fundy was never on the bucket list. Somehow, Carrie Rose ended up there through no fault of her own. The bay’s entrance is approached using the Grand Manan Channel, which is demarcated by the coast of Maine and Grand Manan Island. And as with most directions in Downeast Maine and New Brunswick, the path is more east than north.

The Bay of Fundy is noted for its extreme tidal ranges. Though Carrie Rose did not experience the full range, she was rising and lowering 25 feet twice per day. It is quite the striking visual to be surrounded by water and six hours later to be surrounded by land. The mud flats reach out and then recede in magnificently smelly glory.

The towns and anchorages within Passamaquoddy Bay were the destination. The bay is accessed two ways: one through the Quoddy and the Lubec Narrows (previously written about) and the other through Letete Passage, an opening amongst the archipelago of islands north of Deer Island. There are other ways but these are the most familiar.

As with the Lubec Narrows, the Letete Passage needs to be respected and the passage timed properly. On this transit, it was deemed that low slack tide was the best time, so to arrive there at 11:15 AM the anchor was raised in Digdequash Cove at 10:00 AM. It was a bit more then an hour at seven knots.

The water was alive with Canadian lobster fishermen finishing up a season of lobstering. Many lobster cages weighed down their stubby boats. They scurried from buoy to buoy doing the dance of the lobster boat: turn towards the buoy, bring it on the starboard side, grab it with the hooked pole, hook the line on the pulley and then onto the winch, bring it along side, open and empty it, bait it, drive a bit then throw the buoy in the water and let the cage slide off the back of the boat.

The boats swing around in a circle while this dance is taking place, and usually end up pointing in the same direction as when they first approached the buoy. Mesmerized by the process, I have to remember to look forward not to snag a buoy.

At the Letete Passage the whirling waters begin. The water becomes three dimensional as eddies wax and wane. Disrupted current creates a popular fishing venue for seals, birds, porpoises, and whales. Carrie Rose gets a few more RPM’s to help with directional stability and just to get through the maelstrom quicker.

Now out to the coast along Campobello Island, famous for Franklin and Eleanor’s summer estate. After visiting there I feel I could be on a first name basis with them or at least with Eleanor, and possibly even be invited for tea.

The island is twenty miles long and ends at the Quoddy Narrows. In the correct conditions to pass through Letete Passage unmolested, as they were during Carrie Rose’s cruise, the tide will be rising and with it, the current will be head on. The throttle eased forward in a vane attempt to keep going at least 6 knots against the opposing current. The water raised and lowered, twisted and turned for many more miles, at times only 4 knots appeared on the chart plotter due to the opposing current.

Mid trip, the Canadian/US border was crossed. It was time to use the new Customs and Boarder Protection CBP ROAM app. The app had been loaded with information concerning our status as US citizens, and Carrie Rose’s registration and physical attributes. With the iPhone switched on, a touch of the app’s “arrival” button took us into a world of online real time bureaucracy.

The first attempt was denied due to the officer seeing Charlotte sitting in the pilot’s chair while I scanned the inside of the boat with the phone’s video camera at his request. The second try was accepted after Charlotte’s data was reentered into the app.

In the meantime, the distraction of this could not stop the scanning of the ocean out the front window. The wind had increased from the southeast and the sea had become choppy. Enough so the waves were breaking over the bow and depositing intermittent sprays of salt water over the pilothouse windows.

At some point after the customs interaction the VHF radio on channel 16 announced our name twice followed by, “…this is Sir Tugley Blue.” A suggestion was made that instead of carrying on to the planned destination of Rogue Island we tuck into Cross Island instead. This would mean we would be off the big water and anchored an hour or two earlier then planned. Great idea, we altered course and took a deep breathe.

The entrance into Cross Island requires careful consideration as it skirts several small islands and hidden rocks, and requires sharp turns to avoid hazards. Also, Carrie Rose has left Cross Island heading towards Canada but never entered it while heading back. In fact, a week ago we had passed through this path in total fog, never seeing any of it.

The calm weather now decided to act up. The wind from the southeast strengthened and the current, now from behind, began to push.

To come into a new harbor or anchorage, or take an unfamiliar path at the end of a long day requires a heightened level of situational awareness. The autopilot is turned off, the radar is set for the proper distance, a quick scan of the chart to locate key markers and hazards, and then if possible, to slow down. In this case, Carrie Rose was left to ride with the current. It made the circuitous route stressful with the tradeoff being better control in the increased wind, waves, and current.

The tide was at high, and with forty feet under the keel the anchor was set with 120 feet of chain leading up to the bow. The gusty southwest wind blew over the island’s trees and swung Carrie Rose back and forth but the anchor held. The wind abated, dinner was served, and after a long eventful day sleep beckoned.

With the Bay of Fundy’s eddies now forty miles behind and with the Customs Border Patrol’s approval, a down comforter was pulled tightly around Carrie Rose’s two exhausted inhabitance. The warmth allowed for a moment’s reverie of unsought challenges, and an unimagined future.

Northeast Harbor, Mt. Dessert Island, Maine

Dewy

It is a smoky day in the St. Andrews by–the-Sea harbor. At 5:30 AM, Carrie Rose was a single boat, alone in the fog. The other boats and landmarks (as well as the sky) had disappeared. The temperature was cool, about 55 degrees which corresponded to the water’s temperature. Sweat pants, socks, a fleece vest, and skullcap were fitted to ward off the cold. On the back deck, it was dewy. Water was dripping off everything that water could drip off.

The aft hatch contains a tank of propane and the necessary valves to route the gas into the saloon’s stove and fireplace. The main valve, which stops the flow of propane to the saloon and the two smaller valves for the above appliances were opened. The heat from the small fireplace was welcomed. It also lowers the humidity and buys a little time before cups of tea can warm from the inside.

Carrie Rose is a couple of city block from the dinghy dock. Yesterday, the high tech electric outboard motor, which has worked flawlessly for a decade decided to have a fatal flaw. This means the oars must be put to use.

In calm conditions with a favorable current, it is not a long row to the dinghy dock but add wind, waves, and an adverse current and it can be quite strenuous. The motor’s failure leads to a crash course in upper body exercise and that lead to an achy back and arms.

The fog dissipates as the sun rises, and at 10 AM there is only haziness left on the distant shoreline. The town awakes, and the familiar beep, beep, beep of a large truck in reverse is the first sound I hear. Next, the traffic’s din fills in the silence, and then the rat-tat-tat of power tools finishes off the peace and quiet. A few raucous sea gulls follow the rumbling whale watching boats that once out the harbor mouth accelerate with loud crescendos.

When the harbor was still covered in fog, the loon cried out. The loon, for there seems to be only one, fishes by the seldom used west entrance of the harbor. Why it chooses to catch and swallow its prey here with the many wild places available near to here is a mystery.

The tidal range today in St. Andrews is 25 feet. Mud flats reach almost to the boat. The town’s matchstick pier is completely exposed, and when in close proximity gives off an odd not quite putrid odor. The mud is alive, full of little critters. Large whales are still able to find breakfast, lunch, and dinner in these coastal waters.

A fleet of whale watching boats leaves three or four times per day. There are whales here but Carrie Rose has only once come close to one, or at least to its back. The small fin looked out of place on the wide black back it was attached to.

The temperature of the boat has reached 70 degrees, so it must be sweltering on shore. It is time to go bake in the sun and mingle with the summer people that crowd this small town. It is time to substitute an ice cream cone for a substantial lunch, time to stock up on beer and wine at the provincial liquor store, time to get the oars in the dinghy and row.

Northeast Harbor, Mt. Dessert, Maine

One of those Days

First Sunset of the Cruise

Canada Day in St. Andrews

Fireworks off the St. Andrews Pier


Today was one of those days; up at 5:30, a quick breakfast then the pre-cruise inspection. There was 75’ of anchor chain laid out between Cross and Mink Islands, and it needed the mud hosed off most of the chain before our scheduled departure at 6:45.

I said it was one of those days, so the reason for the 6:45 departure was to arrive at the Quoddy Narrows at the last vestige of Maine in time to reach the Lubec Narrows Bridge at 10:18. And the reason for this was (for once) to try to cross from the Atlantic Ocean to the Passamaquoddy Bay at High Slack tide when the water would be calm.

If we reached it at the proper time then the current under the bridge will be minimal. If not then it makes for a hair-raising experience, as the entire bay begins to lower itself by twenty feet and much of its water passes under this bridge.

To reach the bridge at High Slack tide is the theory, alas we have yet to succeed coordinating the variables involved. Some of these include integrating the low and high slack currents with the timing of low and high tide. Another is the time zone: Eastern Daylight and Atlantic Daylight time, which here exist directly across from each other. And then there is the lack of data concerning the current at the Lubec Narrows. All these make the transit’s timing difficult to pin down. So far, we have been off by plus or minus an hour.

The timing error becomes apparent as Carrie Rose is being sucked through (if it is low to high tide), or struggles to transit the two bridge pylons of the Lubec Bridge (if it is high to low tide). Of course, it is not quite that simple. There are strong eddies above and below the bridge.

If there is one thing I know about Carrie Rose, if I fully engage the throttle she will plant her stern deep into the water and go straight. I have only had to do this a few times, most notably on the New Jersey coast and now in northernmost Maine.

At this point in my boating career, I should know I better but as we say in the Tea Ceremony: One meeting, one time. Each attempt is unique. I should end this tale now but there is more. Please feel free to stop reading at any time. You will not hurt my feelings.

As I mentioned above, we left Cross Island in Maine early this morning. A horrendous dream woke me and got up to look around. The entire anchorage was shrouded in fog. I could barely see the glow from Sir Tugley Blue’s anchor light. I crawled back into bed and I awoke at 5:30.

The surrounding fog was gone, but this was nature being deceitful. It did not take long for the fog to enveloped us once out onto the Atlantic. To add to the fog there was squall after squall. Their only benefit being to temporarily blow the fog away.

More events took place: whirlpools, a pissed off (I did inadvertently yelled at him) hulk-like Canadian border patrol agent, and more cold rain and fog.

Now on our mooring, the rain has stopped, the winds have calmed, and the cloud ceiling has risen. There may even be a sunset and tomorrow it is predicted to be sunny and in the 70’s. All is well.

Oh, did I forget to mention that the water hose popped off the hot water heater and sprayed 50 gallons of water over the engine room (an easy fix if you can believe it) as we approached the Narrows. I think it is time to have a glass of wine, a bite to eat, and go to bed!

St. Andrews, New Brunswick, Canada