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