Weather

Curtis Island Revealed

August 14, 2021 is a good example of the types of weather we confront or I should say confronts us in a day. We can mitigate the effects of the weather with planning but not escape it. Weather forecasting has dramatically improved in the decades I have been boating and I am thankful for this. In the past weather radio and a barometer were the only adjuncts to looking out the window. 

 

The radio still exists and provides valuable, if longwinded, information and it is regularly updated. Now weather is mainly app based. And though I hate to say this there is too much information provided in too many formats. Excuse me if I sound like I am complaining. I am not. The more the merrier, bring it on, information is power.

 

Back to 8/14/21, we woke up in the fog. Not a great dense fog, that would happen later, but the usual morning see-through type of fog. The shore was shrouded, as was the open water beyond the lighthouse on the south end of Rockland Harbor’s breakwater. It was not too thick around us but I still had to get a small compass out to figure out which way to dingy to the showers in the dock master shed. 

 

During breakfast dense fog rolled down the hills on the northern end of the harbor. The sun rose, there was a mackerel blue sky above us but we were in a cloud. As noon approached, the sun began to win out over the fog at least on the land and in the harbor. Boats were visible on West Penobscot Bay. We choose to leave. 

 

This is a common occurrence. Fog clears on the land; on the water, it is a different story. I have been taken in by this charade many times. I know what to expect as soon as we leave whatever sanctuary we find ourselves in. The course is carefully plotted, charts are reviewed, radar and AIS are on, the radio is set to Channel 16, only then do we move out into what we hope is ½ mile visibility. Often it is not. 

 

On 8/14 we were lucky. It was a comfortable passage until two miles south of the destination, Camden Harbor. Out the pilothouse windows was only gauzy white. Channel 16 on the radio began to squawk with boats broadcasting their positions and their intentions to move out of Camden’s harbor. I did the same but for the opposite direction.

 

Camden’s harbor requires a careful two-step dance even in perfect visibility. To the south is imposing Curtis Island replete with its own lighthouse . . . never saw it. To the north are a series of broken rocks and islets known as N E Ledge . . . never saw those. Once in the outer harbor there is a channel of sorts that attempts to separate incoming and out going boats from the mooring field and from the large anchored boats that lie to either side. 

 

Unconventional navigational aids once seen helped guide us in as one tourist schooner and other working craft worked their way out of their familiar inner harbor. Carrie Rose slowed to a crawl and suddenly the inner harbor appeared. With a little radio back and forth, we confirmed the location of the float and gradually approached it. Charlotte lassoed the float’s cleat with the mid ships line and we landed. Engine off, fenders out, dock lines secured; we decompressed. Time for lunch!

 

The fog dissipated. The sky was blue except for the thunderheads southwest of Mt. Battie, the mountain off the back of the harbor. There was a reprieve in the weather. The sun shone and a mild breeze set in. I took the time to put the dingy in the water and ready myself to row to the dock house to check in.  It was not to be.

 

Just before departing I looked up and saw deep purple and black clouds which coalesced into a 40 MPH squall that brought with it thunder, lightening, and torrential rain, but thankfully spared us hail. Around us boats of varying sizes raced to safety. Some made it and others did not. 

 

In the time between seeing the menacing clouds and the storm I managed to tighten the dock lines, reattach the dingy to the stern, shut the ports and hatches, so was able to watch the short lived violent storm occur. 

 

If well prepared, there is a sense of appreciation to be allowed to witness the force of nature on a well prepared boat. The rain slowly lessened and in forty minutes the storm had headed NE to ravage its next victims. 

 

Steam drifted amongst Mt. Battie’s crevasses. The sky turned blue, the cool breeze returned, and the life of the harbor took up where it left off before the storm. It became muggy toward dinnertime, no matter. A crescent moon rose as the sun disappeared behind this small city’s crenulated waterfront. The few clouds left turned orange and red 

 August 14 was waning now. Town quieted down and the sound of the waterfall at the far end of the harbor filled in for the lack of traffic noise. Carrie Rose was calmer then she had been for days. Time to sleep.  

Rockland Harbor

Camden Harbor

Squall Line

Scary!

Curtis Island 

Mt. Battie

Hushed

 

This is a difficult thing to explain but I will try it. Maine has a secret society that is only spoken about in hushed tones. Reputed members take on a privileged reverence by the uninitiated. 

 

They carry no sign of affiliation on their vessels, but can be identified – without certainty – by where they abode. I say this because there are many imposters willing to risk retribution.

 

Like many secret societies, the object of their veneration is odd. In this case, it is a large white ball float with a sturdy plaited rope extending from it. Their placement gives them away. In the anchorages and harbors where the lay, they are usually placed just outside the common anchoring area. 

 

Thus isolated they draw attention to themselves and create tension within one’s psyche. In an odd twist of faith, these sentinels remain mainly empty tempting illicit use. 

 

There are many open moorings in Maine. Some have sir names written in childlike script. Some are marked PVT but most are simply numbered. Some cruisers seem to have one in every ideal anchorage, and other floats are handed down from generation to generation. But these are commonplace and do not wrestle with one’s soul. 

 

A cruise in Maine requires that certain behavioral patterns be chose. Most have to do with tide, wind, and current. These become easier with experience. But the adoration of the great white float is a dilemma not easy or even possible to resolve . . . even in hushed tones.      

Repair & Restore

 

With Carrie Rose repaired and a restorative 5 days spent in Northeast Harbor it was time to move on. Earlier this summer, we sent a check (yes, I said check: paper, envelop, and stamp) to secure three nights at the Sweet Chariot Music Festival on August 3, 4, and 5. It is held at the refurbished Oddfellow's Hall a mile from the dock.

 

We left Northeast Harbor after taking on fuel and water at Clifton Dock, a pricy but convenient stop just before exiting the harbor. Though not noted by either of us, this was CR’s 20 mile test run after her repairs. 

 

Swans Island is an outlying chunk of granite open to the North Atlantic from the south. It is noted its family run “kinder and gentler” lobster boats. The leaving and entering boats pass us slowly not creating a disruptive wake. The captains and crews smile and wave. They are not made up of the usual gruff males that seem to populate every other lobster boat closer to the mainland. This made for a pleasant repose. 

 

There is a sideline to this, we are miles from the mainland, and so a good portion of the audience came by their own boat, a unique crowd. A ferry comes from Bass Harbor on Mt. Desert Island to Swans Island's the northern shore, but once here I doubt there is anywhere to stay. 

 

The sizeable harbor was chockfull with anchored sailboats and a few powerboats including four Nordic Tugs. Returning from the concert a forest of anchor lights punctuated the darkness. Mist and fog dispersed the LED’s cool white pinpoints. It was mesmerizing even if that sounds contrite; it was a visual treat. 

 

The festival’s enthusiastic audience was out done by the fervor of the performers.

The each performer was introduced by the plucky Donald Day, the impresario. It was apparent that they were a family with ties that go back for decades. Each artist performed about three songs, most of their own creation. The stage was quickly set between acts and the sound was superb. 

 

The talent oozed off the stage to an audience willing to sing at every chance. That such talented folk survive in the cynical world we have constructed for ourselves is a miracle. Maine (at least the parts I have been exposed too) is particularly prone to nurturing this attitude of hope and peace. It might be time to look for an island . . .

Silent

 At 4 AM, it was dead silent. At 6:30, it was about the same except for the crows. 

 

The first boat noise was the captain of the magnificent lobster boat to starboard buzzing by in a Carolina Skiff ladened with buckets of Mobil diesel oil. His wake slapped on the hull stirring Charlotte. 

 

Gradually noise settled in. Noisy tires on the road to our east began intermittently only to become a steady stream. Outboard motors buzzed, dogs barked, generators kicked on, and diesels started to rumble.

 

It was now the gulls turn to make a ruckus. I looked out the stern hatch to see an osprey glide over, but they are silent unless a chick is screeching for a bite of fish. 

 

There are several small islands south of Northeast Harbor and several equally small ferries that service them began their daily too and fro. Just as I watched the first of them come in, a bald eagle flew across the harbor and alighted high on a tree across from us. 

 

Of course, this got the crow’s attention and they picked up where they had started at 6:30. The worldly din began in earnest; quiet will have to wait for sunrise.

 

 

Dreaming

It has been raining for 12 hours, mostly at night but also now into the morning. The biggest thing on my horizon here in Northeast Harbor is Dreams, a 100+ foot 5 story yacht. As is the custom these days, they come complete with a 30+ foot “chase” boat with three 400hp outboards attach to the stern. 

 

These boats are awkward appendages. They hang off the mother ship’s side or sideways off the stern. They are usually sleek craft that vie for outlandishly sci-fi designs, and vary in color dependent on the color of what they are appended too. 

 

The black/grey vessels have a Special Forces vibe; as if the crew would suit up their guests in black camouflage bulletproof vests instead of sky blue life preservers for the sunset cruise.

 

At twilight, Dreams’ appendage (white BTW) boarded its guest and took off south out of the harbor to try to find a sunset. The weather was deteriorating but it is a fast protected craft and I am sure provides a bit of excitement as opposed to the creature comforts provided by the larger ship.

 

An hour or so later it ghosted back. Being nosey, I reached for the Canon Image Stabilized 10x30 binoculars to watch what looked like Grand Ma and Pa and the Grand Kids get off. They disappeared into the ship and its lights flickered on from stern to bow. 

 

Moments later two crew returned, switched on the chase boat’s cold blue LEDs, and began to decontaminate it. This went on for an hour making me fantasize that the kids had a food fight with lobster bait while underway.

 

Though I am not proud to admit it, I doubt in 40 years of owning boats that I have ever given any such a cleaning. I definitely do not have the makings of super yacht crew.

 

The sky is lightening now. Neighboring boaters are baling flooded dinghies, taking dogs for walks, and taking themselves ashore for showers. Please excuse me if this sounds rude, but us boater are an elderly bunch. The men are gray and the women are mostly blond. We are teetering a bit but then we are still at it . . . hurrah!