I had a spell of claustrophobia after we entered Seal Bay. It is a circuitous path into the bay. Of course, I say Vinalhaven like it is one island but islets abound. There is one tricky patch of clear (above, not below) water between David’s Island and a mound of granite called Turning Rock.
Though I know to loop around the rock, a gremlin perched on my shoulder insisted I drive Carrie Rose onto the submerged rocks. Being of sound mind and body (not so sure), I resisted the temptation.
I grew up with stories of saints who also resisted temptation. The good sisters of St. Hilary’s were excellent at creating persistent synaptic connections, and the graphic images in the catechism textbook continue to linger.
Even while floating in the bay’s 50 degree water, it was one of the few hot and humid days this summer. I shielded us from the sun as best I could. The afternoon was spent on the stern swatting black flies. For reasons unknown to me, the thought of spending days in this beautiful and well protected anchorage dismayed me.
Seal Bay’s only deficit is not having a place to walk. Most of the surrounding islands are either small or private. As far as I knew there were no trails.
Charlotte as usual understood my idiosyncrasies. She suggested that the next morning at high tide we circumnavigate the bay in the dinghy. Morning came slowly as usual. Syphon coffee was made. Due to the organic chemistry lab nature of its preparation, I only make it in a stable anchorage when we are planning to spend the night.
We spilt a homemade farmers market Irish muffin. It was thick and was full of perfectly shaped holes that sucked up the butter and Maine blueberry jam. Time passed, it was hours before the dinghy was lowered into the water and the motor attached.
Down wind was a sturdy double ended cruising sailboat with Tibetan prayer flags flying where yacht club burgees usually do. Its woodwork was painted purple and its name, Star, was proclaimed in glittery cursive script along it stern. I knew I should go there.
A young unattached couple reclined in the cultured cockpit. I introduced myself by exclaiming they had the most colorful boat in Maine. It was revealed that they had sailed from their sultry homeport of Key West, Florida, only to find cold, fog, rain, rocks, and the beauty of Maine. They took comfort when I explained that 2021 was an anomaly, for us at least.
I lamented that Seal Bay lacked one thing, a place to hike. Immediately they piped up saying there is a trail. It is around the two small islets off to our left and marked with a pink ribbon hanging in a tree. Bidding them farewell, we went in search. We hunted and pecked into several rock strewn coves until a more orangey-red than pink ribbon appeared.
Huber Trail is a two mile magnifying glass shaped, well worn marshy trail. It was warm but not too warm. It was wet but not too wet. A chatty family’s black pit bull greeted us with a lunge and a growl. While the father restrained it explaining it was safe, the mother whispered that she thought he had trained it not to do that. Then further along the trail we stopped to watch a large woodpecker pounded away at a tree’s bark.
The trail’s head was not much further and that is where, along the Around the Island Road, we read the signage for the trail. When we got back to the cove, the tide had raised a few feet and the once beached dinghy was floating. We scrambled aboard, muddy shoes and all. Had a floating lunch of water and half a Cow’s Tail candy bar, and rowed for the first 100 yards, as the water was too shallow to put the engine down.
It seemed the fear of confined spaces had left me. The crew of a star and flag strutted sailboat from Key West had cured me. Key West, a destination that leads to many epic voyages . . . how appropriate.
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