August 21, 2025

A boat is a good place to inventory one’s life or at least, one’s stuff. Each year before traveling to Maine to board Carrie Rose we are obligated to decide what to bring. And each year this differs depending on what remains on the boat and what we brought home. Some years we have separate “boat” clothes and “car” clothes and are careful not to mix them. 

Keeping the clothes on the boat in an unheated shed for eight months seemed a good option until we realized that leaving them nurtured a moldy old book smell. They demanded to be washed before we set sail: an annoying way to begin the cruise. So now at the end of the season we take all the clothes home. Sounds simple enough but this means we must decide which clothes to bring back. 

 

In May the questioning begins: “What clothes are you bringing this year?” Due to our, or at least my, increasing ineptness we have to reinvent-the-wheel each year. I take most of my clothes out of the closet, the drawers and wherever else they are hiding, and spread them on the bed in the spare bedroom. Too engrossed in my own process I’m not sure what Charlotte does. 

 

Many of these articles of clothing have served me well, and many need to be donated to a worthy cause. When my mother was compelled to throw out a particularly worn shirt I’d tell her, “Mom don’t, it has just broken in and it is so comfortable.” No matter that I threatened her, she usually waited until I left for work and then threw it out.

 

In some ways Maine makes the selection easier. The temperature rarely climbs into the seventies. I choose alpaca over cotton socks, flannel long sleeves over flimsy short sleeve cotton shirts, long legged multiple pocket pants over shorts, and easily dryable synthetics over more comfortable natural fibers. Down jackets get packed with various wool vests and of course, to keep my bald head warm I bring several skull caps. 

 

Still, even though it is Maine, it will be summer. We plan for the not-always- inevitable 80 degree days: shorts, light weight T-shirts and a bathing suit even though we know they will only take up space and unnecessarily add weight to the luggage. 

 

This year Maine was warm with almost no rain. The fog mainly stayed out to sea, and there were only a few days of cold north winds. I say it was warm even though we slept under two down blankets most of the time. I know I am speaking in riddles, so be it. This is precisely the reason it is difficult to pack. 

 

Carrie Rose does not help in this matter. There is a 10 degree variance in temperature from the salon to the pilothouse and down again into the forward sleeping cabin. The difference between these rooms is only 3 to 4 stairs. While I lounge on the pilothouse bench in a t-shirt with the doors open, Charlotte huddles under a blanket below in the salon. 

 

These thoughts are coursing through my mind as I look at the clothes splayed on the bed. This year I couldn’t concentrate, gave up and packed it all. My backpack was overstuffed and abnormally heavy. When I got to the boat it was a chore to fit the clothes into my two allotted drawers. I spent the summer emptying them each time I needed a pair of socks or a clean pair of underwear. 

 

I understand that loyal readers [if you made it this far, thanks!] are expecting tales of our latest harrowing adventure and that a diatribe about these mundane details may force you to search elsewhere to satisfy that need. I totally agree if you make that decision and I accept full responsibility . . .  after all my indecision deserves no less.

Lebanon, NH

August 12, 2025

 

Everyone was out fishing yesterday morning. I was awakened at 5:30 AM by the wheezing and rumbling of a lobster boat’s engine. It was a small one person boat – the kind that are quickly disappearing here abouts. He was in the process of spooling out approximately 80 to 100 feet of gill net behind the boat as he drove in a tight circle. These boats remind me of the small British sport cars of the 70’s in their maneuverability.

 

Once the net was completely in the water and floating free, he circled clockwise repeatedly. This, I figured, was driving the fish’s gills into the shear net. After a pause the hauling began. The net was full of pogies and as the lobsterman pulled the net into the boat he grunted and groaned. Periodically he stopped and talked to himself in short outburst. My thought was each fish meant another dollar towards his daughter’s college tuition. But I suppose it could be his son or maybe both.

 

With the net fully recovered he separated the fish’s gills from the net and commenced the process over again. This time he ventured into shallower and shallower water. About this time, we were heading for the dock in our dinghy and saw a solitary figure in another dinghy racing out to him. A short conversation ensued with the fisher apologizing for disturbing the anchorage as he slowly exited the harbor.

 

Without the disturbance, the rest of the fishers became apparent. A seal surfaced; a cormorant popped up and swallowed a fish about half its size; gulls skimmed the water’s surface for breakfast; an osprey arrived, plunged and left with a wiggling fish perfectly aligned in its talons.

 

But the stars of the show were the artic terns. I had not noticed their toddlers stationed on three mooring balls to the west of us. Their scratchy high pitch pleading for sustenance was annoyingly cute. The sleek parents crashed into the water again and again, successful a third of the time. The catch was a two inch long sliver of a fish whose scales gleamed in the morning sun. 

 

While in flight they tempted the chicks with the fish. As I saw it the chicks needed to pull the morsal out of the parent’s beak. If not it moved on to another one of the three siblings balancing on the large white balls. 

 

Humans, other than lobstermen, have no interest in the abundant pogies. In the 13 years we have been plying these waters, I have barely seen a fishing pole let alone a sports fishing boat.

 

The fishing reached a crescendo at 9AM and then settled into a steady cadence. We had breakfast and then decided if we should decide to have an agenda or not for the day. If the boats around us are leaving, now is the time their anchors start to racket up. The local eagles do a fly by as the wind begins to fill in. It’s summer here in Maine, at least for the next week and then . . .

NE Harbor, Maine

August 8, 2025

Every cruising boat needs at least one other boat, a dinghy. But there is no reason not to carry other types. Carrie Rose has two and at times has had as many as four. Our boats are wood and have the distinction of being made in the Chicago bungalow’s basement. The first is the 8 foot dinghy which resides on the stern, and the second is a 9 foot double paddle canoe which lives atop the pilothouse. The first gets a lot of use, the second not so much.

 

To propel the dinghy, I rely on either oars or in most cases an electric outboard. I have had electric outboards for several decades. Up until two years ago it was rare to see another one at the dinghy dock. I enthusiastically fielded questions from inquisitive boaters about the functionality, range, battery life and length of charging. My proselytizing paid off because now they are common place.

 

In the thirteen years I have had this recent motor there have been two electronic glitches and one battery failure. The first glitch left me with only oars for propulsion due to a hidden fuse that only a distant service tech could replace. The second glitch required the main cable to be replaced. This I accomplished on the pilothouse's long seat while watching YouTube videos of the process. As for the battery, which died after 12 years, it was replaced by a more powerful and to be expected, more costly model.

 

I’m not complaining. I have watched my fellow boaters go through much gnashing of teeth trying to make their gas outboards start. Plus, many of the older outboard will not run on unleaded gas and leaded gas is difficult to obtain. I simply plug in the detachable battery to Carrie Rose’s 110 volt socket while we cruise from one destination to another. 

 

A benefit of wooden boats is that since I made them, I can fix them. Now you may say what does one need to fix and to that I would say, you’d be amazed. Once while on land I attempted to secure the dinghy to the swim platform. I miscalculated the force of gravity and flipped it 180 degrees off the back of the boat. It cracked with such a report that most of the boatyard came running to save me. 

 

On several other instances, while backing out of a slip I inadvertently used the dinghy as a fender to absorb the full force of Carrie Rose hitting a large post in reverse. Again, as the dinghy cracked with such a noise that there was nowhere to hide my embarrassment from the ever present shoreside gawkers. 

 

The canoe, sitting atop the pilothouse, absorbed so much sun that the fiberglass delaminated from the wood. This allowed moisture seep between the two surfaces and mold began to flourish. Thus, requiring me to detach and replace all the bottom's fiberglass. Sun and salt water go a long way at destroying a boat’s fine finish and on the dinghy, the exposed surface deteriorated to the point that required me to stripped the varnish off and replace it with paint.

 

Of course, if I had been more diligent none of the above would have happened. When I think back I wonder why I ignored the worsening situation. A little maintenance could have kept both boats pristine. I carry enough epoxy, fiberglass cloth, paint and varnish to accomplish any maintenance or repairs. Just plain laziness, I suppose. 

 

Charlotte and I have been cruising for close to thirty years and sometimes, especially at the start of the season, it feels like it. I am not embarrassed to say that it is a little more difficult to raise our legs, bend our knees, keep our balance. Docks, whether they truly are, seem too high and the dinghy too low. We try to be graceful but most often climb in with a bang and climb out uttering words your grandchildren only hear from the president.

 

Recently I have found myself eyeing a uniquely designed rubber dinghy that looks easier to embark and disembark from. Most cruisers have rubber inflatable dinghies. There is no denying that they are stable. That they move quickly with the appropriate motor. That when landing on rocks or sand do not scuff the bottom paint off because on most cases they have none. That said, in Maine many a boat tows a beautiful wooden dinghy behind them. 

 

Carrie Rose, coming from the Great Lakes, never tows anything behind. We grew up cruising in unprotected waters with tens of miles between each harbor, and the tendency for unexpected storms to arrive while still miles from refuge. A trailing dinghy could easily catapult itself onto the stern while racing down a following wave. 

 

The other day we sat watching a paddle boarder’s effortless cruise around the harbor. Charlotte mentioned that maybe we, yes we, should consider such a craft. I admit that I have had similar illusions in the past but I let the comment waft away in the breeze . . . after all, the thought of another boat getting not much use was reason enough not to respond. 

Somes Harbor/MDI, Maine

August 4, 2025

 

The cities on East Penobscot Bay have a living tradition of wooden schooners. Rockland, Rockport, Camden and Belfast each have at least one if not more. These two masted vessels are either in the day trade or take guests out for extended periods of time. Other than cruising on Carrie Rose there is probably no better way to see the Maine coast. 

 

We have shared many harbors and anchorages with them. They make a grand entrance towards the late afternoon usually with full sails and confidently anchor in places we, in our tiny 32’ shallow boat, shy away from. A large cast iron fisherman’s anchor that no self-respecting modern day cruiser would use today is their mainstay.

 

Once let loose it hits bottom and stops the boat. The adept crew immediately drops the headsails and the fore mainsail. And then, there it sits in splendid profile; the effortlessness of the maneuver puts us on lookers to shame. 

 

The schooners, all different, are for the most part reclaimed commercial vessels refashioned for the tourist trade. It gave them a new purpose and preserved them from being cut up and scraped. A working vessel is a working vessel no matter if it is hauling lumber, coal, freight, ice; fishing on the Grand Banks; or hauling land lubbers trying to get a taste of the sea and of the glorious past they have read about. 

 

Granted there was never anything glorious about the past other than the audacity to attempt to make a living in vessels made of wood, cotton and iron in the unforgiving environment of the North Atlantic. No wonder that, as in the Great Lakes, every tourist T-shirt shop has a book that begins with: The Wreaks of the ____. 

 

Pulpit Harbor on North Haven Island sits approximately ten miles from the schooner’s homeports. The harbor is well protected by a series of rocks, mostly underwater, at the entrance. It has a large open bay that is between 15 and 40 feet deep. The bottom consists of thick black mud that welcomes the anchor’s sharp vanes and envelopes the chain it is attached to. When the anchor is set, it is not moving.

 

Carrie Rose has been here for a week swinging from the SW to the NE. It is a place for restful sleep. At times we have had the harbor to ourselves. The mooring field east of us is oddly empty as has been the case wherever we have been this year. 

 

The fact that the anchor has held so snugly means it is reluctant to give way when it is time to for us move on. Once we are prepared to leave and the engine is running, I use the electric windlass to creep up on the anchor. There is 100 feet of Acco G40 HT galvanized 3/8^”  chain to raise. The first thirty feet are clean, but then the seventy feet that was laying in the mud begins to come out of the water. I lean over the bow rail and spray high pressure water to loosen the tenacious mud from the chain before it is deposited in the anchor locker. 

 

Remember, this is Maine and Maine’s mud is not just any mud but a living being unto itself. Thus, stored in the dark confines of the anchor locker the mud begins to putrefy. Cleansing the chain adds twenty minutes to the process of disembarking. No matter how diligent, rivulets of watery mud course down the sides of the boat and sully the aft deck.

 

Finally, the anchor, which is basically a large scoop, appears out of the water. Its blades are the repository of pounds of thick black mud and often the sea creatures that live in it. The skinny high pressure spray is no match for this conglomeration. I abruptly raise and lower the anchor into and out of the water to persuade the mud to fall off. 

 

At this point we are no longer attached to the harbor’s bottom. Charlotte pilots the boat keeping Carrie Rose out of harm’s way while I wrestle with the last of the mud. Once cleaned, the anchor is secured in place with a satisfying “thunk”. I signal for the water pump to be turned off, then drain and coil the hose. The windlass is covered and its power switched off.

 

I note the time in the log for now the cruise officially begins. We broke the hold Mother Earth had on us and now we are in King Neptune’s realm. A new vigilance is required. It takes a few anxious moments to realign, exit the harbor and accelerate towards the next destination, and await our next schooner rendezvous.

Buck's Harbor, ME