June 15, 2025

We have been lucky with the weather. Of course, the weather owes nothing to us. It goes about its merry way with no concern for our comfort or safety. A professional boat captain reminded me the other day that there is no reason to be caught unawares because of the quality and quantity of weather information available.

The harbor is quiet. A large Nordic Tug came in. There was a time when any Nordic Tug sighting was an excuse for a party but that was on the Great Lakes. Eastern folk are a bit more restrained in their approach to spontaneous joy. A large sailboat from England is off to our port and a meticulous Wesmac 46 cruiser/lobster boat from Boston was tied to the dock.

 

These boats are what dreams are made of until the storage, maintenance and fuel bills come due. That said, they are also boats with a specific purpose in mind. To that end Carrie Rose has suited us well. Like our bungalow she is a little cluttered and cramped but then cramping aside, a bigger boat would also be cluttered. It is the nature of the beast.

 

Yesterday it was discovered that the “boiler” in the harbor’s bath and shower building is broke and will not be fixed until the end of the month. This was concerning news for us as we had already gone three days without a good scrub. No problem, I ran the generator to heat water to take showers on CR. 

 

That is when Charlotte discovered that the shower sump’s pump was not working. I found an unconnected wire and thought for sure this is the problem. Simple, I’ll fix it in the morning: day four. I connected it: nothing happened. I tested the switch with my multimeter: functional. I called Matt the electrician who saved us when we had years of unsolved electrical problems. He gave me some hints but politely sounded like he wasn’t interested.

 

I was loath to start cutting wires but I did. The pump worked when connected to a different power source. There was power to the wires when I connected the switch wires and no power then I disconnected them. I began to scratch my head. The only thing of note was the hot wire’s voltage was not steady and rarely got to 12 volts.

 

The engine room was opened as was the switch panel to no avail. Of the multitude of wires, no brown and taupe one could be found. And since the sump’s wires disappear behind an impenetrable caulk seal and the only way to get to them is to destroy the drain pan, I did the next best thing and jury rigged the pump.

 

I am sure what I did violates most of American boat building electrical codes, but the thought of ten more days without a shower took preeminence. If Matt shows up, well that would be a plus. Otherwise, the yard can fix it over the winter. Life is a compromise after all. 

Northeast Harbor, ME

6/12/2025

Carrie Rose is tied to floating dock 302 in Northeast Harbor, ME. It took us almost a week to drive the 1300 miles from Chicago. I know, I know that is a long time but when I must stop at every rest stop it lengthens the trip a bit. 

In response to the above, Charlotte and I have decided to make our transits vacations. Each of the small towns we stopped at, some bleaker than others, had charm. It could have been a restaurant, a museum, a park, but it was always something we did not expect. 

 

Of course, they were not Chicago but then I have always been a snob; not that I realized it until somewhat recently. If it wasn’t real potato chips vs Pringles, jazz vs rock, classical vs popular, Frank Lloyd Wright vs anyone else, it’s been some other obscure thing. Being a vegetarian lends itself to snobbery and let’s not even talk about wine and coffee and tea . . . need I go on!

 

So, it took us a long time to get to Carrie Rose. The last several years I decided to let the yard do the work: it’s called commissioning. At some point an invoice is emailed  

and it is usually a surprise. In most other endeavors we know what a thing or service will cost. This is not the case in boating. I am not sure why and I know this is lazy on my part, but I have resigned myself to it.

 

After a raucous ride into Northeast Harbor the winds calmed and the temperature rose. The harbor is empty. Last year we got here on June 28^th, this year June 12^th. A few boats are trickling in, but we’ve got the place pretty much to ourselves. The first thing I noticed is how quiet it is. There are a few loud motorcycles and the bleating of a construction vehicle but overall, the lack of a constant stream of 777 heavies flying over our head is comforting. 

 

We came into the pier thinking the outgoing tide will push us onto it, alas it was pushing us away. I drove towards the pier several times and was ready to drive around again when Charlotte announced she had the midship’s line attached. This is perfect, I can spin the wheel to the port and drive in against the pier. Of course, we had our usual fault finding debrief and challenged ourselves to do better next time. 

 

There is a saying in the Japanese tea ceremony: Ichi-go, Ichi-e, one time - one meeting. That is the same for docking. It is never the same and even after piloting Carrie Rose for twenty years I still feel the need to improve my skills. And, like resigning myself to unknown costs, I have resigned myself to never get docking quite right. 

 

Northeast Harbor, ME   

Summer 2025: 5/18

I know this is late in the game, but we are gradually realizing that another summer with Carrie Rose is about to commence. And slowly we are realizing, that on this Sunday, where we are both limping around that we need to get in better shape. Charlotte’s dilemma began in the garden, and mine, well, it’s too long to go into. Despite our transient infirmities, after decades of doing this, we are on autopilot: Piles are piling in the basement, food stores have been bought, routes to Maine are a topic of discussion, and a few boat projects are being contemplated.

 

This will be Carrie Rose’s 12th season in Maine. We can head west then south and join the lower 47 again, but it doesn’t seem like the time. We’ve explored Maine’s waters, anchored in remote places, and seen so much grand scenery that I must pinch myself not to fall prey to becoming complacent. The fog helps in this because once it dissipates an entirely new landscape replaces the old familiar one. For once we have become familiar, though not overly so, with the environment and will try to relax into it.

 

Over the winter our insurance provider requested a new survey be done. The cost, some thousand dollars, was born by us. In the dead of winter, a nice man named Douglas climbed all over Carrie Rose and with a few minor exceptions declared her fit. As most people do, he warmed to Carrie Rose and told me that when his sailing days are over this is the boat he wants. It’s affirming to have the “kindness of strangers” even when not soliciting them. 

 

Last year I asked the boat yard to commission the boat. In layman’s language this means to get her ready and put her in the water so we can get on and go without the usual week of preparations. Charlotte is sick of living on the hard in a cold unmoving boat while climbing up and down a steep ladder to use the facilities. She has always been smarter and probably more importantly, more practical than me.

 

So, let’s see if I can crawl back my writing skills and document yet another cruising season! 

BVI or Rocks in the Middle of the Ocean

 

Charlotte and I and our friend Gertie went to the British Virgin Islands in January. It was my idea. After getting home in one piece from our summer cruise in Maine, I thought it would be fun to go on a sailing trip. As opposed to the last two years failed attempts to go to Antarctica this year it would be somewhere guaranteed to be warm. So, to that end I planned a week on a 46’ sailboat and to be cautious I asked for a skipper.

 

I am not usually the trip planner but other than the air travel (probably the hardest part) I organized the cruise. There were a few hiccups due to their headquarters in Florida being ravaged by a couple of hurricanes, but eventually the payments were sent and the cruise confirmed. 

 

To be on the safe side we stayed at the Ohare Hilton the night before the 5AM flight to Miami and we arrived in Road Town, Tortola a day early. You all know the feeling: bundled up in down with thickened blood from living in the artic, then stepping off the plane onto a sizzling tarmac with beautiful lilting voices beckoning welcome to their palm tree covered islands. 

 

It is hard to beat and only 2000 miles from our ice encrusted backdoor stairs. What’s not to like. We checked in, stared out the open glass doors onto anchored sailboats and behemoth cruise liners, and thought of our good fortune to feel warm breezes in January. That night a waterside Italian restaurant was the setting for anticipatory talk of the next day’s adventure. I even had a Negroni, a thing I have never ordered in my 71 years thus far on earth. I guess the warmth went to my head even before I swilled the concoction down.

 

One of the weird things about chartering a boat is that we are responsible for provisioning it. Our brain’s strained at the thought of buying food and drink for three adults for seven breakfasts, lunches and dinners. There were several choices: the market in the marina, the French Deli just outside the gate or the Rite-Way a couple of blocks away. 

 

My profession has left me with a tendency at having all the right answers and in making decisions without much consultation. Add to this a lack of patience (I blame my Sicilian heritage for this trait) for other’s decision making processes and I went through a bit of a hissy fit. Basically, my traveling companions ignored me and did what they wanted to, which was taking a ride to Rite-Way with a side diversion to the French Deli. 

 

To push a cart full of food, wine, beer and water engenders odd feelings of satiety and famine. At one moment I wanted to unload half the food and a moment later needed to add a half more. In the end, there was barely any left for the skipper and the boat cleaners to take home. 

 

The charter began the night before. At 6PM the boat was available to board. Then we were standing on the dock looking at a 46’ of boat pointing out in front of us. I have been boarding boats since I was eleven years old and that fact does not diminish the thrill. It does not matter if it is a rubber dinghy or a Viking cruise ship my stomach is a little off with anticipation. I cannot wait to go exploring. 

 

Now, here is where things began to go a little wrong. I have expectations and immediately they were not met. The boat was not spick and span. The equipment had seen better days. The cockpit cushion was wrong and the linens were in tatters. The next day I repeatedly tried to get someone to go over the checklist with me. It was sitting right there, beckoning to be checked off and be signed by me and the skipper. But to no avail we loosened the lines and headed into the deep blue sea, after that is, we passed in the lee of two of the largest cruise ships I have ever seen.

 

We were off, I girded my loins and hoped for the best. And the next seven days were a bit of both. Of course, the boat needed servicing immediately, which delayed the next day’s trip. I began to compiled a list that ended with 16 bullet points documenting the boat’s foibles. 

 

The skipper though, was a well-mannered local 25 year old who had an encyclopedic knowledge of his natural world. He brought his fishing pole and trolled behind the boat as we cruised. He even caught a bonito and cooked it on the grill with wood he salvaged from the mangrove. We met his nephew, his Uncle Willard and his sister. We were privy to a celebration of a local hero’s premature death complete with an embarrassingly (for us old people at least) suggestive dance competition where two of the participants split a purse of two thousand dollars.

 

As the week progressed the wind picked up and the weather became squally. Each time I thought to raise the sails the wind was directly in front of us. I have no excuse except for growing spoiled by Carrie Rose’s turnkey operation and my laziness. 

 

Despite the vagaries of the boat, it was a joy to be in warm water and air. On our day out swimming on a pure white sand beach we each got tumbled in the surf and suffered bumps and bruises. Boy, we were sore the next day. No matter, all is right in the world when the world is green and lush and warm and blue. You ask would I do it again and to that I say yes . . . just not with this company.