8-26-2024

 

Our last night on Carrie Rose was spent tied to Atlantic Boat Company’s (ABC) mooring #5 in Herrick Bay. The mooring ball proclaims that the chain/line is attached to a 7500 pound block of granite. For a small motorboat like ours this is a reassuring amount of heft. 

 

After leaving ABC in June our first stop was Northeast Harbor on Mt. Desert Island. We returned there in August to spend the last couple of weeks in this picturesque village before our season ended. We had decided not to anchor this summer due to my gammy low back over the winter. Thus, we spent the summer on moorings or floating piers at various harbors. 

 

Northeast Harbor is unique in that they do not take reservations. The harbormaster’s office only responds to mooring requests once a boat is in the harbor. So, when entering, I announce myself on channel 68 (the monitored VHF radio channel) saying that Carrie Rose is a 32’ motorboat a beam of Clifton Dock, a service establishment on the westside of the harbor’s entrance. This prevents the respondent from asking if I am in the harbor. And I often suggest a mooring I wish to be placed on. The office reacts positively to this form of direct communication. 

 

At the end of the season on the way to Herrick Bay from Northeast Harbor we stopped at above mentioned Clifton Dock. Here we fill the fuel tank and empty the holding tank in preparation to the boat being pulled. Its convenience overrides the fact that it does not have the cheapest fuel prices. The same family has operated it for over a century. It is a classic establishment in both function and appearance

 

In the few days before departing Northeast Harbor we pay particular attention to the weather. On the way out, once passed the protection of the islands east of Northeast Harbor, the sea can get quite snotty. In an instant the Atlantic Ocean’s formidable NE swell is added to the local conditions. With years of experience, we have learned that cruising is a series of compromises. This day promised dense fog and rain, but light wind and calm seas in compensation. 

 

We woke to dense fog that slowly cleared only to ghost back in as we left the pier. The fog remained dense for 12 of the 16 miles to Herrick Bay. The new Garmin chart plotter and radar, with a little practice, proved excellent at identifying unseen vessels and other sources of potential collisions. The waters around Northeast Harbor are particularly busy with recreational craft, multiple ferries, lobster and work boats of all types and sizes. To add to the complexity there are choke points where it is usual for all the above to converge. 

 

Many of the boats that day were returning to the various harbors on Mt. Desert Island. Since they were favoring the inside track, I kept them on our starboard side. This meant they had the right of way. We could barely see Carrie Rose’s bow let alone any of the other craft. To avoid the splotches that represent boats on the radar screen I drove in various directions, sometimes opposite from the planned course. It was stressful. 

 

Three miles from our destination the fog dissipated. I took the opportunity to run Carrie Rose’s 220hp turbo Cummins diesel near full speed for the last few miles. Various boating cognoscenti recommend doing this to “blow out” the evil substances that lurk in the engine after three months of unhurried cruising through Maine’s bucolic waterways. With the additional horsepower Carrie Rose’s bow rose, steadied and her big diesel purred.

 

The entrance to Herrick Bay is wide and marked on its eastern extremity by the tiny Blue Hill Bay Light. The shores of the bay are populated by a few homes, mainly of the “away people” variety. It is dark, quiet, and prone to odd weather phenomena. Open to the southeast, I can attest that it gets rowdy when the wind blows from that direction. 

 

Herrick Bay’s dark quietude is in stark contrast to Northeast Harbor’s frenetic activity. The bay is for the most part unmolested by lobster boats, ferries, superyachts, and every other imaginably small craft. It is a good place to wind down and collect one’s thoughts before packing up to leave for home. And, unlike Northeast Harbor, the bay has the most spectacular sunsets . . . and did I mention, it is quiet. 

8-20-2024

 

 

Let’s see, I was born in 1953 and that would have made me 15 y/o in 1968. During the summers before 8^th grade and my freshman year at St. George High School I cut grass at Rosehill Cemetery. Being frugal, I saved enough cash to buy the equivalent of a Husky 10 speed bicycle. Granted it was not as sophisticated as my friend’s Schwinn and European racing bikes but it was a workhouse and in the end proved to be expendable.

 

It was obvious, even to me, that in 1968 the world was in upheaval. In Chicago there were lock downs and a dusk to dawn curfew after the MLK assassination. My family lived on the second floor of a northside two-flat not far from where I live now. Being on the Northside I did not see or experience any of the carnage until a year later when at 16 I borrowed dad’s Pontiac Tempest, and drove to the south and west sides to survey the damage. Probably not the smartest thing I could have done on my first forays driving in the city. 

 

As I mentioned in a previous posting, I often road my bike downtown. As the time of the DNC neared I noticed that I did not have Lincoln and Grant Parks to myself any longer. An exceedingly odd group of revealers began to populate the parks. It is common now to see tents in the park but then this was unique. I found it curious that the police tolerated the intrusion. 

 

I began to forsake my ride north and daily ventured south into the mix. Back then the motorcycle cop’s rode pan-head Harley trikes. I distinctly remember them riding through the protestors where an unspoken truce prevailed. Both the foreign invaders and the police could not quite comprehend their roles in what was to play out. 

 

My daily ride went on for a couple of weeks. The tempo in the park picked up as did the population count. The uncensored goings on were quite a sight for this sheltered north side kid. I don’t remember there being any discussion of this in catechism class. 

 

It all came to an abrupt end after the riot in front of the Michigan Avenue Hilton Hotel. I had enough sense not to venture south for some time. Summer drew to a close and my bike rides were curtailed by football, track and schoolwork, though I do not remember doing much of that. 

 

Chicago has never lived down the 1968 debacle. It tarnished the city, the Daley’s and lead to police crack downs and show trials like the Chicago Seven.

 

My ten speed was stolen two years later in Grant Park at the Sly and The Family Stone concert riot. It was my first taste of tear gas and hiding in hedges to avoid the roving bands of hoodlums who took advantage of the chaos. There is much to be said for growing up in interesting times . . . even if my bike got stolen!

8-13-2024

 

Seagulls are as rapacious as they are comical. They are communal but completely out for themselves. They whine like wimpy dogs and growl like forest beasts. They are magnificent aerialist that relish a stormy wind. I say relish because for days on end I have watched them soar without any attempt to fish. But once they catch a fish all hell breaks loose. 

 

Their comrades appear out of the sky to do battle. In the aerial dog fights that ensue it is not odd for the catch to be lost to all. I have seen them swallow enormous starfish whole and have watched them pathetically peck at a squirming fish to get only a few tiny scraps of flesh before abandoning the bloody mess. 

 

Recently, on an admittedly slow day, I watched a big white gull drop mussels repeatedly on a wooden deck. I, bored with the routine, drifted off only to awake and see numerous mussel’s open, their flesh picked clean. 

 

Seagulls are primed to fly over flat expanses of water, which must equate to shopping mall parking lots. Of course, when over pavement they know better than to dive head first into the asphalt, instead they gently glide in to capture their often as not fast food remnant. 

 

Once in the southern most Florida Keys I saw a frigate bird. It was larger than expected with a formidable curving beak and thin angular wings. They specialize in absconding with the catches of other seabirds, most commonly seagulls, who are no match for the frigate’s aerial abilities.

 

Seagull’s like to roost on a nice flat surface to feast. Thus, inspired humans have invented many contraptions for keeping them off boat roofs. Some of these have arms that slowly spin in the wind while making an almost (note the word, almost) imperceptible high pitched squeal that, I suppose, is meant to disturb the seagull’s peace while dining. Others are like a cascade of thin metal wands weighted at the ends that wiggly take up space. And then there are the medieval plastic spikes that commonly cover many urban structures to prevent pigeons from roosting. These find themselves atop super yacht communication towers well out of the way of the casual observer. 

 

Carrie Rose’s pilothouse roof has a 4 by 6 foot solar panel that is an irresistible destination for dissecting and eating fish. If we are lucky to be onboard, the gull gives away their intentions with several great thunks on the roof. I drive them off but often must despose of a bloodied fish. If we are not in house, we are alerted on our return by the scent of fish, blood and poop.

 

For some reason cleaning up the mess is considered “boys” work. Charlotte considers that since my profession entailed dealing with bodily fluids I will better tolerate the guts, gore and feces left behind. And I admit that – once again – she is correct. It is all quite comical in the end . . .

7-30-2024

 

In the Midwest we are familiar with storms that diagonally cross the country from Mexico to Canada. They engender squalls, thunder storms and tornados. The one good thing about them, in this age of instant weather apps, is that they are mostly predictable. The storms blow through with much drama causing lots of chaos and then they move on quickly to terrorize another region further north and east. 

Before satellite technology I spent much of my time while sailing on the Great Lakes looking over my shoulder for an unannounced squall. Out east there is the occasional squall. Most of the weather consists of counter rotating low pressure systems. As I write this, a low is stuck slightly west of us and is making its way excruciatingly slow to the NE. As it spins it sucks in a large off shore cloud bank that stretches from Florida to Maine.

 

The arms of the low are ragged, so on occasion we are dosed with sun and bright blue sky. These hopeful moments are quickly dispelled with one look at the satellite image. The jet stream just needed to straighten out and dislodge the low, sending it to Greenland. 

 

The next day the weather was crazy. We woke to dense fog. It lifted slowly to reveal numerous anchored boats that had been hidden the night before. The fog proceeded to roll in and out of the harbor, each time revealing a bit more of the shoreline. With that our little part of the world became less claustrophobic. 

 

All through the morning the harbor’s entrance repeatedly filled with fog. Then as the day heated up the tops of the Camden mountains appeared and then East Penobscot Bay. Ten miles away at Islesboro Island a straight horizontal line of fog appeared between the water and the trees. Variation after variation continued for hours. 

 

In the early afternoon the sky turned blue and cumulous clouds were ushered in. They thickened and the dark clouds brought intermittent rain. In the far distance there were towering thunderheads, and between us and them all variations of wind swept clouds. In the end, as dinner time approached, the south wind picked up and blew it all away. The night was full of stars. On days like this I wonder what the solar panel thinks is going on. 

Addendum: The triangular rock is called appropriately Pulpit Rock and is the home to a reported 300 y/o osprey nest. It is at Pulpit Harbors entrance. 

7-28-2024

For 18 years I wrote a monthly commentary for the Chicago Shimpo, a Japanese-American newspaper. It was first published in 1945 after WWII ended. It chronicles the Japanese community lives in the Chicago region. At first it was published twice weekly, then monthly, then not at all except for a truncated online version . . . so much for history.

 

The past and present editions are stored and cataloged in the collection of a university I can never remember the name. So, in a sense, my commentaries will live on. In case you are interested, they are posted at deanraf.blogspot.com under the name of Thoughts On Japanese Culture.

 

Except for the first commentary, the titles were composed of one word. That word was the inspiration for the next 500 to 1000 words that followed. At times, with the deadline looming, I would search the recesses of my mind for a word, that word. I always found it. In the many years I wrote for the paper I only missed one deadline and that was because of poor planning and not a lack of inspiration. Unbeknownst to me I had trained my mind to offer up a word monthly. 

 

Now back to cruising because I am not sure the above has much to do the with what follows. Today Carrie Rose is moored at Warren Island State Park. We often come here. It is one of the islands in the Islesboro Island group that delineate West and East Penobscot Bay. It is spitting distance north of 700 Acre Island which was found to have Maine’s oldest rock.

 

We can take the dinghy to the park’s dock and hike the 2 mile long circumferential Island trail. Campers show up to the park in all kinds of conveyances: in working lobster boats and large yachts, in tiny skiffs, kayaks and canoes, and a small ferry that arrives on demand. The park is on West Penobscot Bay between Camden and Belfast. The anchorage is often graced by one of the famous vacationer schooners that come to take their paying passenger for a lobster feast on land.

 

It is a protected harbor in any wind other than NW. A fact that we learned at our peril one sleepless night while hanging on a mooring in a NW storm. Generally, it is a place to hang out, put on bug spray and walk around the island. There is usually the antics of an eagle and an osprey to keep us entertained as we gently float around and around the mooring.

 

This year both the eagle and the osprey have been absent other than hearing their calls. There also has not been the teaming schools of bait fish swimming and jumping around the boat, and thus, no seals, porpoises and cormorants hunting them. Warren has been a quiet place this year, perfect for searching for that one word of inspiration. 

 

   

7-27-2024

 

We have been summer cruising on Carrie Rose for at least 12 years and have owned her since 2003. In that time, we have docked thousands of times. It could be for fuel, a pump out, loading water, picking up guests or to dock for the night. We have done this all over eastern North America on lakes, rivers, and the ocean. And in that time, I would think - or wish – I had less anxiety about the process.

 

The task is not inherently difficult. It is the circumstances of each docking that make it a challenge. Wind, tide, and currents play into the mix as does each dock’s peculiarities. Charlotte and I have developed a system, she stands at the back with the stern line in hand, while I guide the boat in and handle the midship and the bow lines.

 

My task is to bring the stern in close enough to the dock so Charlotte can attach our stern line to one of the dock’s cleats. Once the stern line is secure and with the help of the engine and bow thruster it is fairly straight forward to tie up the boat.

 

Maine’s lobster boat fleet set the standard for boat handling, especially docking. Granted they only dock on the starboard side, have a low freeboard that facilitate simply leaning over to attach the mid ship line to the dock cleat, have right turning propellors that swing the stern starboard when put in reverse, and most importantly the confidence to power in and use the boats momentum to help accomplish the task. 

 

It is a thing of beauty to watch. Whether young or old, male or female the lobster boat captains seem to be born with this ability. In my years of watching these performances they have never missed.

 

Carrie Rose has many superlative characteristics. One of her short comings is that when put into reverse her beloved Cummins diesel has a tendency to stall. It does this inconsistently, so it is hard to rely on its stopping power. Because of this, I tend to hedge my bet, never a great idea on a boat. A turn of the ignition key and we are back in control, but who needs the drama. 

 

Now, I admit to obsessing about this. Afterall, I’ve got to obsess about something otherwise I wouldn’t be me. Lucky for us, Charlotte does not have these tendencies. She provides the stabilizing influence that keeps Carrie Rose on the move or at the dock.

7-25-2024

7-24-2024

 

Chicago was a great place to grow up. There were few cars on my neighborhood’s two-way streets. Only the oil and garbage trucks drove in the alleys. For us kids it was an open landscape. We took off in the morning, came home for lunch and dinner, and maybe to bandage a mishap. 

 

Until 4^th grade Aunt Sarah walked me and my cousin to school. The reassuring crossing guard on Lincoln Ave. between Bryn Mawr and California was a big red faced Chicago cop. There was bakery, a sweet shop and a drug store where I bought Hot Rod magazine. The local gang, The Corner, were more a nuisance then a danger.

 

By eleven years old I had a big boy’s single speed bike and used it to travel 3 miles east down side streets to Montrose Harbor. Once there I helped a friend’s father crew his 26’ sailboat named after a Vietnamese Sea goddess. By eight grade I had saved up enough cash cutting grass at Rosehill Cemetery to buy a 10 speed racing bike. It was a Peugeot PX-10 that weighs 21lbs. I still have it. 

 

It opened the world up to me. Depending on the wind direction I’d either ride downtown along the lake front or through the northern suburbs to Highland Park. It took me years to notice, that during my rides I had soaked in the natural beauty of Lake Michigan and the intellectual grammar of architecture.

 

High school, at least the 3^rd and 4^th years, were an academic bust. That said, they changed my world view and left me with a football injury that I am still nursing. College was another bust, but again it exposed my weaknesses and gave me a direction towards self-improvement that decades later bore fruit.

 

I apologize for subjecting you good people to a memoir. It was not my intent. While tied to a float in Belfast I became reminiscent as I looked out of Carrie Rose’s pilothouse windows southeast on to West Penobscot Bay. I thought how did I find myself here. Suddenly it seemed important to recognize the process. Afterall, it is the details that make up a life. 

 

Belfast is a quaint village at the northern end of West Penobscot Bay. We arrived the day before The Belfast Celtic Festival began. The festival is free (donations appreciated), and mainly outdoors. There is one indoor location where workshops are held. This year I attended the fiddle and accordion workshops. 

 

The town appears to be populated by folk musicians and they fully embrace the festival. Their positive energy is palpable. Though my fiddle expertise comprises of a stirring rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, I found the fiddle workshop’s quirky teacher’s discussion of bowing enlightening. The local “beginners” group managed to learn two songs in the space of an hour. I was humbled.

 

On the second day of the festival, The Atlantic Challenge began. It is made up of long narrow wooden gigs that recreate the 18^th and 19^th century boats that were used to transport naval officers around the fleets they commanded. The boats are rowed and sailed by spirited young adults representing 6 countries. From Carrie Rose we could watch the crews compete in sprints, accurate rowing and docking.

 

For most of the above activities the weather held but now we have entered a Maine Rain cycle. The rain begins aggressively with wind and waves and fog. Then it settles in for several days or like last year, a month. We know it is raining but it is hard to see. It is visceral rather than palpable. I imagine this is the world that far ranging pelagic birds live in. 

 

One of the things that makes Carrie Rose such a forgiving vehicle is her Newport by Dickinson propane cabin heater. In a couple of minutes, a cold wet cabin becomes warm and cozy, enabling us to hide out, read, cook, complete projects, and of course, write this blog post.

 

6-28-2024

 

6-28-2024

 

If you would have asked me a month ago if we were going to Maine, I’d have told you we would never get there this year. I was wrong. Somehow we drove the 1400 miles to Atlantic Boat Company where Carrie Rose (CR) spends the winter and at 5:10 PM on Friday tied up to floating pier 303 in Northeast Harbor across from Sir Tugely Blue.

 

It was a miserable winter with left leg and toe pain and to top it off a right ear sewed to the side of my head after a chunk of cancer was removed. Between Charlotte and I we racked up multiple doctor visits, imaging studies and procedures I’d rather not relive. But that said, I/we find ourselves sitting in CR’s pilothouse looking out on Mt. Dessert Island’s iconic Northeast Harbor.

 

It was a perfect day to travel the 15NM from Herrick Bay (where we keep CR) to Mount Dessert Island. The wind blew but the seas were calm. There was hardly a boat to contend with and there were minimal lobster trap buoys to avoid. That was good because we gifted CR with a new chart plotter/radar/sonar system and it took some getting use to. 

 

Not to let the new bells and whistles distract me, I mainly used our intact chart plotter to navigate. The new chart plotter is the equivalent of a large LED TV. It is big, colorful and efficient, and almost intuitive. Note I said almost as we needed searched its paperless manual (downloaded to my iMac) to find basic functions like how to turn the brightness of the screen up. Still, I think the transition should be fun.

 

We were lucky to get here this year, so instead of exploring the many nooks and crannies Maine has to offer, we’ll, for the moment, stay tied to the northside of floating dock 303 and chill.

 

Buck’s Harbor, Maine

7/12/2024

 

Weather apps’ small icons do not do justice to Maine’s off shore weather. They are too cute. After days of fog, rain and wind in NE Harbor, Carrie Rose woke to a crystal clear blue sky. It was nippy and there was wind in the tops of the trees; it was an image of benign weather. This was echoed in the various weather apps consulted. 

 

While Charlotte performed her morning ablutions, I turned the VHF radio to channel two, NOAA’s weather broadcast: greater than 5 foot NE swell with a period of six seconds with 4 to 5 foot SE wind driven waves. As an addendum, “patchy” fog was mentioned. 

 

The night before we decided to head 28NM west and south to Buck’s Harbor. At Buck’s we can tie to a mooring (no anchoring) and walk up a steep hill to a tiny store with Maine’s usual mix of high and lowbrow food and liquor complete with the NYT, Washington Post, Boston Globe, WSJ, etc.

 

The gist of the story takes place a mile or so East of NE Harbor where the coastal waters of the Western Way abruptly meet the Atlantic Ocean. The first indication is that the inland water’s lively blue green changes to a leaden blue gray. It is obvious that Carrie Rose is entering a solemn place. 

 

Carrie Rose makes a slight galumph as I look up to the top of a swell. I say up because from my pilothouse’s 8 foot perch I can no longer see the horizon. Now the world is a sleighride: up the front of the swell and down the back. On a calm day it is a fun ride and if we travel with another boat it is intriguing to watch them disappear and reappear below and atop each swell.

 

On windy days, the gaps between the swell’s hillocks fill with a churned up mix of wind driven waves. These are similar to the Great Lake’s waves: steep and close together. Ask any Great Laker how comfortable cruising on Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie and Ontario is and get ready for a mouthful. 

 

As abrupt as the water’s hue changes, so does the temperature. We close the pilothouse’s doors in response and then are enveloped in fog. Intermixed within the fog, swell, waves and wind are NE Harbor’s fleet of handsome lobster boats. They appear in and out of the mist, rising and falling with the swell sometimes with only their antennas visible. 

 

It is chaotic because it is difficult to discern which way they are streaming. They can be circling a trap and then, once through, it is anyone’s guess which direction they will take to pick up the next trap. Lobster boats tend to two dispositions: full speed or stopped. In a flat sea with good visibility there is time to ferret out their next destination and take an opposing path. In anything less, we make an educated guess. Sometimes we are correct and other times we get the evil eye and a few choice phases.

 

The before mentioned maelstrom is short lived if heading west back to civilization. It is about 3NM to reach Bass Harbor Head, the southernmost point of Mt. Dessert Island (MDI) and the Bass Harbor Bar that separates MDI from Great Gott Island. Once over the bar the sea state and the weather change. Not always for the better but certainly better in today’s conditions. 

 

Carrie Rose is a superb sea boat. With her powerful Cummins diesel and large four bladed propeller she moves deliberately forward. This is despite what is happening within her confines. I adjust the throttle, for a little more or less makes a difference in her ride and thus, our comfort. 

 

Experience counts for a lot. Without it I might have considered turning back to the comforts of the harbor. Once over the Bass Harbor Bar the fog dissolved as does the wind and the swell. With the sea’s calm and the sun shining, I accelerated to cruising speed. Five hours later we are filling Carrie Rose’s fresh water tanks at Buck’s Harbor Marina’s dock . . . All in a day’s work. 

Buck's Habor, Maine

A Perfect day – 7/24/23 NE Harbor to WoodenBoat

Carrie Rose’s various fresh water tanks were filled. The launch took us to shore for one last shower. Mark, the launch driver, is the MDI High School history teacher. After a discussion where I told him the only Greek literature I had read was in preparation to read James Joyce’s Ulysses, he countered with Plutarch’s Wars and Livy’s Short History of Rome. He looks forward to my book report next time we meet.

 

It was sunny and warm as we cruised out of NE Harbor. We’d been there for ten days anticipating a surprise meet up with my nephew. His wife had arranged it with us last Christmas Eve. I am always more hopeful for the world after spending a few hours with them.

 

It was time to move on. Since we had already ventured east to Bar and Winter Harbors it seemed like a good time to head west. Other than a few squirrelly lobster boats and of course, the Swan’s Island ferry the Captain Henry Lee, the 20 miles to WoodenBoat was smooth sailing. 

 

WoodenBoat, the home of WoodenBoat magazine is in an eastern cove at the southern end of Eggemoggin Reach. It lies between Center Harbor to the NW and Naskeag Harbor to the SE. The moorings and dock are somewhat protected by Babson Island, though a southern wind, like we had, makes this a lumpy place. 

 

The tide was flooding with the wind on Carrie Rose’s stern, not her best handling conditions. It took a couple of passes before I could get the bow close enough for Charlotte to pick up the mooring pennant. 

 

Dinghy in the water, we motored to the dock and walked the few beautiful blocks into WoodenBoat’s facility. There is a school workshop and an elegant store. We marveled at the various projects, the wooden skeletons of boats in progress, the shops and stores of curing wood, and more wooden boats then you can shake a teak stick at. 

 

Back on Carrie Rose the wind calmed and shifted east. A large schooner, American Pride, anchored off Babson Island. A haze filled in the distant horizon with white. I spent the afternoon thinking I should do something but did nothing. It was a perfect day. 

Summer of Fog

Carrie Rose was getting antsy after being anchored in Somes Harbor for six days. There was the prospect of clearing weather so she lobbied for a cruise and a cruise somewhere new. Charlotte and I studied the chart and the cruising guide, and based on a suggestion chose to cruise to Winter Harbor. It is across Frenchmen Bay east of Mt Desert Island (MDI). And it is a few miles north of Schoodic point. Schoodic point is the beginning of wild Maine.

There is little recreationally, except for solitude and spectacular views to commend one to head Downeast. It is a place we are glad to have gone twice but probably will not go again. I may be wrong about that, so don’t quote me. But I doubt Charlotte will venture there again.

 

Frenchmen Bay is approximately 6 miles wide from Otter point on MDI to Schoodic point of the Schoodic peninsula. It is open to the Atlantic Ocean from the South/Southwest. The bay is a place where the surface waves suddenly become incorporated into what is usually a SE swell. Carrie Rose begins to rise and fall, and get pushed around by an infinite combination of waves and swells. As when riding large waves on the Great Lakes, Charlotte and I sit back, hold on and let Carrie Rose do her thing. I adjust the course here and there depending on the waves, currents and sea state but mainly the autopilot manages things

 

But I forgot to mention a major concern, not catching a lobster buoy in the propellor. On Frenchmen Bay the groupings of buoys appear haphazard. We maintain a constant lookout, though the fog complicates the search. As we travel into the middle of the bay the swell increases and each lobster buoy becomes two. The larger unique buoy is connected via a long tether to a diminutive float. This small float leads to the traps some 150 feet below. My observation is that in exposed areas with larger seas the traps have longer tethers to make buoy retrieval easier.

 

So, we watch: me starboard, Charlotte port. With any lengthy endeavor, concentration can wander or be disturbed by the many dials and screens stationed in front of me. When my instinctual “look-up” alarm goes off, most times there are one or more lobster buoy ahead. Off goes the autopilot and I hand steer a slalom course around them. 

 

Carrie Rose had a traditional six spoke steering wheel. Steering with it was annoying, so I decided to remediate it. I laminated six 1 1/2 inch strips of poplar and walnut into a ring. The first attempt (with the best wood) was cockeyed. A firmer frame was fabricated and the second ring was satisfactory. With six hardy brass screws the ring was attached to the six spokes. I planned to round the edges but once fitted never altered it. For the last 1500 hours the wheel has served us well. 

 

Frenchmen Bay leads into Sand Cove and the dramatic Winter Harbor Yacht Club. It is a rollie spot with the remnants of the bay’s swell and the wakes from the local lobster fishing fleet. The club is incorporated onto the side of a cliff. It has an old timey Downeast feel, damp but cozy. Dark wood frames the inside and borders the imposing central stone fireplace. The furniture looks and feels original. And above it all is a commanding chandelier with colorful models of the yacht club’s legacy 21ft wooden racing fleet attached to each rung. They have maintained and raced these unique craft for more than 100 years. 

 

We had signed up for two nights, then woke up to dense fog on departure day. When the fog deepened, we signed up for another day. The yacht club’s launch took us to shore. It’s a mile walk into Winter Harbor’s quaint and lively town center. Charlotte had a lunch of clam chowder, a half of a lobster roll and a piece of blue berry pie for twenty bucks. We bought two small well crafted wicker baskets at a tiny antique shop and then headed for the club. The sun appeared on the way back and the fog dissipated. We looked at each other and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

 

To leave on a substantial cruise in the afternoon feels against the grain, but considering the prospect of worsening weather it was time to go. First, we took the launch back to the club for quick showers, informed the dockmaster we were leaving, threw out the trash, prepped the boat and left. 

 

Somes Harbor on MDI, our destination, is twenty mile back across Frenchman Bay. The swell increased as we travelled west across the bay and as we closed on the island dense fog re-appeared. Then to welcome us back a couple of squalls blew over as we crossed the entrance to Northeast Harbor. It was tempting to duck into the harbor but as we entered Somes Sound the sun greeted us.

 

I could see another Nordic Tug 32 in Somes Harbor. We maneuvered Carrie Rose behind her, dropped the anchor and rowed over to re-acquaint ourselves with the crew. It had been several years since we met on Swan’s Island. Back on board the darkening sky clouded over as the fog crept in. Not able to keep our eyes open, we tucked in for the night with our down comforter not far away. 

 

NE Harbor Dense Fog 6-30-23

A 35 nautical mile cruise yesterday from the inland waters of East Penobscot Bay to the open ocean side of Mt. Desert Island, NE harbor specifically. We waited until 10:30 AM for the fog to lift and no surprise, it remained. Out on the water visibility varied from 50 yards to ¼ mile. At this stage in our ongoing Maine cruising anything thing greater than ¼ miles seems like clear sailing. 

 

One of fog’s vagaries is that visibility decreases whenever there are multiple navigational challenges: bridges, shoals, islands, harbor entrances, a busy thorofare all bring out the worse in the fog. Along with the above, the sea state often quickens at these pinch points making it easy to be distracted.

 

In Japan while riding numerous trains from single car country trains to 200 MPH behemoths, the engineers monitor each gauge by pointing at them in sequential fashion. I found myself doing the same. Oil pressure, engine temperature, battery state, RPM, depth, autopilot, AIS, compass, radar, paper chart and chart plotters, radio . . . it is a round robin. At different moments one of the above can overrule the others and then the cycle begins again. 

 

On passages of any length, I will don ear protection, lift the floor boards, and inspect the engine and shaft rooms. There are many spinning parts so I keep a proper distance. The diesel’s temperature, fuel filters and raw water intakes, hoses, the bilge, the shaft seal leading to the prop; I take a quick look around for abnormalities. Once satisfied I relieve Charlotte from the helm and she returns to navigation duties. 

 

So, I was doing the above while we cruised east across Blue Hill Bay’s Eastern Passage. approaching Bass Harbor Head, the southernmost point on Mt. Desert Island. Bass Harbor itself lies about a mile west of the Head and there lives the notorious Captain Henry Lee, the ferry to Swans Island. In Carrie Rose’s many transits back and forth across these waters, the Captain Henry Lee has never missed a chance for a close encounter. 

 

It was 1:45 PM and we were still a few miles west of Bass Harbor and considering the dense fog I was beginning to get nervous. Charlotte reported that the ferry leaves its berth at 2:15 PM. It has been my experience that attempts to outrun sizeable ships is futile. They leave the dock and in moments have accelerated to cruise speed. Except on days when I have an inadvertent death wish I tend to hang back and even circle in place until they pass. 

 

This time, now that I have deciphered the intricacies of the Vesper Marine AIS Watch Mate, I could see that the small black arrow that represents the ferry and its relationship to us, was stationary. 

 

For the uninitiated AIS, Automatic Identification System, is a relatively simple device (if that is possible these days) that broadcast name, speed, direction, destination and in some cases the closest point of approach of other boats that are broadcasting. Most commercial vessels are required to have one. Of course, no self respecting lobster fisher would have one but let’s not go down that rabbit hole.

 

As I watched, the black arrow began to move. I got queasy even though, according to Vesper AIS, the ferry would remain behind us. I decided, like any novice airplane pilot, to trust my instruments. We carried on to the Bass Harbor Bar and gratefully never encountered the Captain Henry Lee. 

 

The Bar is approximately a mile wide running north to south between Bass Harbor Head with its classic lighthouse and the northern shore of Great Gott Island. The passage is marked by two large bell buoys.

 

My observation, after passing over the 8 to 15 foot deep (at low tide) bar is that the weather and sea state often changes dramatically. In general, the sea is calmer when going west as the bar is open to the full force of the Atlantic Ocean when travelling east. We crossed and in an instance were motoring uphill to the top of a swell. The wind picked up and this was reflected in the rowdy sea surface.

 

Carrie Rose is a sea worthy craft that given the right circumstances gets as rowdy as the seas she is in. I check the course, made a small correction and then, for some reason looked behind me. There on the apex of the swell was a bright white LED light on top of what looked like a WW II landing craft. Its flat square bow was crashing into the waves as it moved to our starboard side. The radio came alive, “Carrie Rose I’ll be passing you on your right.” I responded affirmatively and thank him for letting me know.

 

It accelerated, passed in front and left us in its massive green phosphorescent wake. The hulk made a ninety degree turn around the green “1” buoy and disappeared into the fog. We simultaneously heard each other say, “Holy Sh-t!” 

 

The 30 miles we had traveled so far was in varying visibility. Now as we turn north into the Western Way to NE harbor the fog became all encompassing. I had sped up to get into protected waters and now slowed to check the course and the radar. The few blips on the screen were the expected buoys. They will lead into a progressively narrow channel bounded by Mount Desert Island and Great Cranberry Island.

 

A few other blips appeared with the characteristic stop and go of lobster boats pulling and setting traps. Further in, the small fleet of ferries that support Great and Little Cranberry Islands sped across the screen. Other than the radar screen the world was white. There are a series of large red gong buoys that show up well on radar, these were matched to their images on the chart plotter and now, even slower, Carrie Rose inched into the harbor. 

 

Boats grudgingly appeared out of the fog. We were in familiar territory but still could not relax. I called the harbormaster on channel 68 and suggested we be able to tie to mooring #362 for no other reason than it was in front of us. Charlotte armed herself with the boat pole as I nudged Carrie Rose’s port bow up to the can. She picked up the line on the first attempt and secured its slimy loop to the bow’s bollard. Then with the engine off, I entered the data of our trip into the log. 

 

We both sat in the salon and sighed. Espresso with a dash of milk was prepared and we both settled in with our reads. Charlotte’s book about the systematic murder of Native Americans to steal their oil money, and mine about the 900 day siege of Leningrad during WWII are both fitting topic for this day on the water . . .