July 3, 2026

It’s hot. Not a common occurrence in Maine. At 9PM it is still hot, though a coolish breeze out of the west just came through the port side pilothouse door.

Charlotte has retired to the bow to read and sleep. There’s a nice breeze up there through the cabin house hatch. I am on the pilothouse’s bench, my favorite place. Stars and planets are beginning to appear.

 

Today’s heat drove us to test the newly serviced air conditioning (AC). There are two: one forward and one aft. It is safe to say that they have been problematic for years. A few days back while in the yard I asked Doug the mechanic to sort them out and to focus on the forward unit as no cooling water come out. 

 

He took the water exhaust hose off, put it to his lips and blew. A foreign object shot out onto the yards gravelly surface never to be found. Now with the free passage of water, he declared it fixed and move on to the next issue. I was skeptically hopeful if that is even possible.

 

So today, on Buck’s Harbor’s mooring #41 Charlotte decided it was time to test the system. I fired up the generator (AC need’s 110v to work), toggled the appropriate toggles, turned on the AC raw water pump and no cooling water at all pumped overboard. Disappointed is not the correct word. Resigned might be better. I was both.

 

I did not swear or stomp my feet; just got in my favorite place and began to think through the process of creating cooled air. When mental blockage set in we jumped (not really) into the dinghy (new) and drove to the dock. It’s a steep walk to the general store in the four building village. Provisions were bought, popsicles were consumed and then I noticed a young man eating an ice cream sundae. Where (too hot to talk)? Around the corner was his answer.

 

Around the corner we hurried. Charlotte enjoyed a scoop of double chocolate and it being 2:45 PM, I had a macchiato and an odd cookie made up of other odd cookies. 

 

Back on Carrie Rose with a brain fueled by a double shot of espresso, I began to think again. During my medical career this was known as developing a differential diagnosis. I picked up a multitool, a flashlight and headed for the raw water strainer under the salon’s floor. Face down with my head in the bilge I noticed a thin meniscus of pink antifreeze through the glass of the strainer. The wingnuts that keep the Atlantic Ocean out of the boat were loosened and with a rush of water the strainer filled. It was one of those ah-ha moments. 

 

With anticipation I restarted the generator and toggled the toggles and they worked. We sat in the pilothouse and bathed in cool air. A problem I begged people to fix for years was fixed . . . and by my own hand, alleluia!  

June 10, 2026

 

June 10, 2026

 

It is June 10th, and Charlotte and I would typically be in Maine or at least on the way there. Since Carrie Rose left our home base in Chicago, we are often not home for this much of spring. Standing outside the front of our bungalow I must admit that the neighborhood looks lovely. In February, I never thought this day would come. 

 

Charlotte received a new right knee in January. It went well despite a few post operative glitches. (I thought knees were titanium but TI is too soft. They are stainless steel with a high nickel/chromium content.) Her rehab went well. It was the work of three pleasant and smart thirty something physical therapist. We were sad to leave them behind after 12 weeks.

 

Lucky for both of us, Charlotte was functional enough by the time I blew my back out while sweeping the winter’s muck out of the garage. It turned out that I was the one to get the most use out of Charlotte’s father’s walker.

 

Unlucky for us, we had an appointment with our dermatologist in April. He has a laconic bedside humor that seems fueled by the perpetual woes of the Chicago Cubs. He discovered two lesions on me and not to leave Charlotte out, one on her. 

 

Also unlucky for us, because of the above, we have become well acquainted with an affable plastic surgeon and her trusty sidekick. She has removed nearly ten chunks of flesh from us. At present we are in recovery mode from the last of these interactions. Thus, we are still in Chicago awaiting suture removal. 

 

I try not to anthropomorphize Carrie Rose, but after twenty six years of devotion it is hard not to consider her feelings. She has spent almost ten months in a dark dank shed awaiting her release: to have Atlantic’s cold salty seas coursing under her keel again. And I imagine the Cummins diesel’s pent up frustrations. I go to sleep envisioning the turn of the key that will bring life to her.

 

The plan as of today is to head to Vermont via Canada to visit a friend and then onto Maine. We have a three day reserved slip in Boston for the Tall Ship Festival. This of course means we will have to leave the comfort zone that Maine has become. I’m sure Carrie Rose is up to the challenge, now it is our turn to step up!

Arcadia Terrace, Chicago, IL

Happy Holiday 2025!

This year was different than the past few years. This year, on the water at least, was tranquil. Carrie Rose’s engine purred. No matter what we plugged in her batteries remained fully charged. I continue to marvel at the new radar and chart plotter. They performed flawlessly during the few foggy days we encountered.

And that brings me to the weather. We were on the water by mid-June; still early for Downeast Maine. The first few weeks were in the low to middle forties - cold. Most days it rained and fog rolled in off the Atlantic. But then as June morphed into July, the sun came out and the temperature moderated. It remained so until we departed on Labor Day.

 

Living on a boat requires attention to detail. Of course, the weather is a major factor especially when combined with eleven foot tides and the currents they generate. There is the location of the boat: are we swinging on a mooring or tied to a floating dock or anchored to the bottom of a protected (or not) cove; it makes a difference. 

 

The fundamentals of life: food, water, heat and dealing with waste increase the complexity. We have whatever food we bring. Some needs to be refrigerated, some not. We have 100 gallons of water that we nurture. For heat, the tiny propane fireplace keeps the salon and the pilothouse warm while ignoring the head and the forward bedroom. And we have a 40 gallon black water tank that can be pumped over board (three miles off the coast) or pumped into a marina’s waste system. 

 

The boat itself, despite constant maintenance, is a black hole. We do our best and then leave the rest to providence. In twenty years, Carrie Rose has thrown us a few curves. The Cummins diesel, the heart of the boat, has hiccupped twice. Once the injectors clogged while passing through a narrow rock strewn channel and a decade later, peculiarly, a malfunctioning thermostat left us stranded in a tidal race between a series of jagged rocks and the offshore Petit Manan Lighthouse. Both times we resisted panic and with the help of friends went on to cruise another day.

 

My 2010 Honda Accord Coupe has a small screen that can display photos. When the car was new, I struggled to add mine. I managed to get two loaded. One is a picture of Charlotte and I standing next to Carrie Rose while she swings in a crane’s straps about to be lowered thirty feet into the South Branch of the Chicago River. The other shows us tied to an idyllic lock in Canada’s Rideau canal. I toggle between the two and derive satisfaction from the reverie they elicit. It makes the “blood, toil, tears and sweat” of boat ownership worth it. 

 

We each have passions - many times unconceivable to others - that fulfill our lives. The new year, for me at least, is a time to contemplate the past and reevaluate the future. We wish and hope the best in whatever drives your passion. Cheers!

September 7, 2025

My topic for today is the boat as therapy. Over the past several years Charlotte and I have suffered various musculoskeletal aliments. Now I must mention, considering what many of our friends have been through, that none of these problems lead to disability or to surgery. Not that I did not try to lobby on my behalf for a surgical solution but no one would touch me. 

Last year we were both apprehensive about cruising even with limitations (no anchoring) and the summer proved a success. This year there was less concern. There were no self-imposed limits. We jumped on and took off after loading what seemed like a hundred boxes of supplies. 

 

Once on Carrie Rose, we realized what the reality of a winter without strenuous exercise meant in real time. Shoulders, knees, lumbar spines refused to move as did our Gluteus Maximus, Rectus Femoris, Brachioradialis, and Triceps. To get in and out of the dinghy was embarrassing. We took to waiting for fellow cruisers to vacate the dock before crawling onto the pier.

 

The next ill chosen move was to open the rear deck hatch. When this was put in, it was with the expectation that Nordic Tugs would emulate working vessels. It is a thick heavy oval aluminum hatch secured to the deck in such a fashion to withstand massive boarding seas. And thus, difficult to open. Upon Charlotte opening it and my going down below we suffered shoulder and knee injuries. 

 

Now, I am a capable medical practitioner who due to my Chiropractic and Osteopathic training should understand the mechanics of movement and the stresses placed 0n the body, especially aged ones. I would have thought that before attempting the various heavy and awkward demands a boat puts upon its owners, I would have been more circumspect . . . but no! We forged ahead with the task only to realize that shoulders, backs and knees suffered the consequences. 

 

In a seemingly odd manner, as we nursed our pain with Tylenol, Advil and ice packs, I announced that we had to go to Italy once off Carrie Rose. Charlotte was dumbfounded. I will refrain from quoting her directly other than to say she demanded a rational for my pronouncement. My only response was, “What are we waiting for, until we can’t move!” 

 

Clear thinker that she is, she proceeded in the cold and fog of a Maine spring, to make the arrangements while cursing the poor internet connection as we floated a block or so from Northeast Harbor’s WIFI antenna. Two weeks into this and four Rick Steve’s book later the airplane seats and hotel reservations were made. I’d say it was a miracle. 

 

And as the weeks went by we both healed. The dinghy was no longer a barrier. We spent three weeks at anchor in multiple scenic locals. Each day I pinched myself not to get complacent of Maine’s magnificent environment. Not to get inured of the seals, eagles, osprey, porpoises, song birds, jelly fish, etc., etc. To continue to marvel at this coastline made up of solid granite which sprouts vast forests growing on centimeters of soil.

 

Now back in Chicago with the garden tamed, we are committed to not fall into the decrepitude that a Chicago winter can lead too. It is a bit like an early New Year’s resolution without the inevitability of failure. Italy is a good start; we’ll see what follows next . . . hopefully not physical therapy!

 

Chicago, IL                              

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

July 24, 2025

These last few days it is becoming progressively windier. The forecast called for even stronger S-SW winds today and into the night. The last several days we have been at one of our favorite spots: Warren Island State Park. It is part of a group of islands, the biggest of which is Islesboro, that separates East and West Penobscot Bay. Cruising between the bays I can almost see the glacier that ground its way SW and carved a 180 foot trough on each side of these islands.

 

The state park has been unmolested (except by summer campers) for a hundred years. It is groomed but in a hand’s off way. The islands best amenity, for me at least, is an approximately two mile hike arounds its perimeter. An easy walk, except for the black flies and mosquitoes. It winds through a pine and birch forest with an under belly of vibrant green ferns. Along the edges are scenes we have come to expect in Maine. 

 

There is the interaction between the forest and the sea, and the tides and currents. There is an unobtrusive mussel/oyster farm in a skinny channel between Warren and 700 Acre Islands; there are a multitude of colored lobster buoys along the island’s edges fished by few classic lobster boats; there is the large brightly lit ferry that crosses from Lincolnville to Islesboro; and there are visiting yachts of all makes and sizes, and if lucky, a large schooner will drop its anchor right outside the park’s mooring field.

 

A few years back we neglected to monitor the weather and were trapped by a NE storm that came charging down the bay and directly into our unprotected anchorage. That night of howling wind was added to the list of the sleepless nights that are unescapable if one cruises long enough. With this in mind, we decided to leave early and head 20 miles to a protected cove in Vinalhaven Island called Perry’s Cove. 

 

Perry’s Cove is a unique destination in an area of unique destinations. It is the domain of John, The Mayor, a gregarious gentleman that controls several free moorings while living on his 34 foot America Tug. All he asks for is a donation to help with the upkeep and conservation of the island. This being a perfect spot, it is often crowded with cruising boats. 

 

The cove is peppered with many mooring balls besides his. Most of these balls are uninhabited by the owner’s boats, so boats come in and take them for the night hoping their owners will not disturb them and mostly this is what happens. To top it off there is a resident eagle that swoops down the channel and over the trees in feats of acrobatics worthy of the Blue Angels.

 

Carrie Rose’s diesel while running, through a connection of hoses (that I try not to fret about), heats the water in the water heater. It can also provide heat through another series of hoses connected to a radiator with fans that blows hot air into the cabin. Nonetheless, it was the hot water we were concerned about because we had not had a shower in the three days since we left Belfast. This was remedied soon after the engine was shut down.

 

When I began to write I was going to describe the bumpy ride we had head on into 4 foot seas and 20 knot winds. I was going to mention that just to add to the stress we came here by an unfamiliar route. And that we were not sure there would be a mooring available, but that is all in a day’s work out on the water and the retelling can get pedantic, so I won’t . . .     

 

 Perry’s Cove, Vinalhaven, ME                

July 15, 2025

We, meaning all the boats in Maine, patiently wait for the fog to lift. It’s been a long wait this spring and summer. There have been longer intervals. Two years ago, the fog never lifted and we went home early. Nonetheless, dedicated cruisers such as ourselves deserve better. Weather forecasting is accurate to a fault. If it says fog then there will be fog. It deflates your bubble when the 7 day outlook is 7 days of fog.

Today I count as this year’s first day of summer. Of course, we woke to fog at Buck’s Harbor, but it was demonstrably warmer. Though our surroundings were obscured, the sky was bright. At 9 AM it became obvious that the sun would win out. Sea level clouds rolled in off the Reach and then dissipated as they climbed into the surrounding hills. 

 

Boats began to stir. We dinghied to the marina to take our last showers for the next couple of days. New found friends were engaged for the final time this season and maybe forever. Boat dogs got their final walks before heading out. 

 

Back on Carrie Rose, our silent departure ritual began. The dinghy is secured on the stern. I take a good look around the engine room. Fuel filters are checked for water and water filters are checked for debris. The engine’s fluids are checked as are electrical connections, batteries, switches, belts and cables. I make sure there is no oil or water in the bilge. Only then are the various electronic devices turned on and the route is reviewed. 

 

Meanwhile, Charlotte puts everything in its proper place and I do mean everything. Experience has taught us, no matter how calm it may be, whatever is laying around will get flung across the cabin enroute. I will not bore you with the multitude of reasons for this, but it is inevitable. Finally, the engine is started. 

 

Now 10 miles further northwest attached to a mooring in Tom Cod Cove, a blustery south wind pushes Carrie Rose’s bow from side to side. As the boat swings the wind intermittently blows into the port and starboard pilothouse doors. Despite the wind’s vigor, it is a cooling summer breeze. A breeze we deserve because why not have at least one first day of summer . . .

 

Belfast, ME