August 4, 2026

 

 

Americans know, if ever travelling outside the country, that most things we do are constrained by the threat of lawsuits. Certainly, every decision I made during my career was colored by it. But we’ll come back to this.

 

From our floating pier at Front Street Shipyard in Belfast Maine, I can see through Carrie Rose’s pilothouse windows the bejeweled waters out into East Penobscot Bay. A little to my right is the Belfast City Marina and to its right three enormous painstakingly maintained Fourier tugboats. They are painted a somber red with yellow smokestacks displaying a large capital “F”.

 

Their names are the Captain Arthur Founier (who I met two decades ago, but that is another story), the Fournier Girls and the Fournier Tractor. They hug each other as they hug the side of the city walkway. 

 

To their right is a gathering of harbor buildings in various stages of ramshackle-ness, and to their right Front Street Shipyard’s two massive work sheds. Multiple sailing catamarans, sail and power cruising boats, superyachts and commercial ships are scattered throughout the gravel lot that the sheds empty into.

 

In a remarkable feat of common sense, the city and shipyard decided to ignore the liability of the common walkway passing right through the working shipyard. It adds to Belfast’s allure to stand a few feet away from the raising or lowering of towering craft into or out of the river.

 

And slightly back from the launchpad floats Steely Ann. We were told one of the founding partners of the shipyard, the son of the humorous E.B. White, domiciled here when in Belfast. It is constructed of three shipping containers fashioned into a slick piece of architecture and painted the same shade of red as the tugboats. 

 

Belfast is the terminus of the Passagassawakeay River. Access north on the river, except for small boats, is blocked by two bridges. The original low bridge has been turned into a walkway and the new lofty bridge has an unending stream of cars and trucks crossing east and west.

 

Rivers, at least in my experience, amplify the weather and the tidal currents flowing up and down stream. Through no planning of our own, we always come to dock on one of Front Street’s single floating piers when the current is roiling and the wind is happily gusting. A hard learned lesson is to dock into the current or the wind if the former is absent.

 

I make a wide turn in the narrow channel and adjust Carrie Rose’s path to negate the effects of the current. Another hard won lesson is to not spare the horsepower while executing this maneuver. I drive the port bow at a 45 degree angle to the dock and at the last second before a collision, spin the wheel hard right and power into (or just next too if lucky) the dock. 

 

If I get it correct, the stern, where Charlotte is stationed, will kiss the pier and allow a line to be secured to the cleat. Now hard in reverse for a second and with the help of the bow thruster counteracting the effect of the wind and current, keep us off the pier. A line tied midships and we are not going anywhere. I leisurely step off the boat onto the pier, and attach the bow line and add other lines as needed. 

 

To assertively drive the boat into the pier places my sympathetic nervous system in high gear. It is the opposite of running from an attacking grisly bear. On the way in I take slow abdominal breaths, so when the time comes I can ignore what my monkey mind is telling me to do and do as Admiral Nelson commanded and go straight at ‘em. 

 

The engine off signals the completion of the docking tasks. Charlotte and I usually find ourselves sitting in the salon soaking up the suddenly calm atmosphere. If we messed up there is a debriefing. If not, then it is best to leave things unsaid least we jinks the next attempt. 

 

I tend not to be superstitious, but let’s be serious, we are on a boat, on the water, where both demons and angels live!

Buck's harbor, Maine

August 3, 2026

 

  

 

An egg heady thing we do when on Carrie Rose is to stop at the libraries of the towns we visit. Many are quite nice in a traditional sense, but also in the effort each community has put into maintaining and restoring them.

 

The first thing we ask is if there are used books for sale. Vacationy areas tend to have interesting collections. In Maine, many of the “away” people are well off and well educated. And I guess, to be perfectly honest, so are we. They have travelled widely, have multiple interests, and have probably led interesting lives. This translates into a wealth of books on diverse topics.

 

At the moment the three books that sit next to my pilothouse bench illustrate this point: Granta, a quarterly magazine of new writing, with this copies theme of Music; Letters to a Young Novelist by the Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa; and High Clouds Soaring Storms Driving Low, the letters of the Maine author Ruth Moore.

 

Since I could not decide which to read first, I have been reading a bit of each, a bit of the time. The view out the pilothouse windows of Pulpit Rock and the schooners sailing out on Penobscot Bay keeps pulling my eyes and concentration from the printed page. It may be a long time before I finish any of them.

 

Earlier I skimmed through an odd book about the healing powers of Mount Dessert Island and longingly looked at photos of luscious French desserts in Gasto Lenotre’s Desserts and Pastries.

 

Last year was all about Churchill and Stalin and WWII. The books were enlightening but slow going and in the end depressing. This year I have unknowingly chosen lighter topics with one caveat: Frankenstein on my new Kindle.

 

Before leaving Chicago Amazon kindly informed me that my two seldom used Kindles were no longer functional. To compensate for their loss, I was offered twenty dollars off a new one, so I bought the least expensive model. Though I hate to admit it, it is a delight to use.

 

For some reason the first book I choose to read - in bed – was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. It as a peculiar book written in a similar fashion to Grahm Stoker’s Dracula, which, by-the-way, I highly recommend. The problem may be that as I read it, I cannot get Mel Brook’s movie out of my head. Makes for some interesting thoughts upon closing my eyes to sleep.

 

As we make our way Downeast, I am excited to see what new treasures await us at the local libraries. A decidedly egg heady thing to do . . .

 

Belfast, Maine 

July 28, 2026

 

This posting is for my own personal gratification, so please feel free to stop reading if you get bored. Charlotte and I decided to take Carrie Rose to Boston this year for the Tall Ships Festival. I purposely never added up the miles to and fro over the winter. I knew it was far. I did not want the number of miles firmly lodge in my mind. At this I succeeded, until now that is.

 

I write this anchored in North Haven’s Pulpit Harbor, not far from where we began, and doing the math we traveled 370 nautical miles. For a boat that averages around 7 to 8 knots that’s no small trip. Cruising is all about navigation. Even when 10nm offshore there is still no room for error. Carrie Rose must stay on the proper bearing despite the influence of wind, waves, tides, currents, lobster buoys, fishing and recreational boats.

 

I make incremental adjustments to the autopilot to keep us on course. It is not unusual for Carrie Rose to crab into the waves and currents to stay on course. Due to the various rocks and ragged shorelines, it is not hard to imagine how the multitude of ships met their end. Charlotte marks the chart as we make headway and I monitor the various screens in front of me. Neither of us have time to ponder the many oddly named rocks, ledges, points, navigational buoys, islands, bays, etc. that we pass.

 

With our newfound free time sitting here at anchor I thought I would make a list of the above, beginning in Boston and ending in Pulpit Harbor. This is going to be a pedantic exercise, but maybe I will surprise myself once I get writing.

 

Boston is a magnificent harbor. We exit out President Road and get forced to the South Channel because of the traffic separation scheme for the Tall Ships Festival. On our way through South Channel, we pass Ram Head, Aldridge Ledge, Davies Back and Commissioners Ledge with The Graves off to the east.

 

Once through Broad Sound we are in Massachusetts Bay. On the way to Gloucester we pass Halfway Rock, Southeast and Middle Breakers, and Newcomb Ledge with Marblehead and Salem to the west by 3nm. We keep Easter Point and Round Rock Shoal to the starboard and head into Gloucester Harbor.

 

The red buoys (red, right, returning) lead us pass Ten Pound and Mayflower Ledge, and by Ten Pound Island and the famous artist colony of Rocky Neck into the inner harbor where we pick up a mooring for a few days.

 

On the way out to Gloucester’s Western Harbor we pass Harbor Cove, the location of the maritime museum and several schooners and historic ship replicas. Now we wait for the Blynman Bridge to open and let us into the Blynman Canal. It meets up with the Annisquam River, passes Lobster Cove and then out into Ipswich Bay.

 

This passage takes us 10nm offshore where we leave The Isles of Shoals 3nm to our port. The wind and the waves get rowdy here making identifying Boon Is. Ledge and Hussy Rock more complicated than we would have liked.

 

To get to Biddeford and Wood Island Harbor we keep Washman Rock and Danbury Reef to the port, and Wood and Negro Islands to the starboard. We keep our cool here despite the vicious thunderstorm that descends upon us as we attach to our mooring.

 

On the way out, now heading for South Bristol, we go between Stage and Negro Islands, and pass Negro Island Ledge into Saco Bay. With Cape Elizabeth and Portland to the west we pass Old Anthony Rock and West Cod Ledge. Of course, there is West Cod Ledge Rock to clear before entering Casco Bay.

 

We are offshore again and Casco Bay offers up a plenitude of obstacles: Bulwark Shoal, East Cod Ledge, Cape Small, we pass between Sequin Island and Mile Ledge, and let’s not forget Tom’s Rock and The Sisters off Sheepscot Bay.

 

We are closing in on South Bristol now. Boothbay is left for another day as is Linekin Bay, and we pass between Ocean Point and The Fisherman and Hypocrites. We have second thoughts but end up threading through geologically splendid Thread of Life (Aka Threat to Boat) and into Johns Bay and River. Once through Corvette Ledge and McFarlands Ledges Carrie Rose gets to rest for a few days in McFarlands Cove across from Witch Island.

 

You will be glad to hear this is the last leg of the trip. Out into Johns Bay with Rutherford Island to the west and the smaller Johns Island to the east. Pemaquid Point is rounded into Muscongus Bay. There are the two narrow passages of Egg Rock North Ledge and Davis Strait to negotiate, and then Mosquito Island and into Muscle Ridge Channel.

 

Muscle Ridge Channel begins between Whithead Light and Yellow Ledge Day Beacon. It goes on pass Lower Gangway Ledge, Hurricane Ledge, Oak Island Ledge, Upper Gangway Ledge, Inner Grindstone Ledge, Grindstone Ledge and finally into West Penobscot Bay.

 

It is about 6nm across West Penobscot Bay to Drunkard Ledge Danger Lighted Buoy which marks the beginning of the northeastern shore of North Haven at Stand-in Point. Of course, there are ledges to avoid here also. The coast gently curves to the northeast, and we see Wooster Cove and Barlett Harbor. Both are small indentations containing a house and a lobster boat each.

 

We are on the lookout for Pulpit Rock which usually has a massive osprey nest atop it but lacks one as far as I can see this year. Carrie Rose, sensing the end of her labors, take a wide starboard turn to avoid various unnamed spits and anchors in 27 feet.

 

The dock is a five-minute dinghy cruise, and the small grocery is a one-mile uphill walk. We can settle in and not have to listen to the diesel for almost as long as we want . . . perfect.             

 

North Haven, Maine     

July 21, 2026

  

 

In the late seventies I bought a musical instrument after seeing an ad in the Whole Earth Review. Over the next several years I learned how to get a note out of it and how to read its distinctive music. Though I always kept it near, decades would go by without any serious attempt to master it.

 

Just before I retired, I decided to get serious and took several lessons from the preeminent player in the USA. He was gracious and encouraging, and a larger-than-life character. But the remote, and in the days before Zoom and Skype, the technically convoluted lessons were not working for me. I sought out a local teacher and under his tutelage made progress.

 

But don’t worry, this story is not about my musical endeavors, it is about the camaraderie that that instrument engendered and how cruising on Carrie Rose did a similar thing.

 

This comradeship takes many forms. There are harbor friends, yacht club friends, boat yard friends, and then there are cruising friends. Meeting a fellow cruiser is on par with meeting up with an old friend where the conversation begins like it never ended all those years ago.

 

It does not seem to matter if, like us, the folk have cruised the Great Lakes and the eastern seaboard, or they have spent the last 15 years on a world cruise. There is a direct connection that putting oneself at the mercy of the sea engenders. I cannot explain it other than that.

 

Most of the friendships are transitory because, of course, the thing about cruising is the constant motion. We have met people in Maine that we knew in the Chesapeake a decade ago. The boat is usually recognized first and then we search our “little grey cells” to put a face to it.

 

There are deeper connections. In our case many are due to our distinctive craft. Carrie Rose was purchased in 2003 and spent her first summer with us the next year. When we finally began to cruise with her, we made close sustaining friends that last to this day.

 

Maine is a unique place in that when I start up a conversation with a fellow boater, I never know if they have just bought a boat or have just come in off an Atlantic crossing. This keeps me humble. No matter what Charlotte and I have accomplished on Carrie Rose, no matter what knowledge we have gained, many have equaled or surpassed us.

 

This fact alone keeps cruising interesting or should I say, compelling. Despite the cost, the maintenance, the moments of terror, this keeps our little part of the world expanding rather than contracting. And there is no way to put a value on that . . .   

 

 South Bristol, ME

 

     

July 18, 2026

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

I anticipated a rowdy passage and I was not wrong. After three days in Gloucester, MA it was time to leave. We sat out the worst of the weather from the southeast. For two nights we had to seek refuge in the pull out bed located in the salon. Something we rarely do. The bow, where we usually sleep, was raucous and due to the combination of wind, waves and tides Carrie Rose was rocking 15 to 20 degrees side to side.

 

There are two ways to leave Gloucester for the north. One is to round Cape Ann. This adds 5 nm to the trip and going around a cape is always asking for trouble. The other is to go through the shallow Blynman Canal/Annisquam River. It cuts this section of Massachusetts off from the mainland. The narrow canal is lined with moored boats, beautiful cottage style homes and salt marshes. 

 

The defining feature of the canal is Blynman’s Bridge. It is easy to miss as it is tucked into the northwest corner of the harbor. The bridge is low and the passage is narrow. Often there is a strong tidal currant moving one way or another through it. I call the bridge tender on channel 13 to ask for an opening and then hung back because boats coming from the canal have the right of way.  

 

Due to the bridge’s narrow opening the current can be strong. We planned to pass through an hour after low tide because then the current is slack. After watching many boats pass either way I decided it is best to not be timid and power through. Twenty-eight turns and five miles later we exit into Ipswich Bay.

 

Our plan was to go 30 nm to Kittery but once out in the bay we decided to head for Biddeford, Maine. This added an additional 25 nm and three hours to the cruise. It also increases the chance of challenging seas and thunderstorms close to the destination. I add two hundred RPMs to the big Cummins diesel under our feet and maintain at least 8 knots towards the destination.

 

As predicted the wind and waves increase incrementally throughout the day. Large waves pass under our port stern quarter accelerating Carrie Rose to 10 knots on occasion. It was reminiscent of the waves we were accustomed to on Lake Michigan. As the following sea picks Carrie Rose’s stern up, they send the boat skipping down the face of the wave. I thank myself for lightening the load in the bow, so she rides above the waves and not buried in them.

 

The sea calmed as we approached the lee of the Biddeford Pool. It is a tricky entrance. With my stabilized binoculars in hand, I compared the various chart plotters with what I was seeing out the pilothouse windows. The green cans and the red nuns were in the correct position, or maybe I should say Carrie Rose was in the correct position relative to them. 

 

When I looked up from studying the charts the dark forebodings of the predicted thunderstorms appear before me. The storm was about an hour early by our reckoning. I accelerate while calling the Biddeford Yacht Club to announce our arrival and receive instructions. It can be difficult to find the assigned can in an unfamiliar mooring field. Thankfully the radio operator had given me a clue when she added that mooring #83 was in line with red nun #9 just off the starboard pilothouse door. 

 

The mooring lay between a large catamaran and a smaller sailboat. Charlotte went out on deck as I spun the boat around to head into the wind. The seas ahead were suddenly alive with spray as the squall hit. The first pass was a miss. Now it was truly blowing and the rain and spray coming off the waves obscured the surroundings. I began to slowly steam into the wind and waves when Charlotte commanded another pass.

 

Here is where Carrie Rose’s 220hp turbo diesel earns it keep. With the wheel hard to starboard I powered through the turn and headed straight for the mooring. Charlotte grabbed the boat pole and hooked the mooring pennant. I jumped out of the pilothouse and between the two of us we got the line over a small appendage that is usually used to guide the line to the bollard.

 

There are always port and starboard dock lines attached to the stanchions. I undid the port one and passed it through the loop on the end of the mooring line, brought it back to the bollard and secured it. Now we were secured. We retreated into the pilothouse as the fury of the wind and waves increased. In this unprotected bay, Carrie Rose began her customary snap rolls of 15 to 20 degrees side to side. Every boat has its weakness, and this is hers.

 

Violent summer storms like this usually pass quickly. Though common on the Great Lakes we have experienced only a few in Maine. The Northeast has different weather patterns that after ten years of cruising here I am beginning to appreciate.

 

The storm moved out to sea, the wind and water quieted to a mill pond, and we slept a contented sleep. Once again, Carrie Rose proved to be a great sea boat. Point her in the desired direction and in most cases, she’ll take care of the rest. Granted the occupants don’t always fare as well as the boat. We hang on and count the hours, minutes and sometimes the seconds until we reach port. I admit it is an odd way to spend a life, but it is too late now to take it back!

 

South Bristol, Maine

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