Buck’s Harbor

 

Buck’s harbor is less than 6 nautical miles from Pickering Island, our last anchorage.  It is at the far west end of Eggemoggin Reach, just across from the abandoned lighthouse. The lighthouse and it adjoining building, classic in every way, roost on Pumpkin Island. 

 

The entrance to the reach is marked athwart ship by red and white channel markers along with a series of red and green buoys to guide mariners in. Buck’s harbor is a straight shot thru the buoys.

 

It is a new area for us, so I have my binoculars out inspecting far ahead of the bow. Charlotte notices that are two schooners raising sail and as the first begins to creep out of the entrance, I decide to do a 360 and give the crème colored American Eagle’s sails time to fill. We pass comfortably port-to-port. The second darker colored schooner, Lewis R French, is moving oddly sideways as its paying passengers crank the anchor chain up by about an inch a crank. 

 

Just pass them there is the usual (for these parts) Hinckley sailboat but it is dark grey instead of black, and a sloop instead of a yawl. The marina’s dock is full as is the harbor with many boats on moorings rafted to each other.  To arrive at 11:30AM with a 12 o’clock checkout was probably not the best move.

 

Our mooring ball green #1 was free and only required maneuvering around a couple boats to approach it. Readers more familiar with planes will know that planes land and take off into the wind, and it is the same for boats, when a current is running. Between the wind and current, whichever is the stronger is the proper choice.

 

Charlotte was at the bow with the boat hook at the ready. I could feel Carrie Rose being pulled along with the current, so I passed the mooring ball by several boat lengths before rounding up. 

 

As Carrie Rose turns, she gets sideways into the current and looses some ground toward the mooring. I pushed the throttle forward to compensate, and notice I am traveling at 3.9k. If I slow, I will miss the turn. If I take Carrie Rose out of gear, well she will just go straight. 

 

The speed stays on as I straighten the rudder in response to Charlotte’s pointing at the mooring’s pickup stick. At the last moment, I take Carrie Rose out of gear and feel the current push the bow away from the pickup. Now the bow thruster gets a couple seconds of spin time to keep her bow in place. 

 

Charlotte grabs the stick with its pendent line and pulls it up to the bow. Valiantly she struggles for the thicker mooring line as the current pulls Carrie Rose back. Now in neutral, I jump up to the bow to assist and we mange to wrestle it onto the large bronze bollard that sits behind the windless.

 

This has occurred in the couple minutes since we entered the harbor. We have not humiliated ourselves by missing the mooring. We have not spoken loudly to each other. We have not impinged another boater’s sacred space.

 

With the turn of the key, the diesel stops thumping and I look around. Buck’s harbor is marvelously quaint, if that is possible. The dock and the buildings beyond could be a Lego set. One hundred foot conifer covered hills surround us. In the middle of this U-shaped harbor is the dromedary humped Harbor Island.

 

A thick haze rolls off the hills and the waters outside the entrances are shrouded in fog. There is a fine mist covering the pilothouse’s windows. The boats are a bit confused as the top ten feet of the harbor’s water begins to drain with the changing of the tide. All in all, a day to remember.   

Barred Islands

 

 

The city of Bar Harbor, Maine on Mt. Desert Island is familiar to most. The origin of Bar Harbor’s name is the substantial bar that appears at low tide between Bar Harbor and its tiny companion, Bar Island just to the north. At low tide, people and cars can be seen making their way across the bar to Bar Island and then in a timely fashion back. 

 

Since Maine’s landscape is forever changing multiple signs inform and insist that Bar Island be vacated before the tide begins to rise, and separates them from family and friends for the next 6 hours.

 

Maine has numerous other Bar and Barred Islands that are mostly obscure. As I write this, Carrie Rose is anchored in 27 feet at low tide between Big and Little Barred Islands. The Cabot family, who seem to own many of the places we anchor, owns these islands. Access to the various islands is either allowed or disallowed dependent on visitors past conduct. Here we are boat bound.

 

The Cruising Guide to the Maine Coast lists eight Bar Islands in its index but fails to mention any Barred Islands. A deeper perusal of the book reveals a Barred Island reference and even gives it a 4 star rating, its highest. One wonders as to the index’s neglect in listing the islands. Not being conspiratorial in nature, one does not wish to speculate as to the reason.

 

On the way to Big and Little Barred Islands from Warren Island State Park on West Penobscot Bay, several boats were seen anchored north of our path. Binoculars out, compass direction noted, and paper chart consulted revealing another pair of Barred Island situated slightly north of and between the diminutive Colt Island and the larger Beach Island. 

 

Both sets of Barred Islands possess a fatal flaw and it is exposure. Once the bars are submerged in high tide, there is no protection from the southwest, northeast, and for that matter north winds. The cruising guide bluntly states, “leave” if any of the above winds pipe up. 

 

Carrie Rose spent a comfortable if anxious day between the Barred islands as a southwest winds began to gust and whitecaps formed in the channel beyond the bar, then with twilight, the wind died and allowed for a quiet night and morning.

 

I appreciate that to my non-boating readers this obsession with Bar and Barred Islands may seem like minutiae, but alas, this is the nature of cruising in Maine.  

 

Elsa

I have enough trouble writing prose let alone poetry, but that said here are four attempts. The first is a premonition of weather to come while on a dingy cruise up Castine’s Bagaduce River on a quest to find “Bagaduce Lunch” and a haddock sandwich. The 2nd, 3rd and 4th are before, during and after the tropical storm Elsa shook things up in Belfast Bay where we decided to hold up.

 

Wispy mare’s tails above,

Seals basking on hot rocks –

Cold water below.

 

Blue Hill’s distinct bump

In Elsa’s deepening gloom –

Southwest wind rising.

 

Water brown with mud,

Dense rain subsides and the wind –

Southeast to northeast.

 

Flood tide gusty wind,

Carrie Rose pulls at her lines –

Fog and darkening sky.

 

Jumping Fish Bay

The heat wave broke. We were lucky that Mt. Battie, which lies northwest of Camden diverter the severe thunderstorms. There was a little rain and a lot of black clouds and distant thunder but the worst skirted by. More importantly, we did benefit from its cooling effect.

It was time to leave Camden. The first anchorage, Barred Island, was ruled out due to exposure to the NE winds that will predominate for the next few days. Sir Tugley Blue suggested a well protected unnamed bay between Holbrook Island and Smith Cove, so off we went on an 18 nautical mile cruise northeast on East Penobscot Bay. 

 

The bay is approximately one mile from Castine. Castine is on the swift flowing (especially in an ebb tide) Bagaduce River, which is in reality a tidal estuary. It is a classy village and is home to the Maine Maritime Academy. Their large training ship, the State of Maine, cannot be missed.

 

Castine’s European history begins in 1604 and ends with the British leaving in 1815. Between those years, it was fought over by the French, British, Dutch, and Americans. For its remote location Castine has been the site of many battles including America’s largest loss of life in one battle, 474 men, before Pearl Harbor during the ill fated Penobscot Expedition of 1779.

 

The turn from East Penobscot Bay is between the northern tip of Holbrook Island and Can “1A”, which protects Carrie Rose’s bottom from the barely submerged Nautilus Rock.

 

[As an aside, cans are always green and nuns and always red. Occasionally, there are multicolored buoys, which usually demarcate a junction on the watery road of life. One such buoy, the red and white “CH” (it also has a bell) exists just north of us at the junction of the Bagaduce River and East Penobscot Bay.]

 

Once past the entrance, the bay opens up, and with it, I noticed many grey mottled black heads and noses of the local seals. They are most often solitary creatures but not here. I even saw one with a large silver fish in its mouth, a first for me.  

 

We motored straight in and set the anchor on the 17 foot mark on the chart. The tide eventually lifted us to 29 feet and in anticipation of this I had let out 110 feet of chain. Dave came by on his dingy to invite us for dinner and to discuss the coming rainy day's strategy. As I grabbed his line, a large bald eagle soared past us and perched onto a small shorelines tree.

 

The surface of the bay came alive with jumping fish that were no doubt being chased by the legion of seals. And then to starboard a pair of dorsal fins appeared, one smaller than the other. They surfaced several times always next to each other leading me to conjecture that they were mother and baby spending a pleasant afternoon gorging on the plentiful fish.

 

Charlotte and I took the dingy to the granite gravel beach for a walk and on the way passed close under the eye of the eagle. The beach is on an isthmus between our unnamed bay and Smith Cove. The dinghy’s varnished wood bottom scratched as we dragged it up on the beach. The flood tide is relentless and soon the dingy was floating again, so we took the hint and motored back to Carrie Rose. 

 

Now we had seen eagles, seal, osprey, porpoises collectively feeding on the jumping fish, so Charlotte named our unnamed bay, Jumping Fish Bay, a wholly appropriate name.    

Bays 6/30/2021

Camden’s inner harbor is a revelation. Camden itself is approached from the formidable West Penobscot Bay. The west and east bays are separated by a series of shattered islands, the largest being Islesboro. We crossed the bays from Pulpit Harbor on North Haven Island. 

There are several approaches and it does not amount to much of a cruise at about nine miles but it illustrates how a few miles here or there can make a difference in the characteristics of the water we traverse. 

 

In the past, at least according to my saved route, I went south around the Red #12 buoy to avoid passing through the islands. I have become familiar with the surroundings and though that does not mean I have let my guard down, it does mean I have more options when it comes to choosing a route.

 

But let me stop here and discuss a hardwired problem I have navigating in Maine. Like pelagic birds that migrate by instinct, spending most of my boating life in Chicago and on Lake Michigan, I am wired for a simplistic view of the four cardinal directions. Chicago is built on a north south, east west grid, and Lake Michigan juts straight down from north to south.

 

I instinctively know north from south and east from west when I am in its waters or on its shore. This is not the case in Maine. Maine’s shoreline, if I can call the jumble of islands, inlets, and bays that make up the coastline a shore, runs more east as it creeps it way north. My beloved grid does not exist in Maine and I find this disconcerting.

 

Enough of that: back to the bays. East Penobscot Bay is sheltered from the North Atlantic by the bulk of Vinalhaven Island and its assortment of eastern offshore islets. North Haven Island, the almost conjoined partner of Vinalhaven, contributes its most eastern Stand-in Point to deflecting the Atlantic’s swell. The Atlantic has a straight shot into West Penobscot Bay.

 

Pulpit Harbor is a secure anchorage: little disturbs it. Being close to Rockland, Camden, and Belfast, three cities that harbor most of the schooner fleet, it is a popular destination for them. We left for Camden in the morning after several days of high winds and expected to meet some of the remnant seas but it was mostly calm.

 

The course was close to straight west across both bays traversing midway between Saddle Island to the north and Mark Island to the south. The temperature had been rising on land but once out on the water it dropped substantially. The trip across the east bay and through the islands was choppy but overall sedate. 

 

Once out of the lee of Mark Island the sea state changed. I could feel Carrie Rose’s stern rise and twist as it does in a following sea. The short choppy seas were on our port and it was joined by an easy ocean swell on our port stern quarter. The water appeared a darker blue and a chill filled the air. I looked around for a shirt as goose bumps appeared on my forearms.

 

Camden has an outer and an inner harbor. A lighthouse on Curtis Island and several outer and inner ledges border the entrance to the outer harbor. There is a large mooring field and a confusing mixture of unique navigational aids. To add to the confusion, this is a busy harbor. Schooners are coming and going, launches crisscross every which way, all kinds of fine recreation crafts are on the move; it is a bit of a jumble.

 

And then there is always the radio. I was on Channel 71 discussing with the dock master a fifteen minute delay at the fuel dock. I began a 90 degree turn into the mooring field to kill time when he said come right in, so I kept my wheel turned and resumed the previous course. 

 

I was confused as to the correct dock and then I saw the large green diesel hoses serpentine on the deck. There was a special forces looking tourist go fast boat leaving, so I throttled back to keep control in the current as it maneuvered into the channel. When I felt Carrie Rose’s starboard side clunk into the dock, I realized this was the first time in two years that we pulled up to a pier and I smiled.  

Schooners 6/25/2021

Maine has hoodwinked us this year. Since we arrived on June 10, the weather has been relatively benign if not balmy. There have been a couple of patches of rain and thunder storms but hardly anything to talk about. 

Though for the last few days Pulpit Harbor has been fogged in and with it the creeping cold. Not that this has stopped numerous large tourist schooners from Camden spending the night. Friday while visiting with friends onshore the Mary Day and the Heritage schooners anchored to either side of Carrie Rose. 

 

From the dingy dock, we could not see out to Carrie Rose due to the dense fog and waning light. Our way was visually compromised, but pointing the dingy westward got us back to the boat. Due to experiences returning to the boat in the fog, I usually leave the anchor light on to guide us back like a lonely lighthouse minus the foghorn. 

 

But there was no drama this day, other than when we got close to CR the two large schooners appeared out of the fog. Suddenly an angelic voice was heard from the Mary Day singing an aria from Tosca, I think. Once the final note drifted off in the wind, present seafarers clapped. Then from Heritage, a quickly truncated tenor responded, but it is hard to best a soprano in full voice.

Anticipation

Cruising with intent to anchor changes the tenor of the endeavor. If a slip in a marina each night is the goal the number of decisions to be made each morning is lessened. Since it is best to plan for a good night’s sleep it is important to anticipate the characteristics of each anchorage before choosing one. 

Anchorages have specifics that set them aside from each other. Before considering them it is important to anticipate the weather: winds and waves, and the state of the tide and current at arrival time and then throughout the day. 

The most important consideration is the strength and direction of the wind. We listen to the weather radio and use online sources when available to prognosticate the conditions at the anchorage. The bane of a good night’s sleep is fetch. For the uninitiated fetch is the distance the wind blows over the water before it reaches the boat. The farther the wind travels and the more of it there is, the choppier the seas.

 

Anchorages vary in the protection they offer from winds of various directions. Few anchorages offer 360 degrees of protection; this often leads to compromises and judgment calls. In most cases, we get the overall protection correct but in true Murphy’s Law fashion, the best spot already has someone swinging on it or is fifty feet away from where we have just dropped our anchor. It is a bit like buyer’s remorse.

 

The nature of the bottom that the anchor will be asked to dig itself into is something we have less control over. Just to start, what the bottom is composed of. This is often revealed in tiny terse abbreviations on paper charts but less so the electronically translated ones. The hope is for dense, clay predominant mud with little or no vegetation. 

 

The final action in anchoring is to set the anchor. Once the anchor is on the bottom and most of the anchor chain is lowered, I give Charlotte the sign to reverse Carrie Rose. This is done gingerly at first otherwise there is a risk of pulling the anchor out and having to reset it. I am humbled by the amount of information to be gleaned about the state of the anchor 25 feet below and 100 feet out ahead by watching how the chain reacts to increasing power in reverse. It is reassuring to feel the anchor dig in. 

 

I can remember our first real anchorage. It was Government Bay in the Les Cheneaux archipelago on the southern shore of Lake Huron in Upper Peninsula Michigan. To say it went smoothly would be a lie. Even though this large bay provided multiple places to anchor, I could not make a decision. Once I did, at Charlotte’s urging, the anchor chain became jammed in the windless. It required a large screwdriver and a larger hammer to free it. 

 

This occurred repeatedly that day. It was frustrating enough to call the entire cruise off if we hadn’t been 500 miles from home! This “chain” of events continued for another decade until I finally replaced much of the anchoring gear. The hammer and screwdriver still reside in my anchoring bucket next to the helm as a reminder never to let my guard down.

 

I could go on but as with most activities we endeavor to do, we learn by our mistakes. Lately, and I am knocking on wood while I write this, we are able to enter an anchorage, make a quick assessment of the conditions, pick out a favorable location, and set the anchor successfully. 

 

Though there is always a sense of anticipation in the gut until the engine is turned off and we are sipping the afternoon’s espresso.    

 

Photo by Dave Jones

Recommisson

I began writing this post with detailed discussions of each project that I was confronted with during the 2021 recomissoning. Then I thought better of it. I was bored writing it, so I thought you would be bored reading it. 

 

In the sense that a picture is worth a thousand words (or at least 500), I have included a photo of the partial project list. I can now report that with most projects completed Carrie Rose (CR) has been launched, and spent a quiet night on Atlantic Boat’s mooring #9 in the middle of Herrick Bay.

 

There was talk of delaying the launch due to cold rain and fog but when the time came the clouds parted and the sun shone. Wayne, the yard boss, with the help of a large yellow Caterpillar thingy connected to a long hydraulic trailer slid CR effortlessly into the water.

 

This is a doubtful moment despite the preparation; the checklists; the blood, sweat and tears. As CR touched the water, I scurry to inspect the possible places where water can enter the boat. Once assured that CR will not sink it is time to start the engine. 

 

On CR the telling moment, when all is right with the world, is seeing water spit out of the exhaust. Ever watchful Wayne would not give the command to heave CR into the bay until he was satisfied with the amount of water expelled. 

 

Charlotte jumped on and with a little help from the bow thruster we glided back, spun 180 degrees to the south, and headed to the mooring. 

 

Today, when Sir Tugley Blue is launched, we will head for a spot between two islands in Merchant Row Passage. The anchorage between Round and McGlathery Islands is new to us, so we have done our due diligence. Chart plotter, navigational apps on iPad and iPhone, plus two hard copies of cruising guides to the Maine coast, and finally the above has been confirmed on the paper chart.

 

And now just before it is time to drop the mooring’s line to head south the wind has picked up to 25 knots. As my mother was fond of saying, “Never a dull moment”.

 

6/15/2021 

North Hero, Vermont 6/10/21

A Vermont sunrise is crimson and blue before it rises over New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Birds begin their first fling at the day with the first hint of light. 

 

Out the window of Shore Acres beautifully restored 60’s motel resort, white caps stream on Lake Champlain’s Inland Sea from a cool northeast wind, that also scatters the peony’s pink and white leaves.

 

Since there are no legions of 737’s, 747’s, 777’s, MD-11’s and their indistinguishable Airbus brethren, the air is clear leaving the sun’s rays unfiltered by soot.

 

Eastward over the water are the foothills of the White Mountains the landscape has a certain look: 

 

-Blue gray water capped in white lead the eye to a green shoreline darker in the foreground and lighter further on.

 

-A few emerald green fields of fodder are highlighted by the low angle of the morning sun.

 

-This layer of rich greens gives way to a whitish-gray haze, which gradates as it rises with the distant mountain into a grey with deep violet overtones and then to an equally hazy blue sky.

 

With the light as it is at 6:30 AM Mt. Washington’s slanting ridges – north to south, bottom to top - are discernable. 

 

It is a nice way to wake even if it began before five and breakfast is not until 7:30!    

Chopped Liver

In my late thirties 12 hours spent in jury duty motivated me to change careers. I had redirected several times before this event, but not to get distracted I will stick with the above. 

 

On the designated day, I closed the office and reported to the Cook County Courthouse at the Richard J. Daley Center in downtown Chicago. The prospective juror’s waiting room was a large drab room with musty speckled brown carpet, and grey walls. The aluminum furniture had a comfort quotation of zero. Large windows looked out onto one of Mies Van der Rohe’s gloomy buildings.

 

Life was suspended in that room, controlled by forces so large that it was better not to dwell on it. I searched for a quiet space and settled into the scholarly task I had assigned myself. Maybe it was Ulysses or Moby Dick, or maybe I was more practical and began to study for upcoming relicensing exams. I deemed it futile, and began to contemplate my navel.

 

Fate was surrendered to a lottery. As groups were called to duty or dismissed, there was an audible sigh. Too quiet to echo off the windows, the hushed tone faded as quickly as it began. Make or break it time approached. I forced any optimism of leaving into the background not wanting my hopes dashed. They were.

 

My group lost the lottery in mid afternoon. We dutifully followed our guide and were corralled in a stately courtroom. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in richly finished walnut. The chairs were cushioned in black leather. The jury’s bleachers were to the port, and the attorneys and their clients to the starboard. The clerical staff was at the bow and the muscle was aft. There were the usual symbols of government: country, state, county, city, and departmental flags, along with their corresponding seals. 

 

We awaited the judge and stood when he finally landed on the plinth. He did not hesitate to begin a lengthy explanation of our duties. He reformatted them for multiple grade levels. He thanked us for our service and explained our compensation. And then he summed up his remarks as a stern father (unlike my dad) would when describing the “real” world to his coming of age children. 

 

Of course, we knew this was coming. Before he was allowed in the courtroom, his weary bailiff prepared us for the worse. She explained in stark terms what we were in for. She was not wrong. I thought, lambs-to-the-slaughter, and restrained myself from running to the exit. There is a reason that an armed guard is posted at the backdoor.

 

The roll call commenced. Groups of ten were seated in the juror’s seats and questioning began. One by one, jurors were sent home. Most of them had a script prepared. At various times the judge interceded with the admonishment that no one was going home until a jury was selected. The sun began to set.

 

I began this tale by telling myself not to get distracted, so I need to backtrack. After the judge delivered his opening remarks, he reverentially acknowledged two of the juror applicants. 

 

The first was a pillar-of-the-community executive dressed in full Brooks Brother’s pin stripes. He had contributed to several of the judge’s causes. Then he followed with a glowing portrayal of a youngish, not quite so well dressed, newly minted Northwestern Hospital cardiologist. We were informed that the good doctor’s wife was also a physician and that a stork had recently delivered them a son.

 

I pride myself on being egoless, but when he deemed them too vital to waste their time – not in those words – with this superfluous personal injury case, and sent them out the very doors I had contemplated my escape through, I thought, what am I chopped liver!

 

Not chosen, I limped home physically and emotionally exhausted. I never imagined that a day of jury duty would leave me in such a state. It was too late for dinner, so I had a snack and went to bed. In the morning, I awoke with my future course decided. The timeline is now lost to me. It is safe to say it occupied the next fifteen years.

 

When summoned to jury duty in my late fifties, and seated in the dock, a woman with a striking Chicago accent lean over and asked, “What do you do for a living?" I told her, and she nonchalantly said that they would never pick me because I was too smart. She was correct.

Get Back

 

It is time to get back to boating. I admit there were times in the last year when I forcibly chose not to think about floating on the water. Certain images come to mind when I think about Carrie Rose (CR). This hunk of fiberglass and metal takes up a lot of space in my neural network.

Four years after Charlotte and I commenced summer cruising, I realized that we had spent one year living exclusively on her, (I should probably start using the gender inclusive “they” when referring to CR) now with ten years of summer cruising behind us that number has tripled.

 

Summer coastal cruising is a compromise with my younger self. My younger self would have ridiculed me. Then I was a devotee of an austere lifestyle on a simple but seaworthy sailboat. The sailboat did materialize in the form of Lenore, a 31’ seventies Hallberg Rassy, but career, lifestyle, and practicality force a change to power. There was also the realization that I was probably not of the correct disposition for a trek across the North or South Atlantic.

 

We have done our share of coastal ocean cruising. We have come to grips with tides and currents, salt water’s corrosive effect, confounding weather systems, and different docking protocols for every 100 miles traversed. There have been hundreds of locks from tiny to gigantic. There are the vagaries of US and Canadian custom practices. And then there is the sheer willpower it takes to keep our floating home in one piece.

 

Of course, none of this is to complain or to try to elicit sympathy for an enviable and privileged position in the economic stratification of the planet. We both have lots of education and on my part, lots of false starts before finding a niche. Boats played a part in motivation. One day in my twenties, while daydreaming of high seas adventures, it dawned on me that if I was going to fulfill any of them I needed to increase my earning potential. 

 

It seems flippant to have material goods drive ambition, but there it is. For all my reading of Zen philosophy, I was never going to throw it all away and live the life of a monk. We humans are an inquisitive species. I often think: so many gadgets, so little time. 

 

And what is CR if not a multi headed gadget. There are diesel engines, intricate electronic systems, and enough plumbing to complicate life. There are pumps galore and an exterior that is on constant self destruct mode. There are the appendages of two rotting wooden boats, two rusting bicycles, and miles of line and chain deteriorating in the sun. 

 

A boat is a historical challenge to maintain. A challenge, despite constant attention, can never in the end be met, and there in is the beauty. But I should get back to the images that CR conjures up. There are several coursing through my mind: one when we first entered the Rideau Canal just north of Kingston, Ontario, the other, again in Ontario, this time in Lake Huron’s North Channel nestled between the mainland and an unidentified island in Beardrop Harbor.

 

The Rideau Canal offers few anchorages. Entre into the canal was via a three step lock hidden in a rocky gorge north of Kingston, and the anchorage was not far from that. Whereas before entering the canal we were motoring in a shallow marshy lane, now suddenly we were surrounded by granite. 

 

A narrow steep sided path lead us into a well protect bay that was surrounded by even taller and steeper granite walls. As we carefully squeezed through a narrow opening in the wall, a pair of loons confronted us. They had purposely swum from along the far wall and loudly challenged CR. It was obviously directed at us and finding myself playing chicken with the pair of raucous loons, I alter my path deciding to anchor farther into the bay.

 

With the anchor firmly set in Canadian mud, I turned my attention back to the loons and saw a third, their Chicago softball sized fluffy child. They had been protecting their turf against the interloper. If I remember correctly, we spent a couple of days there, watching their antics, which included a lengthy and rowdy courtship dance complete with soundtrack. 

 

Beardrop Harbor was in a way more remote, while at the same time being more populated with boats. It is a popular anchorage when entering Lake Huron’s North Channel from the west or for that matter when leaving the North Channel heading west. We were on the tail end of our summer cruise and had decided to leave CR in Mackinaw City, Michigan rather than cruise back to Chicago, thus we had time to spare.

 

On the Great Lakes, the weather tends to run in three day cycles at least in the summer. We would often find ourselves rushing from one safe anchorage to another to avoid storms. And we were not the only ones. The harbor was not a harbor in the common sense but a well protect longish narrow bay. Other than our fellow boaters, there were no inhabitants. 

 

We firmly anchored and waited out several days of wind and rain with low clouds racing overhead. When the weather finally cleared there was a mass exodus. Since we had decided to move to a nearby island, we took it easy being in no hurry to leave, a real luxury in the usual frantic pursue of new and better scenery.

 

Going about my business, I looked up to see the last boat in the harbor wave goodbye. The silence overcame me. CR was solo. We were a little outpost, in a little bay, in a Canadian National Park. It was ours alone. 

 

Nothing dramatic happened. We put the dinghy in the water and wandered in the bay’s back channels, and spent a profoundly quiet day contemplating our navels. At about 4PM the latest batch of boats trickled in to anchor for the night and the spell was gently broken.

 

And these reminiscences are quietly breaking 2020’s spell. I know it is said that a doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient, but I think I will forgive myself this self therapy. Sleep should come easier tonight with the sound of the anchor chain rattling through the capstan as it sinks into the mud. 

April 2021           

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      

Catastrophe

The Chado Urasenke Tankokai Chicago Association, of which I am the president, is sixty years old this year - 2020. We planned a celebration with multiple tea events and a trip to Japan, and then had to cancel due to Covid-19. The former in March just before the true enormity of the pandemic was known, and the latter in July when the catastrophe was full blown.

 

It was organizationally and emotionally difficult to cancel an event that involved guests from the entire country and beyond. Watching the work our members had put in unravel was painful. Especially, if it is possible to remember, this was done in March while there was still hope the virus would dissipate and all would return too normal. 

 

I am not here to rehash the management of the virus and its sequel, but to discuss our association’s response to it. The association wanted to bestow several unique gifts upon the attendees as a thank you for helping us celebrate our sixtieth. 

 

To this end, members, lead by a gracious and talented member who is a fiber artist, designed and began to construct a satchel for each guest, both male and female. It was meticulous work requiring screen printing, cutting, and sewing of material. Unfortunately, the process was never completed.

 

In addition to the satchels, we ordered over 100 kobukusa. Kobukusa have a unique place in the repertoire of tea gear. They are small squares (15cm) of ornate fabric that are magically made with a fold on one side and hidden seams on the other three. Both the host and the guest carry these with them during the tea ceremony; a practical gift that would have brought back memories with each use. 

 

A kobukusa is used when handling various tea objects, such as natusme (tea caddy), chawan (tea bowl), and chashaku (tea scoop) to name a few. I received one as a gift for attending the commemoration of the 65th anniversary of the Urasenke’s retired 15th generation oeimoto (Genshitsu Sen XV) for introducing chanoyu to the western world. 

 

Its gold woven fabric is the background for palm trees, bougainvillea, mountains, and waves, and captures the joyous nature of the Hawaiian island where the celebration was held. When I use it, I smile and think of the island’s warm breezes and the camaraderie we shared. 

 

Those memories are why as I age my home becomes the repository of more and more knickknacks, and to take a clue from Marcel Proust, they are Remembrances of Things Past. In normal times, the clutter is derided but in a time of catastrophe, the memories these trinkets enliven prove their worth, too many memories to let go.

September 2020 

Visitor

Just about anywhere, if I am quiet, something happens. A little bit, or in this case, a big bit of nature turns up. Please pardon me, I know I have droned on about the backyard this year but for 2020, it is my cruising grounds. 

 

In the past the grounds have been the billion year old rocks of the North Channel on Lake Huron, and the Trent Severn and Rideau canals of Canada; Lake Champlain and the Hudson River; NYC and the coast of New Jersey; and the Chesapeake’s estuaries. It has been Downeast Maine’s rocky coast and the adventures associated with negotiating the Bay of Fundy’s tides and currents. 

 

Every one of these is worthy of comment, and when I can pry myself away from the present dilemma, their images occupy the free space left in my mind. On occasion, that something that happens drags the natural world, even in the middle of a metropolis like Chicago, into view. 

 

In July, the backyard’s west facing patio began to heat up despite deploying a large sun blocking umbrella. During the day, an elm shades the east facing front room making it a cooler place to put one’s feet up. But as five o’clock nears, the back of the house becomes approachable. 

 

I move the garbage picked white plastic chair onto the grass. A thirty foot blue spruce (planted a few weeks after moving in) provides shade. At first, I sit straight to read but after a few paragraphs slump and begin to nod off. I give in to the languor of the warm summer afternoon.

 

It is nice if there is a breeze. The wind chimes make cooling sounds, and the meter high plants and vegetables rustle creating white noise that almost negates the air conditioner’s buzz. The backyard fills with bird songs.

 

Sparrows are noisy little creatures that are given to hysteria; I typically ignore their outbursts. I might raise an eyelid if they are particularly boisterous and that is what happened this particular afternoon: screeching and then a whoosh directly off my bow. In the wake of the brown blur that had passed, came a batch of house sparrows in hot pursuit.

      

I turned to my left and there, two power poles away was a magnificent hawk being ravaged, verbally at least by the gang of sparrows. I lunged up the back porch’s stairs to retrieve my trusty Nikon SLR with the 18-200mm lens that I keep close for such occasions. I thought please stay put, don’t fly away until I can capture the moment. It did but not before moving a bit more to the left to put distance between itself and the noisy hoard.

 

In years of taking photographs, especially since the advent of cheap memory, I have learned to snap multiple pictures and not worry about the particulars of framing, exposure, back lighting, composition, all the things that are taught in photography 101 courses. Time is unforgiving, never to be repeated. Get the image while it is there and worry about the details later. 

 

And later I identified the hawk to be an immature Cooper’s hawk. Its immaturity (this is I anthropomorphizing) is the reason it let itself be bullied by the sparrows. Nonetheless, it was an impressive raptor standing well over a foot with perfectly quaffed brown and white plumage. It must have been stunned by the sparrow’s reaction, as it sat looking perplexed for quite sometime.

 

Eventually, at the sparrows urging it took off south and once more, they took up the chase. To watch this badass bird being put in its place by such a diminutive force was thought provoking. I am sure there was a moral in this, but the languor quickly set in and I resumed nodding.      

August 2020

 

Value

 

It is a quiet morning. The few jets that now fly over us come in spurts morning and late afternoon. Most are large freighters with indistinguishable colors. They often fly different patterns due to the skies being clear of traffic. 

 

It makes me think how we took the value of our life style for granted. Since last fall I tried to suppress the feeling, let’s call it instinct, that there would be a reckoning. The chance that this level of bad behavior was not going to have consequences was remote. 

 

A good example is my own behavior the last few months. Like many others sitting at home baking became an outlet. Bread is my main go too, and so I retrieved the sourdough recipe and grew a starter. This in itself is not an issue. There is not much bad that can come from sourdough bread. 

 

But it did not end there. After watching Julia Childs and Jacques Pepin’s old TV shows, experiments with various buttered dough began. Some recipes are more elaborate than others. Some require a bit of technique, and of course that means much dough needs to be made to acquire the proper outcome. 

 

The diet in my home, since I am the cook, is sybaritic. There is no meat, poultry, or fish. Butter is used sparingly replaced by a fruity, spicy extra virgin olive oil sourced from a beautiful hillside above Fiesole near Florence Italy. There is moderate use of salt and spices. White wine with dinner is necessary but it takes two days to finish a bottle.

 

This discipline began to break down. I found myself buying butter, not to mention eggs, at a rate unheard of in the near past. I became anxious as the shelves of the local grocery became sparser and sparser. The lack of toilet paper worried me less than the empty flour shelf. 

 

One treat after another was produced, all flaky and sweet and delicious. There were a few mistakes but they were learned by and the trend to richer foods did not abate. 

 

Then one evening with back-to-back Julia and Jacques tutorials on soufflés the zenith was reached. I should have seen it coming but my mind was cloudy with butterfat. The next morning with recipes flying out of the printer and post-it note tabs protruding from multiple cookbooks a plan was hatched. Tonight a simple but elegant cheese soufflé would be served for dinner. 

 

Eggs are not a part of my usual repertoire. I do understand their utility and the fascinating chemistry behind it. What I don’t like is messing with them. I will hold my nose on occasion to make a frittata with left over pasta and vegetables but I am usually chastised for not using enough of them. 

 

A soufflé is a dish whose very structure demands eggs. I failed to realize that I had succumbed to the allure of heavy cream, organic eggs, fresh creamery butter, and fine white flour. I had succumbed to the tyrants of technique and outcomes. 

 

About this time, my left foot, toes to be exact, began to ache. Years ago after a long hike the soreness did not fade away, and I asked the x-ray tech in my office to snap an x-ray. Sure enough, in plain sight the second toe showed signs of arthritis. I was in my late fifties and if this was the worst of it, I considered myself lucky. 

 

So, when my foot started to ache I chalked it up to the osteoarthritic joints. I thought my shoes were too tight and changed to a more broken in pair for daily wear. Then I decided that using the exercise bike in the basement was the aggravating agent and I cut back to every other day. Finally as I lay down to sleep the weigh of the bed sheet seemed excessive.

 

I determined that first thing in the morning I would take a full history and perform an exam. I would look at my foot, something I had feigned to do. There, on this nearly forty years a vegetarian’s left foot was reddish swelling across the metatarsals.

 

This could not be, but it was – gout! How many times had I diagnosis this in other poor souls, and ordained the value of a low fat and a low protein diet. Denied them beer and dairy. How many times had I inwardly smirked while writing a prescription for a powerful anti-inflammatory, and ordered a test for uric acid blood levels. The memories came flooding back.  

 

And though doctors that treat themselves have fools for patients, there was no refuting this. I searched the medicine cabinet for a drug other than Tylenol and in the corner, hiding behind a large bottle of ignored multivitamins, was a small plastic container of ibuprofen.

 

I popped two rust colored pills into my mouth, walked into the kitchen, and extolled on the value of brown rice and vegetables. My behavior had bested me, to say nothing of the soufflé!

July 2020

Visitor

Just about anywhere, if I am quiet, something happens. A little bit, or in this case, a big bit of nature turns up. Please pardon me, I know I have droned on about the backyard this year but for 2020, it is my cruising grounds. In the past the grounds have been the billion year old rocks of the North Channel on Lake Huron, and the Trent Severn and Rideau canals of Canada; Lake Champlain and the Hudson River; NYC and the coast of New Jersey; and the Chesapeake’s estuaries. It has been Downeast Maine’s rocky coast and the adventures associated with negotiating the Bay of Fundy’s tides and currents. Every one of these is worthy of comment, and when I can pry myself away from the present dilemma, their images occupy the free space left in my mind. On occasion, that something that happens drags the natural world, even in the middle of a metropolis like Chicago, into view. In July, the backyard’s west facing patio began to heat up despite deploying a large sun blocking umbrella. During the day, an elm shades the east facing front room making it a cooler place to put one’s feet up. But as five o’clock nears, the back of the house becomes approachable. I move the garbage picked white plastic chair onto the grass. A thirty foot blue spruce (planted a few weeks after moving in) provides shade. At first, I sit straight to read but after a few paragraphs slump and begin to nod off. I give in to the languor of the warm summer afternoon. It is nice if there is a breeze. The wind chimes make cooling sounds, and the meter high plants and vegetables rustle creating white noise that almost negates the air conditioner’s buzz. The backyard fills with bird songs. Sparrows are noisy little creatures that are given to hysteria; I typically ignore their outbursts. I might raise an eyelid if they are particularly boisterous and that is what happened this particular afternoon: screeching and then a whoosh directly off my bow. In the wake of the brown blur that had passed, came a batch of house sparrows in hot pursuit. I turned to my left and there, two power poles away was a magnificent hawk being ravaged, verbally at least by the gang of sparrows. I lunged up the back porch’s stairs to retrieve my trusty Nikon SLR with the 18-200mm lens that I keep close for such occasions. I thought please stay put, don’t fly away until I can capture the moment. It did but not before moving a bit more to the left to put distance between itself and the noisy hoard. In years of taking photographs, especially since the advent of cheap memory, I have learned to snap multiple pictures and not worry about the particulars of framing, exposure, back lighting, composition, all the things that are taught in photography 101 courses. Time is unforgiving, never to be repeated. Get the image while it is there and worry about the details later. And later I identified the hawk to be an immature Cooper’s hawk. Its immaturity (this is I anthropomorphizing) is the reason it let itself be bullied by the sparrows. Nonetheless, it was an impressive raptor standing well over a foot with perfectly quaffed brown and white plumage. It must have been stunned by the sparrow’s reaction, as it sat looking perplexed for quite sometime. Eventually, at the sparrows urging it took off south and once more, they took up the chase. To watch this badass bird being put in its place by such a diminutive force was thought provoking. I am sure there was a moral in this, but the languor quickly set in and I resumed nodding.