Repair & Restore

 

With Carrie Rose repaired and a restorative 5 days spent in Northeast Harbor it was time to move on. Earlier this summer, we sent a check (yes, I said check: paper, envelop, and stamp) to secure three nights at the Sweet Chariot Music Festival on August 3, 4, and 5. It is held at the refurbished Oddfellow's Hall a mile from the dock.

 

We left Northeast Harbor after taking on fuel and water at Clifton Dock, a pricy but convenient stop just before exiting the harbor. Though not noted by either of us, this was CR’s 20 mile test run after her repairs. 

 

Swans Island is an outlying chunk of granite open to the North Atlantic from the south. It is noted its family run “kinder and gentler” lobster boats. The leaving and entering boats pass us slowly not creating a disruptive wake. The captains and crews smile and wave. They are not made up of the usual gruff males that seem to populate every other lobster boat closer to the mainland. This made for a pleasant repose. 

 

There is a sideline to this, we are miles from the mainland, and so a good portion of the audience came by their own boat, a unique crowd. A ferry comes from Bass Harbor on Mt. Desert Island to Swans Island's the northern shore, but once here I doubt there is anywhere to stay. 

 

The sizeable harbor was chockfull with anchored sailboats and a few powerboats including four Nordic Tugs. Returning from the concert a forest of anchor lights punctuated the darkness. Mist and fog dispersed the LED’s cool white pinpoints. It was mesmerizing even if that sounds contrite; it was a visual treat. 

 

The festival’s enthusiastic audience was out done by the fervor of the performers.

The each performer was introduced by the plucky Donald Day, the impresario. It was apparent that they were a family with ties that go back for decades. Each artist performed about three songs, most of their own creation. The stage was quickly set between acts and the sound was superb. 

 

The talent oozed off the stage to an audience willing to sing at every chance. That such talented folk survive in the cynical world we have constructed for ourselves is a miracle. Maine (at least the parts I have been exposed too) is particularly prone to nurturing this attitude of hope and peace. It might be time to look for an island . . .

Silent

 At 4 AM, it was dead silent. At 6:30, it was about the same except for the crows. 

 

The first boat noise was the captain of the magnificent lobster boat to starboard buzzing by in a Carolina Skiff ladened with buckets of Mobil diesel oil. His wake slapped on the hull stirring Charlotte. 

 

Gradually noise settled in. Noisy tires on the road to our east began intermittently only to become a steady stream. Outboard motors buzzed, dogs barked, generators kicked on, and diesels started to rumble.

 

It was now the gulls turn to make a ruckus. I looked out the stern hatch to see an osprey glide over, but they are silent unless a chick is screeching for a bite of fish. 

 

There are several small islands south of Northeast Harbor and several equally small ferries that service them began their daily too and fro. Just as I watched the first of them come in, a bald eagle flew across the harbor and alighted high on a tree across from us. 

 

Of course, this got the crow’s attention and they picked up where they had started at 6:30. The worldly din began in earnest; quiet will have to wait for sunrise.

 

 

Dreaming

It has been raining for 12 hours, mostly at night but also now into the morning. The biggest thing on my horizon here in Northeast Harbor is Dreams, a 100+ foot 5 story yacht. As is the custom these days, they come complete with a 30+ foot “chase” boat with three 400hp outboards attach to the stern. 

 

These boats are awkward appendages. They hang off the mother ship’s side or sideways off the stern. They are usually sleek craft that vie for outlandishly sci-fi designs, and vary in color dependent on the color of what they are appended too. 

 

The black/grey vessels have a Special Forces vibe; as if the crew would suit up their guests in black camouflage bulletproof vests instead of sky blue life preservers for the sunset cruise.

 

At twilight, Dreams’ appendage (white BTW) boarded its guest and took off south out of the harbor to try to find a sunset. The weather was deteriorating but it is a fast protected craft and I am sure provides a bit of excitement as opposed to the creature comforts provided by the larger ship.

 

An hour or so later it ghosted back. Being nosey, I reached for the Canon Image Stabilized 10x30 binoculars to watch what looked like Grand Ma and Pa and the Grand Kids get off. They disappeared into the ship and its lights flickered on from stern to bow. 

 

Moments later two crew returned, switched on the chase boat’s cold blue LEDs, and began to decontaminate it. This went on for an hour making me fantasize that the kids had a food fight with lobster bait while underway.

 

Though I am not proud to admit it, I doubt in 40 years of owning boats that I have ever given any such a cleaning. I definitely do not have the makings of super yacht crew.

 

The sky is lightening now. Neighboring boaters are baling flooded dinghies, taking dogs for walks, and taking themselves ashore for showers. Please excuse me if this sounds rude, but us boater are an elderly bunch. The men are gray and the women are mostly blond. We are teetering a bit but then we are still at it . . . hurrah! 

Trafton Island and Schooners at Buck's Harbor

The island’s granite and tree shoreline subdues the NNE wind. Carrie Rose is afloat amongst lobster buoys. They surround, as do scurrying lobster boats, the small cove we anchored in. The anchor was set in 17 feet at near high tide, and this morning, after a spectacular full amber moon rose from Trafton Island’s forest, we floated in less that 7 feet at low tide. Carrie Rose draws 3.5 feet so we were safe from kissing the bottom. 

 

Tide is a creature of geography, wind, and above all else the phases of the moon. Full and new moons herald extremes in the average rise and fall of the tide. 

 

About a mile north of the anchorage is a grouping of moored lobster boats. They radiate out from east to southwest to their fishing grounds. We are the recipients of the wake that issues from their heavily laden vessels. Due to anchoring close to the island’s granite wall Carrie Rose rolls twice. First we roll port to starboard, then settle for a moment, and then on the rebound, starboard to port.

 

Lobster boats awake before the sun rises from the North Atlantic’s horizon. During Maine’s summer that is not long after 4 AM, thus our day begins early. I try to remain in bed but I find I suffer from recriminating dreams and am forced to rise. 

 

I bundle up and go aft to turn on the propane. There is a ritual to this. The knob on the propane tank is turned to OPEN. Next, the ball valve with the blue handle is opened with an audible rush as it sends gas from the tank to the regulator. A half dollar (remember those) size gauge goes from zero to between 100 to 150 PSI in an instant. There are two red handled valves below this. One labeled HEATER, the other STOVE. This morning the former is opened. 

 

We are almost finished so do not abandon me yet. I climb down into the salon where on the starboard back wall hangs our beloved Newport by Dickinson stainless steel cabin heater. With its glass and stainless steel door open, and the gas knob turned to ON, I click the trigger of a long nosed butane lighter.  A blue and yellow flame springs to life. I shut the door and the saloon instantly becomes a comfy abode.

 

Next, I boiled water to fill a thermos. This will provide enough hot water for tea/coffee, and then to wash the breakfast dishes, and occasionally our faces. Life on Carrie Rose is, let’s not say primitive, let’s just say frugal. We maximize our resources.

 

The thing that shortens our off gird sojourns is when the last of the salad is eaten. It seems the absence of green roughage can only be tolerated for a short time. If anchoring for an extended period, dinners become rudimentary. I — who has eaten the same food for decades — even gets bored. Hard tack and salt pork or its veggie equivalent can only hold its appeal for so long.

Buck's  Harbor Schooners

Pictures and Poems

 

Wall to wall buoys in Moosabec Reach with Jonesport in the background.

Trafton Island Sunset

Trafton Island

Trafton Island with Thunderheads

Trafton Island Thunderstorm

Trafton Island Beach (and me) at Low Tide

Classic Downeast Scene

Bar Harbor Thunderstorms

                                                              Herrick Bay's Smoky Sunset

Poems 7/20-22/21

 

/20

 

Sun to darkened sky,

Laundry’s in and hatch closed —

Distant thunder sounds.

 

Black head black tipped orange beak

Turns to preen a mottled body —

Nearer thunder sounds.

 

A common tern preens

Balanced on a mooring ball —

Sky dissolves to black.

 

 

/22

 

Four coupled osprey

Appear above the treetops —

Summer thunderstorm.

 

Amber moon rises 

Amongst Trafton Island pines —

Silent reflection.

 

Moonlight reflecting

On Trafton Island water —

Full moon’s rising tide.

Setback

Each cruising season brings with it setbacks and challenges. There can be numerous reasons: elderly parents; elderly cruisers; mechanical, structural, electrical, plumbing, and cosmetic difficulties; extreme weather events; and on occasion emotional and physical fatigue. That is quite a list and I should have included logistics. 

 

In our last decade on the water, each of the above, if not multiples, has occurred at one time or another. This “Post” Covid cruise is no exception. It appears that storing Carrie Rose in heated storage for two years can create as many problems as using her.

 

Without referring to the log, there have been electrical (generator, inverter/charger, and radio), structural (salon roof leak), mechanical (stuffing box fasteners), propane, and cosmetic (varnish failure). I am going to avoid the weather other than for the rain and fog, and Elsa the tropical storm, not to mention we are still sleeping under a down comforter. 

 

A justifiable question would be, “Why bother?” and I will have to search for a reasonable response. To think back over a fifty year boating career it has been a series of trying events punctuated by enlightened moments. 

 

Each fall, once back in the bungalow, I am surprised at how boring it is. Boring does not capture my meaning; maybe uneventful is a better concept. The life force (whatever that is) is down regulated. It is a feeling in the solar plexus that dissipates on land. I might be mistaking this for what is in reality GERD!

 

Carrie Rose is a familiar venue for setbacks, as are this Atlantic Boat Company’s moorings in Herrick Bay, Maine. Atlantic Boat Company is where Carrie Rose is kept in the winter and where the good people have helped us weather multiple setbacks. Now, there are two, well, really, four. 

 

The top of the list is the misbehaving electrical system. I upgraded it in 2019 and it has been a continual mystery since. It is state of the art with all the incongruity that multiple microprocessors can bring to a highly functional device if it can ever be fine tuned. 

 

I had a hand in installing it and as did several of the boatyard’s long gone electricians. Atlantic Boat Company’s present electrician has an OCD streak that is commendable for someone in his profession. He spent Thursday afternoon working his “little grey cells” to exhaustion only to declare the entire system a jumble.

 

I was prepared for the worse when all six foot plus of him stepped out of the engine room. What I received was a declaration to solve the problem but not until Monday morning with a clear head and the entire day ahead of him . . . at seventy dollars per hour. So here, Carrie Rose floats on mooring 5 that is attached to an eight thousand pound granite block resting between 12 and 22 feet on the bay’s bottom. 

 

With our free time Charlotte and I backtracked to places passed many time in hast: pottery and art studios; Fort Knox and the Penobscot Bridge’s 400’ observatory; used book stores; ice cream stands and Blue Hill’s new co-op. The next day was filled with the search for various needed goods that had us venturing to Ellsworth, home of most big box stores and traffic worthy of Chicago. We fled.

 

In times like these, to give myself an edge, I wish for a magical amulet or an idol to sacrifice too. My mother would bury St. Joseph upside down when wishing a house quickly sold but I doubt there is a saint devoted to boat maintenance. Like many other problems of the modern world, I am on my own to deal with past, present, and future setbacks. It is the price of admission.

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.