Carpe Scenum!

At this point, we have been in Maine for more than a week, and only two days out of eight have been free of rain and fog. When we’re stuck in the boat, waiting out the rain, we find things to do – reading, cooking, playing fiddles, etc. – and it can be very charming, snuggled up in our little cocoon with the pitter patter of rain drops on the cabin top. The fog even has its own still, quiet beauty. But you know, it does get a little old.

When we get a day (or a few hours) of blue sky we know we need to take full advantage. The first clear day we get is after three days in Rockland, and it’s beautiful and sunny, but unfortunately without much wind. We’re not waiting around for something better – we fire up the engine and head out. Twenty miles north, we find a little spot to anchor between two tiny islands – not difficult to do here because there are little rock and spruce tree islands everywhere.

It’s such a scenic spot, we have to go ashore for the cocktail hour. Rick decides not to bother with the outboard and just row the dinghy in, but someone (ok, I’ll admit it, it was me) forgets the crackers and insists that Rick go back to the boat to get them. Well, you just can’t have cheese and crackers without the crackers, right? It’s a loooong haul back to the boat against the wind and current, made even more fun when one of the oarlocks decides to give out and break. For the return trip, Rick scraps the oars and uses the outboard to bring me the crackers.

The next day is of course rainy, foggy and cold again. The beautiful spot we chose to anchor in yesterday is now unrecognizable – we could be anywhere.

View from inside the cabin

Black Guillemots - so cute, even in the fog

Mt. Desert Island, which includes Acadia National Park is relatively close by, but we want to time our voyage around the perimeter of this island on a day with good visibility. We check the weather reports every day, but they’re not always accurate beyond a couple of hours – and even then… After another day sitting at anchor and waiting out the fog, we decide to skip Acadia entirely this time around and go directly up to Bar Harbor to re-provision. We have plenty of fuel and water, but we’re practically out of food. Worse yet, we’re almost out of gin.

The weather looks as though it’s going to be foggy and miserable for the next week, so we might as well go somewhere where we can do a grocery run and then go further north. We can hope for more scenic weather on our way back south in which to experience Acadia. But as we approach the famous Somes Sound, the fog miraculously clears. Let’s not wait – who knows what tomorrow might bring. Carpe Scenum!

The Somes Sound is actually a fiord, a long, narrow inlet with steep sides or cliffs, created in a valley carved by glaciers. Perhaps not as dramatic as those you might find in Norway, it is nevertheless a beautiful stretch of scenery, dividing Mt. Desert nearly into two halves. We motor between them, passing little sailing school pupils and some pretty impressive vacation homes. We even spy a loon swimming along in the water.

At the end of the sound, in the sort of cul de sac, there’s a race going on involving a class of very colorful old wooden boats. We enjoy watching them, but try hard to stay out of their way.

It is already starting to cloud over, but we feel lucky to have gotten this clear weather window to experience the Sound. We anchor near Southwest Harbor in a sweet little spot near a cottage I find particularly charming. Rick points out a sailboat nearby as a Hinckley Pilot 35, his former aesthetic ideal. She is a beauty, a true dreamboat, but a seasickness nightmare. That boat has a habit of “hobby horsing”, bobbing forward and backward, along with being extremely tippy. Luckily for me, Rick’s tastes have matured.

Hinckley Pilot 35

The next morning dawns clear and bright, not a cloud in the sky, and there’s even enough wind to sail on. We head out, around the perimeter of Mt. Desert, and it is a scenic wonder. The areas around Southwest and Northeast harbors are still privately owned, with some mighty impressive old-style mansions parading as cottages. But it is immediately obvious when the publicly owned coastline of Acadia National Park comes into view – no more houses. Just beautiful natural coastline, backdropped by Cadillac Mountain.

Acadia National Park

Rockin' Out

The fog is still with us when we get up in the morning, but Rick insists that the weather report predicts a burning off. Based on that prediction, we head out of our little anchorage. At first, visibility is only good for a few feet from our boat so there’s nothing to see, save the inevitable lobster pot buoys that are everywhere.

Navigating in such thick fog, particularly this close to shore, is very anxiety producing.  There are rocks and ledges to run up on everywhere. But sure enough, the fog begins to clear as the morning heats up.

How thrilling to be able to see the dramatic Maine coastline at last! I particularly like the lighthouse atop a peak called Owls Head.

Owls Head

Approaching Rockland Harbor, we get treated to a good deal of the local boat traffic, including an incredibly well used fishing boat. Lots of sailboats are here too, and we can see the outline of the Camden Hills in the background.

We pull in to Rockland and dock at Knight’s Marine Services. Rick has been worried about the batteries on our boat; twice we’ve had to use the emergency “hot shot” to start the engine because the batteries had run out of juice, well before they should have. We had called Knights ahead of time to line up a mechanic to check them out. The poor fellow takes one quick look at the overwhelming Frankenstein-like mess of wires behind the panels and tells us we need to move to the next level. We need to call in a real specialist!

EEEK!

So, it looks like we’re here for a couple of days. We use the time to take a break from the boat and explore the little town of Rockland. One of the high points is the Farnsworth Museum which has an eclectic collection, and especially highlights the works of the well known trio of Maine artists; Andrew, Jamie and N.C Wyeth.

Andrew Wyeth - "Turkey Pond"

The Strand

We also take in a movie at the recently renovated 1920’s theater, the Strand. This old theater stayed open until the year 2000 when it was bought by the local multiplex - not to renovate it, but instead to close it and annihilate their only competition. Capitalism at its finest. Luckily, a long-time summer resident bought the theater in 2005 and it was restored to its former glory. It’s a great old place, with a balcony and a big velvet curtain that opens to reveal the screen when the movie begins. The in-house-made popcorn is outstanding. I’m pretty sure they use rarely seen white popcorn – the favorite of this popcorn connoisseur. As much as I love the Strand, I am even more blown away by the film. “20 Feet from Stardom” is a documentary about back-up singers in R&B, Motown, and rock bands from the sixties through today. Lisa Fischer, man. Whoa. She’s my new idol.

Knights Marine Services sells lobsters and crabs, along with ice and other boating supplies, and we buy three of their lobsters to steam ourselves. We’ve never cooked lobster on the boat before, and the largest pot we have makes for a mighty tight fit, but we do manage to get all the little beasties in there. They are so close to the top of the pot that we can hear them hitting the lid when they move around in the hot, steamy pot. It’s difficult not to feel badly for them – especially since Rick danced around and played with them before putting them into the pot – but not so badly that we can’t enjoy eating them. Dipped in butter, they are sweet and tender - without question the best lobsters I have ever had. Maybe it’s the colder water up here?

When we see the owner of Knights the next day, we tell him how great the lobsters were. “Well…, of course,” he says, in a great Maine twang, “they’re free range!”

Jeff, the electrician, gives the boat a once-over and he and Rick determine that two of the big boat batteries probably should be replaced. They both spend quite a bit of time working on the boat, but once it looks like things are more or less fixed, they end up talking philosophy. It turns out that in addition to being the former CEO and owner of a software development company (and fine electrician), Jeff is a sort of perpetual student and amateur philosopher. He and Rick have a grand time chewing over all sorts of topics, like the strange sexual habits of monkeys (?!!!), and certain philosophers and personalities like Jacques Lacan and Slavoj Zizek. I don’t participate in either the electrical fixes or the egghead discussions – I do the laundry.

Rick, expounding professorially to Jeff

I’ve really enjoyed our time here in Rockland – the people, the food, the artsy blue-collar-roots earthiness. Too bad we are going to miss the Lobster Festival they hold later on in the summer, but we are hoping to be farther north by then. With CLEAN LAUNDRY!

Muscongus Among Us

It is FREEZING up here! Whatever made me think that this was a good idea?

Rick and I left Provincetown in the morning for an overnight passage to Maine. My desire to get up to those northern waters led us to skip Biddeford Pool as well as Portland and just sail straight up to Penobscot Bay. About twenty-four hours later, here we are in a little place called Tenants Harbor.

In our overnight trip we covered about one hundred and thirty miles, and it feels like we are in a whole different world. For starters, it feels like we are suddenly in an arctic climate. Throughout the daylight hours of that passage we went from sunny and hot, to sunny but cool, and then by late in the day it was downright cold.

Just let them try to take that drink out of my cold, dead hands...

By this morning when we pulled in to Tenants Harbor it was raining and completely fogged in. Welcome to Maine! I’m sure it’s really beautiful, but on a day like today who would know?

Marooned inside a boat on a foggy, soggy day, I’m desperate for something to occupy my mind and I turn to Rick’s charts and maps of the Maine coast. Let me just say a thing or two about the place names around here. Now, maybe I’m just unfamiliar with these names and they’re really no different from the ones we have down in Maryland. But they sure sound funny to me.

There are the descriptive names like Black Head, Grindstone Neck, or Croch Island.  There’s a teeny little point of rock in the middle of the water called simply, “The Brown”. The brown what? It’s not like there’s another set of rocks called “The White” or “The Grey”. I can only guess as to how Mosquito Harbor got its name, but we’re definitely not going there.  Then we get to some of the Native American names, like Eggemoggin Reach, or the Passagassawakeag River. Passa what? My favorite is Muscongus Bay. Seriously.

Last year at a restaurant in Portland, my father-in-law asked me if I had ever had a special English pudding called “Spotted Dick”. I told him no, but that it sounded more like a disease than a dessert. I kind of think Muscongus falls in that category too.

Whatever the names, we’re stuck here until the weather improves, hopefully tomorrow. Luckily, our boat came with an as yet unused heater, so after repeated attempts to light the thing, we break down and read the manual. Thank God it works! 

Rough Stuff

The Shenandoah in Martha's Vineyard

I am such a weakling. It’s partly the musicians’ curse, always having to watch out for hands and fingers. What might seem like a minor injury for most people could mean the end of my career. But if I plan to do much more sailing in the future, I’m going to have to develop some useful musculature. This morning’s passage makes that clear.

Martha’s Vineyard to Onset and then Provincetown. This is a well worn path of familiar ports and waters. Rick has made this little trilogy of landings many times before, and this is the third time around for me as well.

Different winds and weather patterns make every voyage at least somewhat unique, of course. Still, I’m experiencing more than a little déjà vu when we leave Vineyard Haven and traverse the Vineyard Sound to Woods Hole. The wind is not exactly “blowing like snot,” as sailors like to say, but it’s blowing darned hard and in a direction exactly contrary to the current, creating what sailors call a “cross sea”. The boat is tossing and turning all over the place, just like it did two years ago when I was with Rick on Tortue, making this same passage my first time up the coast. I can’t deal with the camera to take any pictures – it’s just too wild of a ride.

We’re sailing with the headsail alone, yet we’re screaming along at eight and a half to nine knots, helped by the strong tidal current. The deck is getting washed with spray and I scramble below to shut all of the hatches. I think I’m real hot stuff now, no longer afraid of getting seasick by going below in a rocky sea. Once I’m down there, though, it becomes a major challenge to get back up on deck. We are heeled way over and with all the bouncing around, I’m having trouble climbing the companionway steps.

“Go slow, one handhold at a time!” Rick yells down to me. I try to follow his advice, but I’m hopelessly stuck on the next to last step. Imagine trying to balance yourself near the top of a ladder that is leaning to the side about forty-five degrees, and is bouncing atop a big rubber ball that is riding up and down waves of three or four feet. Now try and imagine climbing to stand on the top rung of that ladder. You need to be agile and have a good sense of balance of course. But you also need some pretty strong leg muscles to counterbalance the inertia that is at play.

I am not quite up to the task and I end up making it out of the companionway, but only after badly jamming my big toe (of course I am barefoot) and wrenching my shoulder. I have long been envious of Rick’s nimble-footed ease of movement under these conditions, and I have been assuming that he is just more self-assured and experienced on a boat than I am. That is certainly true to some extent. But I now see more clearly that one of the big reasons Rick is able to move around a bumpy boat while I tend to sit around like a big toad is that he’s simply a great deal stronger than I am.

Once we make it through Woods Hole and into Buzzards Bay the current runs differently so we are out of the cross sea. The wind remains really strong though, and we’re still making at least six and a half knots with only the headsail. Rick and I are both astonished that I am not seasick, but my foot and shoulder are aching and I retreat into the V-berth (our bedroom) to lie down. Rick stays up above and is able to get some footage of Valkyrie sailing in this still rolling but much calmer sea:

 http://youtu.be/w4HBnRFWUVU

The rest of our journey unfolds with all of the familiar sights and pleasures. Pizza and clams in Onset, party time in P-town. After a couple of days, my shoulder is as good as new, but my foot is still a bit swollen and tender. At least it won’t effect my violin playing. Rick tells me that the passage from Vineyard Haven up Buzzards Bay was some of the best sailing he’s had in a long time. His obvious enthusiasm for that kind of sailing contrasts greatly with my own fear and discomfort with it. But you know, I would never begrudge him the enjoyment of sport sailing if that’s what he really loves.

When we get back to Baltimore, I’m going to find a personal trainer.

 Sunset Over Provincetown