NEW ENGLAND 1993
© BY ELLIS
SIMON
Monday, July 26. The trip this year is to be the longest we've
ever taken. Four weeks. But a couple of days must be lost on the
front end due to family obligations. So,
at 4 am on Monday, July 26, we leave the dock at Forked River. Sunday was windless and peaceful, but an
easterly wind has sprung up during the evening and it has blown all night. Not hard, mind you, but this type of wind can
raise a lot of hell with the ocean. It's
a theory of mine that some wind velocities can couple energy into the waves
much better than others. So a relatively
gentle wind can churn up a lot more trouble than a stronger wind.
The
trip up Barnegat Bay is uneventful and we are assisted through the canal by a
favorable current. The fuel stop and dog
walk at Brielle is complicated by a strong ebb current and a low tide, but no
problems occur. As we pull away from the
fuel dock, the "Paramount," a large head boat, passes by on her way
to the inlet. I follow along in the
Amberjack.
When we get to the inlet, it becomes evident
that this will not be a good departure.
The inlet is glutted with small boats drift-fishing. This is a clear sign that it's rough outside.
I watch as the "Paramount" heads out between the jetties. At one point, the hundred
footer is picked up, turned thirty degrees and dropped down like a
child's toy in a bathtub. She goes on,
but at a gentle pace, tossing and turning.
One of the ten great lies about cruising is,
"It's only rough in the inlet where it's shallow. It'll flatten out once we get in deep
water." This one is particularly
bad because it s true about one in ten times.
If you get a large but gentle swell, it can churn up an inlet while
leaving the outside waters relatively passable.
Today is not the day for that condition. We drift with the frustrated fishermen and
watch. Serious sportfishermen pass by
purposefully, but decide not to go out when they see the mess outside. After an hour, only one vessel, a 44-foot
Hatteras double cabin, has gone out.
They are from New York
and it's my conjecture that they have
"get-home-itis." They take a
liberal pounding just making the seabuoy and turning to the north.
We kill time by touring the minuscule harbor,
then head up the Manasquan River to anchor.
Regular checks of the marine weather turns up
nothing encouraging. The wind will
intensify. Further, a low pressure
system and associated cold front are on their way into the area. It looks like the seas will be heavy until
Thursday or Friday. I have plenty of
urgent work back at the office, so we decide to call the day a loss, scrub the
departure and head home.
First, I stop at Tice's Shoal to have a look
at the bottom and clean it, if necessary.
As simultaneous check on the dive gear, I suit up for the job. I can still fit into the jacket and I can get
the pants on over my expanding waist, but there is no way that I can zip the
legs over my calves. Years of jogging
and skiing have had the desired effect and there is more meat there now. I go down anyway and get the cleaning done,
but it will be a necessity to get new pants during the week. New England waters are too cold for bare
legs, and I need to be ready if there is trouble on the trip.
Saturday,
July 31. Some of the work has been
done and the weather has turned better.
Departure has been delayed a week but so has the trip end. Now we have the four weeks without the loss
of half a week. The departure and run up
the bay are uneventful. The week has
changed the tide rhythm and the current in the canal is now at a peak against
us. There is a no-wake rule in the
canal, so the Amberjack and a dozen small center- console fishing boats grind
along at 4 knots speed over the ground. They'll pass me in a flash soon as the
restriction is lifted, but for now, they're "up the same creek."
This time around the inlet is docile and by
8:00 am, we're on our way. The first
couple of hours are quiet enough that I decide to make a change in plans. I'd intended to head for Fire Island Inlet
and lay overnight there. But the weather
is good enough to go direct to Shinnecock.
The LORAN waypoint is selected and off we go.
An hour or two into the run, the seas build up
a bit. It's still not uncomfortable, but
there are two clear and separate seas pushing us around. The first is out of the southeast and is a
fairly high sea but a rolling sea. It
has a long distance between peaks and valleys.
I measure it at about five feet. It's hitting us broad on the bow and
isn't any problem. The second is a real
trouble maker. Coming from the
southwest, and about three feet in height, it is on the starboard quarter and
just strong enough to throw the Amberjack around. The autopilot is just able to hold the
course. Conditions continue to
deteriorate as the afternoon wears on, but the autopilot hangs in there and we
make Shinnecock a day early.
There is major work going on at Shinnecock
Inlet. The south jetty is gone, and
being rebuilt. A new north jetty is
already near completion. The sand on the
beach is piled high in an artificial dune.
This area really took a pounding in last winter's storm. My favorite anchorage area is occupied with
dredging equipment, but we're able to locate just south of it. It's been a long day and sleep comes early.
Sunday,
August 1. It's an early
morning. Up at dawn, I go across to the
beach to have a look at the ocean. It's
a lot flatter than yesterday. We get an
early start, but in just the short time it takes to get the anchor up, a fog
rolls in. It's a typical summer morning and the fog will burn off later, but
right now it's pea soup. We clear the inlet and head east toward
Montauk. It's fog the whole way.
Just off Montauk Point, something hits my
trolling line. Whatever it is, it's big
and moving fast. I think it's still
there, but it's hard to tell. The fish
seems to be swimming fast right toward the boat. I reel like crazy and eventually the fish
spots the boat and takes off at a right angle.
I take a moderate strain on the line and it just goes slack. When I reel it in, I find that a rather heavy
stainless steel hook has apparently broke, for the lure is there and the chain
and ring that the hook was attached to are still there, but the hook itself is gone. When
I try to remove a hook from another lure, it snaps with practically no force on
it. There is a serious problem in the US
with counterfeit bolts, but this is the first time I've run into counterfeit
fish hooks.
The fog lifts a little about eight miles southwest
of Block Island and we're able to get a couple of photographs of the Coast
Guard "Eagle," which has anchored just outside the entrance to the
Great Salt Pond. It is an exceedingly
rare opportunity to see the Union Jack on display. The Union Jack, a blue flag with white stars,
can only be flown from the jackstaff (near the bow) of a military vessel at
anchor on a Sunday.
We drop the hook in the Great Salt Pond with
the intentions of dinghying in to land to let Duchess run. But when I come down the ladder, I see the
trolling line hanging straight down. I grab it to check, and sure enough, it's
fouled in the propeller. Oh well, this
is a forced opportunity to get into my new wetsuit. I relearn that a wetsuit makes it very
difficult for you to descend without weights.
Especially this one, which is double thickness around
the torso. I finally find a
position which approximates kneeling horizontally on the rudder, with my side
against the bottom of the boat. The line
was neatly scooped up by a propeller blade and wound just as neatly on the
shaft. It comes off without the need for
a knife.
While I'm down there, I find that the
propeller is covered with a fine coral-like growth. The surface is rough and not very
efficient. This is evident in the clear
waters of the Salt Pond but I had missed it entirely in my earlier check in
Barnegat Bay. Some determined wire
brushing and scraping gets it clean again.
This kind of growth is why I prefer to have the prop bottom painted
along with everything else.
Marilyn is bubble watching while I dive and
she is surprised to hear someone calling her by name. The "Uptic," another Mainship, has
just entered the Pond. They had visited
one of the Mainship club's raftups in Barnegat Bay earlier this year.
Unfortunately, by the time we get underway again, they have docked and gone to
town, so we don't get to talk.
We leave the Salt Pond and head round the
northern tip of Block Island. The seas
have quieted somewhat, but there is still something of a swell from the
southeast. Evening brings us to
Cuttyhunk and we anchor outside the harbor.
Monday,
August 2. Our destination this day
is Plymouth, Mass. So we're off up Buzzards Bay in the morning. A mile or two out of Cuttyhunk, we encounter
a large school of blues feeding violently.
I get a line over the side and within seconds have a blue on. One fish is our limit, due to storage, so the
action is over almost before it began.
The run up the bay is uneventful, and we're
able to catch the very tailend of the favorable current. I feel sorry for the southbound traffic. We've had a following wind and the current
will be against that wind in an hour.
It'll be a long rough ride down the bay later. We secure a slip in Brewer's Plymouth Marine
and settle back to absorb some history.
The southerly wind is predicted to veer to the west and intensify, so
the afternoon and tomorrow will be clear skies, but rough seas.
Before getting into the history, we try out
the new inflatable in the harbor. Last
fall, after out last trip, we decided that the old Sportyak was just too small
for our type of cruising. We bought a
10-foot Zodiac and a 10-horsepower outboard.
The stability is impressive, and so is the speed. In quiet waters, it is a lot of fun. With the strong westerlies, the waters were
definitely not quiet. By the time we get
back to the Amberjack, we're all soaked.
I should take a little side trip here and give
you my first impressions on inflatable dinghies. First, I quickly learned that the advertised
"simple assembly" is not simple.
It is tricky and time consuming.
So we quickly decided to keep the inflatable inflated and find a way to
carry it. The old method of tipping it
up on the swim platform could work, but it would extend too high above the
transom. This could be solved with one
of the cradles that are offered, but there is another problem. Soot from the diesel engine gets on
everything in the transom area. This
would not go well with a pretty white dingy.
We chose to stow it upside down on the cabin top. The good part is that it provides a nice
cover for the forward hatch, permitting it to stay open in wet weather. The bad part is that it blocks vision forward
from the cabin, and the lower helm. The
other bad part is that hauling 75 pounds up over the bow rail is a job for two
careful people with strong backs.
The propulsion was another matter. The inflatable is rated for 9.9
horsepower. 9.9 horsepower is popular
because many freshwater bodies limit outboards to "under
10 horsepower." But a 9.9
horsepower engine weighs another 75 pounds.
Hernia heaven.
My logic was that a large engine like that would enable us to a.) tow the Amberjack in an emergency and/or b.) tow a waterskier. Now
that the sale is final, I must admit that both a and b
are possible but extremely improbable. A
considerably smaller outboard would have allowed me to scoot around the bay
while being easier on the back. In my
defense, I held on to the little Cruise and Carry. It is this lightweight that I use to get the
dog ashore, or in speed limited harbors like the Salt Pond.
Tuesday,
August 3. The wind is truly
whistling out of the west. This is a layby day and we take advantage of it by
visiting the replica of the Mayflower and the Plimoth Plantation. I recommend these, as the players remain true
to the 1620 time frame. They are well
studied and have answers to most questions about the times.
Another attempt to get out to the sand bars in
the inflatable meets with just a little more success, but again we come back
with wet pants.
Wednesday,
August 4. The wind has died and we
leave Plymouth with flat seas and clear skies.
The clear skies don't even make it out of the harbor. By the time we run the main channel, the fog
is thick enough to cut with a knife. We
see nothing all the way across Boston Bay.
An occasional whale surfaces at a distance, but nothing nearby. The monotony is also broken by calls on the
VHF announcing this vessel or that, and its activity or course and speed.
About noon, we round Cape Elizabeth and head
in to Rockport on the north side of the Cape.
There is a real need for diesel fuel now. Both tanks are showing about 1/4. The harbor is crowded and very picturesque,
but nowhere among its many attractions is there a fuel pump. A question to a local outboarder brings the
advice to go into the Annisquam Canal, a mile or two to the west. Since this is new territory for us, it's
worth the trip. So we travel around the northern cape of Cape Ann and into Ipswich Bay, thence into
the Annisquam River. Both banks of the
river are lined with moored boats, and there is a small fuel dock up a
tributary, but they don't have diesel fuel.
They refer us to Cape Ann Marina, south on the river.
The Annisquam river
and canal cut through Cape Ann, connecting Ipswich Bay on the north to
Gloucester and Massachusetts Bay on the south.
By going south on the river, we are making a big circle. But what the hell, it's all in the interest
of education. The river is unremarkable
except for the railroad bridge just north of the marina. Like the railroad bridge in the Manasquan
River, this one stays open unless a train is due. Unlike the Manasquan bridge, this one has a right turn immediately to the
north. Also, it has a high railbed which
totally blocks the view of opposing traffic.
Liberal applications of the horn and quick response narrowly avert a
collision.
Cape Ann Marina is big, busy, and
complex. It is now after noon and there
is a severe storm watch in effect for the area, so we arrange for a slip at the
marina and call it a day. The marina is
an excellent stopping place, as it has a full service boat yard, a marine
store, a restaurant, and a movie within a few hundred yards. We take in a movie, and when we come out, it
is pouring. Of course, we don't have our
raingear. When it lets up a little, we
duck between the drops to the restaurant. There's nothing like sitting in an
airconditioned restaurant in wet clothes.
And of course, this is a place with those hot air dryers and no towels
in the restrooms.
Thursday,
August 5. We get an early
start. The cold front of last night has
cleared and cooled the air. There is a
west wind that follows it, however. The
course for Maine is altered to the west to put us in the lee of the coast,
where the ride is smooth. Not very
elegant from a sea captain's viewpoint, but it's a lovely ride with good
sightseeing. Newburyport and Portsmouth
slip by to port. At this point, we turn
eastward and start what will be days of eastbound travel to get
"downeast."
Cape Porpoise, just south of Portland, is easy
to enter and makes a good pit stop. The
only problem is the lobster pots. They
are so thick that there are great tangles with a dozen or more markers in a
bunch. Treading your way through them is
a real challenge. Each year, it seems to
get worse and worse. I don't know where it will stop. Some limit must be placed, it would seem.
We go on to the east and pick up a mooring
behind Great Diamond Island in Casco Bay.
Beach walking in the area is not the greatest. Sharp mussel shells and gravel make it a
challenge.
Friday,
August 6. I take a run over to
Falmouth Foreside in the dinghy. It is
real sail country. What appears to be
hundreds of sail vessels, big and small, ride at moorings. After the tour, we set off to the east
again. Seas are flat this morning and
there is sun but no wind.
A little after noon, we pick up a mooring at
Monhegan Island and dinghy ashore. This
island features an arts and crafts community and a very informal mode of
life. The roads are single lane and
gravel. Flowers abound but lawns are not
the style. This is an island which deserves a longer stay.
On the way to Monhegan, we hear on the radio
that Rockland, Maine is having their annual lobster festival. This is a big party, the equivalent to a
county fair. Lobster eating, parades,
contests, and a carnival are just part of the activities. We'd passed by on previous trips but could
never spare the day to take advantage of it.
So we reluctantly leave Monhegan and head up Penobscot Bay to Rockland.
As we're passing the long breakwater to
Rockland's large harbor, we're stopped by a Coast Guard boat. Marine inspection. We continue slowly across the harbor as the
inspection proceeds. There are no violations and we're given a clean
report. But over the following day, we
each note omissions in the inspection. It kind of left me with the impression
they may have been looking for something else. Perhaps the big party had them
nervous.
The lobster dinner is well worth the price
($6.75). The shell is so soft that you
can break it with your fingers and just as well. The only inplements you get are the little
plastic forks and knives. Marilyn goes over
to the steamer (claimed to be the largest in the world) and asks how the shells
are consistently so soft. The chief
cooker explains that he personally tests every lobster before it goes into the
cooker. If the shell is too hard, it's rejected. Imagine doing that to eight thousand
lobsters! We examine some of the
exhibits and call it a day.
Saturday,
August 7. The Rockland parade is
this morning and we also have some shopping to do, so we get a late start. There is a fairly complete marine store near
the marina, so I complete a missing part of the Amberjack's ground tackle, 25
feet of anchor chain and appropriate shackles.
Before we left, I'd made up two substantial messengers to use with the
anchor. These are 16-pound weights which
can slide down the anchor rode and hold it closer to the bottom, thereby giving
us the ability to ride on short scope with good holding power. With 25 feet of chain, and 32 pounds on the
end, we can ride out anything the 5/8-inch anchor line will hold. Of course, there is a price for
everything. It takes a while to get this
rig set up and deployed, and it takes even longer to raise anchor when you
leave, for the chain won't go through the windlass and has to be handled by hand. But the security is worth the price and the
chain stays on the rode through the trip.
We cross the mouth of Penobscot Bay and head
up the channel that bisects Vinalhaven Island.
This is always an interesting tour, with a good mix of local workboats
and visiting megayachts. We traverse Deer Island thorofare and pass through
Stonington. Waters are flat and visibility is good. Fortunate, for both lorans give up. After much upsetment and struggle, I find
that the plotter has a computation limit, and just has to be reset to the local
area. The other loran is having trouble
getting a signal and there's nothing I can do for it.
After a day of zigging and zagging among the
beautiful islands, we arrive at Northeast Harbor on Mt. Desert Island. Every time I think I've seen it all regarding
moorings, a new idea pops up. We're
directed to any one of the floats in the harbor. These are 35-foot sections of
floating dock, moored all by themselves out in the
water. They can accommodate two boats,
one on a side. It gives you several
questionable advantages. First, it is a little easier to get attached to, since
most boaters deal with a pier or float, not a mooring. Second, it gives you a place to sit in the
evening. But third, probably most
important to the owner, it gets two boats moored for the space of one. In a small, crowded harbor, this can be a
significant advantage.
We get tied up and go off in the tender to
look up the mooring attendant. (Also to get Duchess ashore, of course.) There is a new hatch of some kind of fly
(insect). These flies are swarming just
above the water by the tens of millions.
They like anything white, so the Amberjack, the inflatable, and Duchess
are soon covered with them. Registration
is not remarkable, but, after casting off from the dock, I happen to look back
and see a strange sight. Another boater
has stacked several bags of groceries in their dink and then gone off, perhaps
to visit the shoreside bathroom. A
seagull is perched on the seat of the dink, tearing at the groceries.
Sunday, August 8. We top off the fuel and water tanks. From here on, for the next week or so, both
may be hard to come by. Many small boats hurry around with people dressed in
their Sunday finery. Someone explains
that there is a wedding. The couple is
from one of the islands to the south of the harbor.
We get underway and head further down
east. The weather is clear and cold and
the seas are calm. There is little to
break the monotony, which is the way I like it.
Bays, headlands, and coves slip by to port. Things are going so well that we decide to
continue on up the Grand Manan channel and go to Eastport for the night. We'd go to Grand Manan, but we do not have
charts for Nova Scotia. (Those we do
have are sitting at home in the den.)
Eastport is the only place I can be sure to get charts. They also have a customs office and I want to
get the customs stamp for the boat.
We enjoy a favorable current up the channel
and the waters are quiet except for pods of dolphin feeding. The current turns against us in Quoddy
Narrows, but this body amounts to two or three miles to the harbor at
Eastport. Still, the current under the
bridge at Lubec is one of the strongest I've dealt with. Kind of scary, and the great holes torn in the riprap on the bridge
piers bear silent witness to the damage these currents can cause.
Alas, as feared, the gourmet restaurant at
Eastport has not survived the years. The
buildings are boarded over and the float at the end of the dock is gone. A large freighter is leaving the pier and we
wait for it to clear before looking in the small boat area behind the
pier. I don't want to get caught up in
the wash from his giant screw. While
we're waiting, the pilot boat, which is a Boston Whaler, comes over and the
pilot advises me that the transient float is just to the north of the pier.
We find that the town has provided a very
helpful floating dock for transients.
With a tide range of 18 feet, this is much appreciated. There is no water or electric, but you can't
have everything. The freighter is hardly
out of sight when another is pushed in to the pier to take its place. Eastport is still hurting economically, but
it would appear that their bid to be a major shipping port is going well.
Monday,
August 9. Another
quiet morning. I get the Customs
sticker, buy the charts, and get the insurance extended for travel into
Canadian waters. The way the customs
sticker works is this. Customs charges
an annual user fee of $25.00 for use of their services. You have to have the sticker showing that
you've paid the fee on your boat, vehicle, or airplane. Then you can come and go across the border as
many times as you like in that year. Try
coming in without buying the sticker, and you can have
your boat seized and sold. Since most
small ports in Maine do not have full time Customs service, it can be a real
problem getting someone out to sell you the sticker and check you in. But if you have the sticker, you often may
get cleared by telephone. Not always,
it's their option, but it's worth a try.
We leave Eastport and head back down the Grand
Manan channel. The weather is calm, clear and cold. We head across the channel and get close to
the cliffs of Grand Manan. It's a pretty
day and it seems nothing can disturb it.
But you can't count on it. Just a
few miles from the Southwest Head of Grand Manan, everything disappears in
fog. This is the real industrial
strength fog, and the rest of the run down the coast is done with loran and
radar. Just to keep me on my toes, the
loran loses the signal as we are rounding the head. We're now down to an uncomfortably small
number of navigational aids. One radar and one depth finder. Dead reckoning is OK in good visibility, but
with strong currents, which are not documented, electronic eyes or local
knowledge are the only ways to go.
We round the head and the loran comes back on
line. Three miles up the channel to the
north and we're in Seal Cove. We duck
behind the quay into the tiny harbor and tie up. A phone call brings Canadian Customs down to
that end of the island and we're legally entered into Canada.
While I'm off summoning customs, a man on the
dock strikes up a conversation with Marilyn.
He is a Grand Manan fisherman and claims to know everyone on the island. He'd taken his boat over to the yard to be
hauled out for bottom painting, but the man who does the hauling was not
available. So he has a day off with
nothing to do.
We get the grand tour of Grand Manan, from the
north end to the south. It's very
informative and I appreciate the enthusiasm of our impromptu guide. But it's long. We don't get back to the boat until 8:00
pm. Several points of interest came out
in the tour. The Canadian government
prohibits lobster fishing in the months of (I think) July, August, and
September. This is a hardship to the
fishermen, of course. It is a boon to
boaters like me who don't have to dodge lobster pots. The province of New Brunswick has a health
care program, which is available to all.
It is a good plan and the service is good, but the cost of the plan is
running the Canadian taxpayer broke. You pay an 11 percent sales tax for most
items, and on top of this there is a 7 percent tax for the health program.
Grand Manan is largely self sufficient regarding
municipal services, with a small hospital, a senior citizens' home, police,
fire, and other services. Each of three
towns is run by a town council. The
provincial and federal governments provide services as well. They have recently installed a much larger
ferry. They hope this will pump up the tourist industry.
The federal government is cutting down on the
quantity of fishing licenses. A license
can be passed down in a family, or it can be sold back to the government. If it goes to the government, it is retired
and not reissued. In addition to the
license to fish, you need a license to operate a commercial vessel. Grand Manan
has a special course in high school to train students to become fishermen. They went through the emphasis on college
education, and when the balloon burst, they found graduates coming back with a
degree but no jobs and no skills.
Schools of this type enable a student to learn a trade that will support
them through life.
As we ride around the island, it is hard to believe
that such a beautiful place can exist so close to the mainland and not be
overrun with people. There are dark blue
lakes and great primeval forests. Some
parts look like the only human incursion has been the road on which we
travel. Still our guide assures us that
a major part of the island is owned by foreigners, mostly Americans. It's good to hear of at least one area where
this is true.
Tuesday,
August 10. I'm up at 5:00 am,
Atlantic Daylight Time. It's still dark, cold and foggy, 55 degrees and 500
feet visibility. Today is the day we go
to Nova Scotia ...maybe. Forecast sea conditions couldn't be better. Winds light and variable, seas calm. But with these conditions come the afore mentioned fog.
Today's run will be a long one, approximately
60 nautical miles from Seal Cove on Grand Manan to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. We follow a fisherman out of the harbor and
set the lorans and autopilot. The
morning light always makes me feel a little better, but it doesn't let us see
any better. We've timed our departure to
be a little before high water. The
outflowing currents in the Bay of Fundy are strong and will help us on our way.
It is very cold, about fifty degrees, and the
fog is dense. The whole situation is made worse by continual fogging of the
flybridge enclosure. Then, the squeegee
we've been wiping the windshield with breaks.
It's the little things in life that get you down. We start the generator and set up a portable
electric heater on the flybridge. It
doesn't get toasty but the windshield clears and I can feel my hands
again.
As we move further from the island, the
visibility increases steadily. Just
south of Garrett Rock, about 8 miles from Seal Cove, it improves to 3 miles. The excitement runs high. This is new territory for us and kind of has
the stigma of the areas of the old charts.
"Here there be monsters!" It kind of gives you the feeling of Columbus
and those early explorers. Position
plots hardly ever grace the charts of waters off Barnegat Light, but on this
chart they form a nearly continuous line.
Despite all our trepidation, the morning wears
on without event and we pass out of the Bay of Fundy and across the mouth of
St. Mary's Bay. Tidal currents are
serious things in these waters and we get a two knot boost at times. At 2:00 pm we round Cape Fourchu and head
north for the three mile run into Yarmouth Harbor. In the port, we find a brand new dock and
floats with a handful of pleasure boats.
We tie up to a float and I go up to check on our facility. By 'check,' I mean, can we stay there? What is the cost? Where can we get fuel? Water? Electricity?
It turns out that the docks are maintained by
the City of Yarmouth to encourage boaters to come to Yarmouth. There is no cost for tieup. There is electric and water available, and fuel can be provided by a tanker truck coming
to the dock. There are a few thousand
towns in the U. S. which could learn from Yarmouth.
The town itself is small, appearing to be
several thousand people. It is a
transportation terminal, with ferries from Portland and Bar Harbor. (The ferry from St. John lands at
Digby.) The main industry in town is the
fishing industry. There are several large processing plants.
A quarter of a mile across the harbor from the
Amberjack, there is a small island. This
island has become the home of every seagull in Yarmouth. From morning to night, they set up an intense
racket. Great clouds of gulls swarm
round the island continuously. There are
also large quantities of a dark bird sitting in the branches of burned out
pines.
Wednesday,
August 11. Another clear morning.....inconsistent for
this country. I had thought to go
to Digby by boat, but it's about 60 nautical miles, a long up and back for an
overnight stay. So we decide to rent a
car instead and do a little motor touring.
Renting a car is not as easy as it seems. It is the high tourist season, and booking a
rental is best done weeks in advance.
But my luck holds and a cancellation has made a car available for just
today. So the rest of today's account is
based on that tour.
First, a couple of notes
about driving in Canada. Canada
has gone metric. So every sign is in
kilometers. Speed limits are in
kilometers, and so is the speedometer in the car. As in most states outside New Jersey and
Pennsylvania, motorists are REQUIRED to stop for pedestrians. If you step off the curb, a driver will slam
on his brakes rather than risk a traffic ticket. Another interesting thing is the work
areas. There is a flagman at each end of
the area. Then there is a shuttle truck
which has a large 'follow me' sign on it.
He leads the traffic through in one direction at the required safe
speed. Then he turns around and leads the opposing traffic through. I'd be
interested to see that procedure in this area.
Interstate highways have two lanes, one in each direction. In the newer parts, they are limited access,
but where they overlay existing roads, they're just existing roads with
interstate signs. It's kind of amusing
to see a fancy sign advising "Exit 24 2 miles" and then come to a
gravel crossroad with stopsigns.
We proceed eastward along the northern coast
of Nova Scotia. Saint Mary's Bay lies to
the northwest. This body of water is
formed by a sunken mountain to the northwest of the mainland of Nova
Scotia. It consists of a peninsula, a
long narrow island, and a third island.
The catholic church had a strong influence in
this area, and great cathedral type churches rise from small villages. This is also an area of considerable french
influence, which shows in the names of villages.
Digby is located just above Saint Mary's Bay,
on another body of water, the Annapolis Basin.
This basin has one narrow connection with the Bay of Fundy. Tides in this area are on the order of 28
feet. Digby is a small town, given over
to seafood processing and tourism. There
are perhaps a dozen moorings for small boats.
A dinghy float and ramp connects you with town. The ramp must be interesting at low tide. Many of the ramps here are cleated ramp on
one side and stairs on the other side.
You use whichever fits the level of the tide.
From Digby, we travel north about thirty
kilometers, and then take the only road across Nova Scotia in the southern part
of the province. Away from the sea, the
geography is fir forests and blue lakes.
There is practically no evidence of humans except the highway. It's about a hundred and twenty kilometers
across, with a national park at the halfway point.
Westward, down the ocean side, is a bit
longer. It takes us past hundreds of
coves and bays, each postcard material.
Each also would make excellent small boat shelter. Nova Scotia has over four thousand miles of
shoreline. This will definitely be on
the agenda for a future, more leisurely trip.
It should be noted that the major industry in
southwestern Nova Scotia, in fact, probably the only industry, is fishing and
seafood processing. As a result, there
is a road around the coastline, with spurs down each cape, but no mapped roads
into the interior. In this area, the
province is largely undeveloped.
Thursday,
August 12. Today, we start back
toward New Jersey, but to get there, we have to go north a ways, then turn
west. We could head straight across to Maine, but the trip is perhaps twenty
hours long and in lonely waters. So,
first we'll head for Brier Island, the smaller of the two islands to the
northwest of St. Mary's Bay, then turn westward.
It's a cold morning, and there was fog at
daybreak, but it burned off with the rising sun. I return the rental car. $100.00 American for the rental and the
mileage charges, but it was worth it.
The challenge in today's trip is tidal
currents. Grand Passage, between Brier
Island and Long Island, is noted on the chart as having maximum currents of
6-knots! The trip out the harbor and up
to St. Mary's Bay is uneventful. Calm
seas and clear weather. But then, as we
approach the islands, it is apparent that the passage is fogged in. Colder water from the Bay of Fundy is raising
a dense fog over the narrow pass and the waters just outside. Just what I needed. Dense fog, six knot
currents, and granite banks if you make a mistake.
There is a way to minimize the hazard in these
situations. First, limited visibility
means you don't want to be looking for things that are hard to see, and that
might not show up on radar, like isolated rocks or shoals. You want deep water close in to shore. Then you plan your approach so as to stay in
these relatively safe waters. In this
approach, we have deep water close to shore on the starboard side,
and an island with shoals on the port side.
Once inside the island, a wide u-turn to port will bring us into the
anchorage behind the island. A single
buoy near the center of the passage marks a shoal that is ten feet at low water
and of no concern to us. But the buoy will make a positive identification of
our turning point and assure that we're clear of the real shoals. The current is an unknown factor. I've used all existing information and as
near as I can figure it, we'll be arriving at or near slack water. I could get on the radio, of course, and try
to get local information, but the situation just doesn't warrant it.
My plan made, we start into the passage. The current is not slack, but neither is it
doing six knots. The fog is thick,
however, and we're totally on radar. As
we pull abreast of the island, we're just able to make out the lighthouse. A bright radar target signals the buoy and I
make for it. Another survival rule in
these circumstances is to make positive identification of buoys. You don't want to be turning at the wrong
buoy. At about fifty feet the green
"GP" buoy comes out of the fog and I begin my wide swing towards
numerous targets that should be moored boats.
As often happens when things are thickest, the
fog suddenly lifts and we have a clear view of the harbor before us. We select an unused buoy and snag the mooring
pennant. The trouble is, the buoy has
been unused too long, and it's weighted down with kelp. There is no way we can lift it out of the
water. No problem, I simply fashion a loop in a dock line and lasso the
ball. the line
slips over the ball and tightens around the chain below it. It is only after I've done this that I
realize I haven't fixed a release line to the slip loop, which is now buried in
a yard of kelp under the ball in water that will make the ice chest feel
warm.
Moored securely, we look over our
surroundings. The town of Westport appears
to consist of twenty or thirty houses and several fish processing plants. Fishing boats form a continuous procession to
an unloading point where their catch is hoisted to the plant. The fog lifts, then
closes in again. It isn't til late
afternoon that it lifts enough to see the other bank, a half mile away. I dinghy in and go jogging. A road runs down the island to the light
house, several miles distant, and I take it.
It climbs a hill and passes the island cemetery. Tombstones date back to
the 1700s. The road turns to gravel and
winds through marshes and stands of pine.
There is a light fog and a chill ocean breeze. The fog horn from the lighthouse keeps up its
moan. There is a dwelling about every
mile on the road and it's lonely indeed.
After several miles, the road does a reversal and starts dropping
lower. I still can't see the lighthouse
and enough is enough. I turn back and
reach the seawall at just about dark.
The fog has become dense and the Amberjack is lost in it. Marilyn might have to talk me in, but when I
paddle out a couple of hundred feet, the boat appears.
Friday,
August 13. Time
for our return to the States. The
weather is cold, of course, but surprisingly clear. The entire harbor lies in sharp relief. Seeing it for the first time, I'm surprised
at how small it is. Less
than a mile from St. Mary's Bay end to the Bay of Fundy.
Tomorrow is their "Island Heritage
Day." The big feature is the dory
races. A lone person rows a dory across
the channel, stemming the 6-knot tidal current, loads the dory with frozen fish
and rows the loaded dory back across the channel. I'd like to stay to see this, but it will
have to wait til some future trip.
This is the coldest day of a cold trip. There's no wind, but the thermometer is
sitting right on 50 degrees. At first,
there's no fog, but suddenly the visibility drops to zero with no warning. Usually, you can see a fog bank before you
enter it, but the lack of contrast on this gray day conceals the bank until you
are in it. We pass in and out of the
fog. As we pass to the south of Seal
Harbor on Grand Manan, we're able to see the higher portions of the island
rising out of the fog layer. At Grand
Manan, a slight turn to the southward puts us on line for Machias Seal
Island. As usual, there are birds by the
thousands, including many puffins. From
Machias Seal Island, it is a long lonely forty two miles to the red
"8S" bell off Schoodic Head on the eastern side of Frenchman Bay.
Then, its up the bay to Bar Harbor.
We get a tieup to the float at the foot of
town. This harbor is always full of
excitement and action. A three masted
schooner comes and goes regularly with its load of tourists. Put up full sail and haul them down every
couple of hours. The dock space is
shared with a slightly smaller two master.
These blend in with regular tour boats and a steady stream of lobster
boats and private yachts. The bulkhead
is populated from dawn to dusk, and watching the tourists can sometimes beat
watching the boats.
Saturday,
August 14. Today is a rare day
off. The weather has finally turned wet,
with showers and perhaps a thunderstorm in the forecast. Besides, Bar Harbor is having a chowder fest
today. All you can eat for $6.00. You get a vote for the best clam chowder and
a vote for the best seafood chowder.
While we're going through the twenty offerings, the rain comes down in
earnest, but by the time we leave, it's all over. We make two separate tours of the booths, and
by evening, we couldn't eat another bowl of chowder if we tried.
Sunday,
August 15. The front has moved to
the east and we're greeted with sunny skies and calm seas. I could be spoiled by this! We make the ten mile run down to Northeast
Harbor to fuel up. We last took on fuel
in Northeast on our way out to Canada. I
still have 3/8 of a tank in the starboard tank, but the port tank, which I'm
using, is nearing empty. Just a couple of miles to go. No need to go below and switch tanks,
right? Wrong!! 150 feet from the fuel dock, the engine
surges and quits. And once you've lost
the prime in a diesel engine, you're going to be a while getting it going
again. Fifteen minutes, and three offers
of a tow later, we proceed in to refuel.
There are the usual unsolicited comments, questions, and conjectures
from the crowd at the dock. I just
ignore them all and maintain that good old stoic silence.
On departing the fuel dock, it's necessary to
churn around the protected waters for a while and make absolutely sure that all
the air is out of the fuel lines. When
I'm sure we won't stop dead, we head through the narrows at Bass Harbor Head
and turn northbound in Blue Hill Bay.
This bay is sort of a smaller sister to Penobscot Bay to the west. It is bisected by an island in the center and
provides a vast geography of protected sailing waters. At the very head of the bay is a picturesque harbor and the town of Blue Hill. The town and bay take their name from the
hill which rises from the waterfront to an altitude of some 800 feet.
On arrival, we are able to secure a mooring at
the Kollegewigwak Yacht Club. What that
means, I cannot tell you. We are advised
that the float at the town center is surrounded by a hundred feet of mud at low
tide. Since low tide has passed (I think)
we pile into the inflatable and run over to town. There is mud at the float, but not very
much. We run in water that progressively
shallows up until it's down to less than a foot. Another dinghy group has
beached near the float and walked to it, but I do not like the looks of the
situation.
I double back to somewhat deeper water and
head for a gravel beach nearby. We start
to walk down the beach but find that the gravel runs out and is replaced by
incredibly soft mud. What to do. We
could climb up the seawall and go to town, but I note that the water is flowing
back in at a goodly rate and will soon reach the float. Further, if we leave the inflatable where it
is, we won't be able to get back to it without some deep wading. So we go back to the dink and make our way to
the float. By the time we get there,
there is almost a foot of water at the deepest corner. There are also footprints in the mud that go
deep, maybe six inches deep. I'm glad we
didn't land there earlier.
The town is a pretty place, heavy on old
houses, book stores, and antique shops.
A little shopping at a particularly well equipped general store, and it's back to the Amberjack for dinner.
One of the differences in these more out of
the way harbors is that they go more on "keep the wake down" than
they do on "keep the speed down."
Small inflatables, Whalers, and the like go speeding between moored
boats. Just think what a ruckus this
would cause in the Middle Atlantic states.
Monday,
August 16. I set out to jog up Blue
Hill, but I only gain a few hundred feet in altitude when I come up against no
trespassing signs. Seems the higher
levels of the hill are farmed by a berry company. They have a real thing about people tramping
their hills. So it's back down the hill
and back to the Amberjack.
We go off down the western side of the Blue
Hill Bay and through the Deer Island Thorofare.
A stop at Billings Diesel Service has been an Amberjack tradition for
almost a decade. A
little fuel, a little water, and a couple of spare parts. Then it's off across the eastern part of
Penobscot Bay and into the thorofare through Vinalhaven Island. There's little problem with all this, but as
we leave the western part of the thorofare, the fog closes down again. So it's off up the western part of the bay on
radar and loran once again.
Calm waters and dense fog prevail, but when we
get to the southwestern entrance to Islesboro Harbor, the fog lifts enough for
me to confirm our position. Islesboro is
an island I've wanted to visit for some years.
Ten or twelve miles in length, it lies right in the center of Penobscot
Bay and splits the bay in two. The
island has close to a dozen coves and harbors, but the main harbor is on the
southern end. Our cruising guide lists
two marinas and one yacht club in the harbor.
One marina is on Seven Hundred Acre Island to the south, and the other
is on Islesboro. I want to get on the
main island, so we plan for that one. We
make our way in and are able to identify the yacht club, but there's no
evidence of a marina. It's moving toward
low tide, so I'm not in the mood to explore.
A passing boater tells us that he doesn't know of any public moorings. So,
despite a half dozen vacant moorings, we anchor.
Tuesday,
August 17. No wind,
and plenty of fog. I
dinghy in to the yacht club float and go for a walk. A small general store offers light breakfast,
and an assortment of basic supplies. The
only newspaper available is yesterday's Wall Street Journal. I ante up a buck for a copy. Nearby is the missing marina. It is fairly complete with a haulout facility
and a store. But you cannot get near it
at low tide. Like Blue Hill, there is
nothing but mud at low water. High water
gives a depth of seven or eight feet, however.
I get a briefing on how to make connections for future reference. They can provide a mooring, with sufficient
notice.
As a casual remark as I'm leaving, I comment
that I'd dinghied in to the yacht club.
"Oh, you shouldn't have done that!" The lady exclaimed. "you know how
fussy private clubs can be." "Oh well, I'll work it out with
them." I replied. But I didn't feel
very good about it on the walk back.
There were enough "No Trespassing" signs along the way to
spook me, including several prominent ones at the entrance to the yacht
club.
In my travels, I've noted that islands which
are readily accessible by automobile are very likely to have problems with
privacy, while islands which do not have regular auto access seem not to have
such problems. It's always a little bit
of a turn-off to be informed that you are not wanted, even if it is proper, and
perhaps necessary.
My passage through the yacht club was without
incident on this morning, however. There
was no one around. The anchor does not
want to come up and at first, I fear it is wedged in
rock. But then, with a steady strain by the windlass, it comes up. When it
surfaces, it's covered with a really sticky and dense black mud. There has got to be a market for that stuff. The fog hasn't let up at all, so we get
underway with the radar.
I hesitate to relate the next part, but it is
something which the skipper must guard against, so here it is. The harbor is a doglegged channel, with a
southwestern entrance and a northwestern entrance. We entered by the southwestern entrance, but
we wish to exit by the northwestern entrance.
It is here that the ferry landing and the town dock are located. I'm looking for a radar picture of a channel
that funnels down, turns to port, with a nun on the inside, or port side of the
turn and an island to starboard.
Watching the radar, I identify all of the features, and off we go. I'm steering a constant compass course, 220
degrees. I work my way right up to the
nun so as to get a positive identification.
That's the point where the whole thing falls apart. The nun marks the southwestern part of the
pass, not the northwestern part.
Concentrating on the radar pattern, I didn't keep track of my
heading. From the center of the harbor,
both entrances have the same key radar features. The only way someone who isn't familiar with
them can tell them apart is the all important heading.
I turn around and head back into the harbor,
searching for the northwestern entrance, but the fog is simply too dense to
risk another error. There are big rocks
out there. Besides, in that lack of
visibility, we wouldn't see anything anyway.
Once clear of Islesboro, it's a scant four miles to Camden, our next
port of call. Camden has inner and outer
rock ledges to guard the entrance, but she is kind to us and permits a peek
under the fog for long enough for us to get into the harbor. A call to Wayfarer Marine and a few minutes
of milling around at the entrance to the inner harbor gets us an overnight spot
on he float in front of their operation.
Camden's inner harbor is every bit the equal
of Bar Harbor for diversity and activity.
Vessels ranging up to 100 feet are rafted together in an impenetrable
web of lines. It's not unusual to see an
80-foot yawl backing down the length of the harbor to raft up. Fuel lines are snaked out over two or three
rafted boats to fuel a visitor on the outside.
Wayfarer operates a very serious marine
service, and has the equipment to go with it.
Have you ever seen a 60-foot deep- draft fin keeled sloop launched from
a trailer on a launching ramp? With
supports hydraulically powered and remote controlled, the trailer is let down
the ramp with a winch from the truck and the boat is released as gently as can
be.
In the afternoon, employees come down the dock
with 3/4-inch lines and start tying each boat fore and aft. Not to the float, but to the wharf. It looks like hurricane tiedowns, so I ask if
we're in for heavy weather. No, I'm
told, this is just the way the dock manager wants it done. Better to be safe than sorry in the event a
squall blows up.
Wednesday,
August 18. Heavy weather is forecast
for today, and since this is about as nice a harbor as you can find, we decide
to stay over. Fog drifts in and then
recedes. Sometimes the sun shows through
and then later it rains. It's just one
of those days. Laundry and similar
chores are caught up on.
Due to limited space, Wayfarer rafts boats
three deep. We have a sloop on our
starboard and the yard tug is rafted to the sloop. It's interesting to have people tramping over
your deck at seven in the morning. Our
next door neighbor, the skipper of the sloop, is in his late seventies. He single hands the 30-footer most of the
time. He depends heavily on an
autopilot, as the arthritis in his hands makes holding the wheel for long times
a problem. At present, he is in port to
pick up his son and his family for the rest of the week. He tells me that the yacht on which President
Roosevelt vacationed was also named the Amberjack. During the second world war,
that Amberjack passed him in the Cape Cod Canal with two destroyers as
escorts.
There are a couple of moderate hills just
outside Camden, and I undertake to bike up Mount Battie, which is a state park.
Bike up it is a bit misleading, as it is so steep that I have to walk the bike
up. I'm worried that the fog will roll
in and obscure the view, but when I get to the top, the fog is lying just to
the northeast of the harbor, so I'm able to get a photo.
The ride down that steep grade is worth
remembering. My bike is a mountain bike,
so the brakes are substantial. But I
wasn't sure they could stand up to that abuse.
I could smell rubber burning, and when I got off the mountain, I had to
stop and adjust them. It took about
forty five minutes to go from the boat to the peak, and about ten minutes to go
back to the boat.
Thursday,
August 19. The weather has subsided,
but the fog is still with us, of course.
We head down the Penobscot by loran and radar. As we approach the "PB" midchannel
marker east of Rockland, there is a slow moving, large target approaching the
same buoy from the east. My fog signal is
answered by a horn, so loud and deep, I swear it's the QE II. I have the right
of way, but there's no way I'm going to exercise it. I put the Amberjack up on plane and get on
out of that monster's way.
As we proceed south and then west, channel 16
is busy with securite messages about this or that sailing vessel's position,
course and intentions. I concede it's
all very prudent and proper, but, as I pass some of these 30-footers and note
that they are radar equipped, I can't help wondering of they aren't overdoing
it a bit.
Out of the influence of the Penobscot, the fog
thins and then disappears. There are
patches of nasty chop where estuaries drain into the sea and the currents are
strong, but nothing notable is encountered and shortly we are in Boothbay.
Friday,
August 20. For the first time in I
can't remember when, there is no fog. We
get underway in calm seas and sun and good visibility. Today will take us from Boothbay to Casco Bay
in the vicinity of Portland, perhaps to a mooring at Great Diamond Island. Since the trip today is so uneventful,
perhaps a few observations about cruising up this way are in order.
You don't see many muscle boats north of Cape
Ann (Boston). Haven't been able to figure a reason for this. Maybe the cold air doesn't go well with
bikinis. Or maybe the fog and rough seas
limit the times when you can enjoy such boats.
You don't see any personal water craft. It's almost as if there is a law against
them.
You do see large numbers of ocean kayaks. This is new, as we didn't see them in past
cruises. Every harbor has a dozen or two
kayak paddling around. They seem to like
the waters near rocks. I cannot figure
out whether they are watching wildlife or what.
I would guess it's a new hobby for the bicycle crowd. These things are
not cheap, either. The boat costs around
$2000, and then you have to ante up another thousand for a wet suit, paddles,
the apron that seals you in, and other gear.
I guess that's not bad for a boat that is good for your health,
politically correct, and all that, but I'll wait til they come with flybridges.
Lobster pots are an incredible problem. If the water's less than 150 feet deep, you
have to be on serious watch to keep from having to do an impromptu dive. Press articles indicate that loss of traps to
boat entanglements is a large economic problem to lobstermen. Yet, when the pots are every 25 feet, I
cannot believe they aren't being overfished.
Maine is economically depressed, and I assume that is the reason for the
high density of traps, but they are making it very unpleasant for boaters. Sail boats have an even harder time of it, as
their maneuverability is more limited.
As we near Casco Bay in the quiet seas, I
decide to relent and head up Broad Sound to Freeport. A little twist and
turn around the islands that guard the entrance to the Haraseeket River, and
then we're tied up to the float at the Brewer's South Freeport Marina. For those who may have forgotten, Freeport,
Maine is the home of L. L. Bean. 1600 employees
stand ready to serve your every need in sports clothing and equipment. Their Freeport store is open 24 hours a day,
365 days a year. Great place for that last minute Christmas
shopping, but one helluva drive.
The icing on the cake is that the L. L. Bean store has been surrounded
by every discount, outlet, factory store known to
North America. Of course, the downside
is that Freeport in August contains the single largest group of shoppers in
North America.
Being clever merchandisers, the L. L. Bean van
picks us up at the marina and delivers us to the front door of the store. Ever helpful, they will also deliver the
boater to the local grocery for restocking.
And, while they limit this service to reasonable hours, one of the
drivers confided that they would help you out if you needed a ride at 2 am.
This evening the weather is predicted to go
down again, with a cold front approaching.
Showers and thunderstorms are to be followed by high winds and colder
air. The storms hit just after bedtime.
Saturday,
August 21. The front has passed, and
it is cold and clear. Unfortunately, the
advertised winds are howling. The waters
on the other side of the float are whitecapped and steel colored. There is no point to relocating in Casco Bay,
so, to the delight of certain crewmembers, we arrange for another night in Freeport.
Sunday,
August 22. The wind has diminished,
but the morning is really cold. 49 degrees. We depart
the Haraseeket and cruise down the inside passages of Casco Bay. At Portland, we slip out the harbor and
depart Cape Elizabeth. The logic is, if
it's rough outside, we'll go to Kennebunkport and get an early start southbound
tomorrow.
But the weather isn't rough. So we set in a course for Cape Ann. This takes us about ten miles out to sea, and
we pass to the east of Boon Island and the Isles of Shoals. It being a weekend, we have some pleasure
fishermen and an occasional whale watching boat for company. The seas pick up a little, but they are
largely following seas and by 4:00 pm, we're entering the Annisquam Canal once
again. This is high tide on a Sunday
afternoon, and everyone is out to enjoy it.
Traffic in the canal looks like the Manasquan Canal.
The highway bridge on the Gloucester end is
low to the water and at high water, has to be opened for most everything. There is a backup of about twenty boats on
our side, but fortunately it is just opening.
We all parade through, since we have the current with us. I don't envy the drivers who have a half hour
wait. We've anchored in Gloucester
harbor, but we've never docked and gone to town, so we make arrangements for a
slip at Brown's Marina.
There, we run into another cruising couple,
Phil and Gloria with their 37-foot Egg Harbor, "Glory." They normally anchor, but they are having
some work done, so they are at the dock. We have a good evening comparing
cruising notes over dinner.
Monday,
August 23. It's a beautiful morning,
no clouds, no wind, no fog. I go for a
run to get some idea of what Gloucester is.
Certainly, an hour on foot doesn't do justice to a town this size, so
the following are first impressions.
This is a sea town. Seafood
processing plants and support activities ring the harbor. Gortons dominates the scene.
The town is like the dowager lady, a little
tatty around the edges. I guess this is to
be expected in a town where many of the houses date back to last century. Much of the wood trip is gingerbread, and
cannot be treated with aluminum siding. You see some finely restored
properties, and some that are really in bad shape.
In keeping with the seafaring background, the
churches are well maintained and look like they have no donation problems.
Back at the Amberjack, while I'm preparing for
departure, a gentleman greets us and tells us that he'd been a member of
Trenton Falls Power Squadron some years ago.
He's Bob Martin, who was a member in the late 60s. They are in the process to moving to Maine,
having sold their property in Bucks County. They have a lovely 40-foot sailboat
which they are presently cruising on.
Today, we cover the 40 miles from Gloucester
to Provincetown. The trip is pleasant and uneventful. Stellwagen Bank produces a number of whale
sightings, but nothing close. It is kind
of amusing to watch the newest marine industry, whale watching. The waters are
constantly roiled by hundred-footers racing around to cart loads of customers
up to the latest whale that's surfaced.
How the animals stand the constant harassment without developing a
nervous complex, I don't know.
We decide to enjoy the stay in P-town and
arrange for a slip there as well.
Wow! The prices never quit
climbing in this town. $60.00 a night for a slip.
And then they have the nerve to charge a dollar to use the shower. Well, I guess if you have the location, you
can charge the money. We get in early,
and by evening the marina is near full.
Not bad for a weekday.
We're sitting back enjoying the never-ending
activity in the harbor when a 42-foot Grand Banks docks across the finger pier
from us. She looks brand new and is
polished and oiled to perfection.
Several couples are aboard and, shortly after the boat is tied up, they take a quantity of luggage and disappear in two
vans that had pulled up on the quay. I
took no notice of them, other than an incident where one of their overly enthusiastic
guests had directed some spray into our salon while hosing the boat down. Marilyn got up and pointedly slammed the
salon window shut.
A short time later, another couple came down
the dock and struck up a conversation about Duchess. This has happened several times, as American
Eskimo fanciers appear to be loyal and talkative. Minutes later, they bid me goodbye and as
they leave, the man asks, "Did you see Phil Donohue and Marla
Thomas?"
"No,-- should I
have?" I ask.
"That's their boat next to
you."
Tuesday,
August 24. We take a day off to
enjoy the Provincelands National Seashore.
I want to jog the eight miles from Provincetown to the visitors center, thence to Race Point, along the beach to
Herring Cove north of town, and back to the boat. Things go well until I get on the beach. The sand is much more granular than usual and
it just doesn't pack down. The result is
a rather steep beach that keeps sliding underfoot. You'd have to be some kind of tough to jog in
that stuff. I walk it, but even walking
is a big effort.
The chart shows a salt water pond along the
beach, with a stream connecting it to the sea.
I really don't want to have to swim a tidal stream, so I took great care
yesterday to scan the beach and make sure that there were no such streams. Well, it doesn't work, for there is a stream
when I get a mile down the beach. It's a
good thing it's low tide. The water is
moving fast but only about thigh deep.
Still, it means removing shoes and socks and crossing, then drying off
and getting rid of the tenuous and sharp sand before getting the footgear on
again.
Rotten luck!
There's another stream a half mile further and I have to go through the
whole process again. The finish of the
grand tour is a mile of running in the hot sun.
I get back to the Amberjack to find a very unhappy spouse. Unhappy because I'm a couple of hours late
and unhappy because I've promised her we'd go bike riding.
So I do the whole thing over by bike, leaving
out the beach part. Duchess bravely
tries her jump out of the basket trick again, but I catch her by the scruff of
the neck in mid jump and put a stop to that.
We arrange for dinner at "Bubela's,"
the latest "in" dining spot in town.
The place is tiny, having seating for about 40 people, but the food and
service is excellent, and the vantage point of a booth overlooking the endless
parade on Main Street is excellent.
Wednesday,
August 25. The wind is out of the
west, and has been blowing strong since yesterday afternoon. Until now, I thought Ptown stood for
Provincetown, but it really means Pigeontown.
The Provincetown Marina docks are affixed to one of two old wharfs. The top of the wharf has been neatly
resurfaced with concrete and sports new buildings, but the underpinning is the
same old rip-rap of pilings and beams.
It's a perfect home for pigeons.
With the 9-foot tide range, the boats are somewhat below the pigeons. It isn't the guano that's the problem, it's
the feathers. I figure the last feather
will be off the Amberjack sometime in '95.
I plan to make the trip from Provincetown to
Block Island today, and the timing of the currents in the Cape Cod Canal is
such that we should arrive at the eastern end of the canal at about 5:00 am. It's three hours
from Ptown to the Canal for us, so this isn't very practical. Also, I'm concerned about the seas, so we
wait the morning out.
While we're waiting, our famous neighbors
return to make their departure. Mr.
Donahue (whom we can now recognize, of course) is pleasant and jocular. He personally puts oil in his engines, by the
way. But he does have someone to hold
the empties. It was amusing to watch
hundreds of people debark the Gloucester ferry boat and queue up just behind
his boat, grousing about the climb up the long ramp. They were totally unaware of who was
uncovering the flybridge next to them.
In another incident, I watched as a skipper
attempted to depart the float. His
understanding of the dynamics of wind was not up to par. A companion asked how he wished the lines
removed and he just said, "Take them all off." The companion proceeded to do so, starting
from windward and working downwind. This
produced the probable result of jamming the downwind lines so that they could not
be released. I couldn't let it go any
further at that point and got a proper strain on one of the upwind lines. The boat straightened out and the departure
went smoothly. When departing, the
skipper should always have a look at the wind and the current and picture in
his or her mind what will happen to the boat as the lines are released.
I have come to like the term "singling up
the lines." As more and more
marinas take to the use of floats, this becomes very important, and it also is
very useful at docks and piersides.
First, determine which lines are slack.
Slack lines are not needed for a departure. They may have been key lines during your
stay, but they won't be needed for the five minutes or so that you will be
departing. These are the first lines to
go. Next, consider which of the
remaining lines, the ones under tension, are really needed. There generally is only one. Sometimes there are two. This line should be led around the cleat or
piling and back to the boat. Arranged
thusly, it can be released by a person on the boat, without having to have any
Keystone Kops boarding antics or any assistance from dockside.
I check with a couple of incoming boat crews
and find that notwithstanding the howling winds, the seas in Cape Cod Bay are
flat. So we get underway a little after
noon. We'll catch the slack water in the
Canal, but we'll get a good assist from the current in Buzzard's Bay. The ride across the bay is indeed flat water,
and the only break in the monotony is watching the whale watching boats
charging around bugging the whales. The
canal is also uneventful. We don't get
much help, but we don't get any hindrance either.
Buzzard's Bay is another story. We're hardly out of the canal when the chop
builds up. By the couple of miles to the
end of Hog Island Channel, the chop is up to five feet and is damned
uncomfortable. It's right on the bow and
there is no way I want to tolerate even the three hours it would take to get to
Cuttyhunk. I make a quick turn to the
east and head for Pocasset Harbor. It's
only a mile or so to protected waters, but the seas are now hitting us on the
beam. It's a wild ride 'til we get in
the lee of Scraggy Neck. From there we
zig around Bassett's Island and drop the hook just outside a mooring area for a
yacht club. There was no real damage
from the ride, but the steel wire hooks that hold the ice chest in the cockpit
have been deformed from the forces generated during the rolling. The current was slack with what we just
experienced. Just imagine what that
water will be like when the current builds to a maximum against the wind.
Thursday,
August 26. During the night, I look
out the port to see a starry sky reflected in the mirror surface of the
water. We get an early start for Block
Island. The current is with us and the
wild waters of yesterday are just a memory.
As soon as we clear Cleveland Ledge, we turn to the west and head
straight for Block Island. The good
weather holds and we get a mild assist in speed all the way to the tip of the
island. Then it's a couple of miles to
the jetty and we anchor in the Salt Pond.
There are dozens of boats anchored with us in
the northeast corner of the pond. Water
there is six to ten feet deep at low tide and the holding is good, but there is
a liberal growth of the lettuce type of seaweed, so you have to be sure that
your anchor is into the ground and not just hung on some seaweed.
This part of the salt pond has a little sand
beach and about a 100-yard walk to the ocean beach, so it is a lot like Tice's
Shoal. It's used in the same
manner. People come in their small
outboards and anchor, then go over to the beach for a few hours. I guess some also walk from there to
town. We just get settled down when
Marilyn notes a 24-foot Chris Craft that is dragging anchor. The different feature about Block Island is
that there are rocks, and this boat is headed for the rocks! I get the dinghy and get to the boat about
the time it comes to rest on the rocks.
In the quiet waters of the Salt Pond, this might not be a problem, but it's high tide. I
pull up the anchor and sure enough, it's badly fouled with grass. I get the grass cleared, but my attempts to
pull the boat away from the rocks just don't work. The wind goes to work on the big pontoons of
the inflatable and I soon find myself in the rocky area.
I go back to the Amberjack and call the
harbormaster. After a bit, they appear,
and I take the dinghy over to converse with them. They cannot get into the shallow water to get
the boat. Further, they are not
permitted to do more than reset the anchor.
We all agree that it is a bad situation for this skipperless boat. I offer to go in and get the anchor and
transport it to them, if they will reset it.
They agree to this deal. Having
considered my earlier failure, I have determined that I need to get the tow
point further forward in the inflatable if I'm to have any control over the
situation. So this time, when I get the
anchor, I hold the rode just above my head with one hand, while steering the
outboard with the other. This works so
well than not only am I able to get the anchor rode out of the rocky area, I'm
able to tow the boat away from danger.
Soon as I get to the harbormaster's boat, I
hand them the anchor and leave. I watch
while walking Duchess. They have a
difficult time getting their boat turned around with the other boat in
tow. They almost wind up with both boats
back in the foul water. Eventually they
pull the Chris Craft out of the area by backing their boat. For some reason, they change their policy and
take the other boat in tow. Last I see
of them, they are headed in to port with the Chris Craft.
This brings us to another dilemma. It becomes a game of watching for the owner
to appear on the beach and start searching for his or her missing boat. It's after dinner and near sunset when a
young couple appears on the beach and starts searching. I dinghy over, but it turns out that they
aren't the owners. They're just looking
for a prearranged ride. It's another
mystery that we'll never have a solution for.
Friday,
August 27. We're out of Block Island
early, enroute to Fire Island. There was
no fog to the east when I walked out to look at the sea conditions, but the fog
is waiting just outside the breakwater on the western side. The seas start out calm, but there is a brisk
breeze out of the southwest, driven by a summer high overhead that isn't going
anywhere. The seas slowly build, and
we're in and out of dense fog until ten miles east of Shinnecock. We put in to Shinnecock to refuel and then
head back to sea. By the time we're
passing Moriches Inlet, ten miles west, the seas have gotten to the point where
I consider putting it there and continuing westward in the New York Intracoastal. The problem with this approach is that it's
usually quite a bit hotter than the ocean.
The seas aren't really a problem yet, so I continue. We've got four hours to go, and by the end of
the second, I'm regretting my decision to push on. We're quartering a nasty chop, averaging five
feet with some waves up to seven or eight feet.
The next couple of hours grind on like an
eternity. It also gives me maybe a
thousand opportunities to review what Fire Island Inlet might be doing. In my mind, I can see breakers all across the
bar. But the end of the day is
anticlimactic. We just keep working into
smaller and smaller waves until we round the bar and are in the calm. We anchor just inside the inlet and relax.
Saturday,
August 28. The wind blows all
night. I get an early start and give the
ocean a try out of Fire Island Inlet. By
the time we reach the seabouy, I know I don't want to do 40 miles of this! Six to eight-footers right on the bow. We retreat and review the situation. A cold front is due this afternoon. It should put an end to the troublesome
southwest wind. But it will also bring
thunderstorms, high winds, etc. A check
of our references shows a half dozen marinas in the
vicinity of Seaford, New York, behind Jones Beach Inlet.
I have a problem with some of these cruising
reference guides. They are apparently
based on a mail survey form, where the owner gets to make whatever statements
without any independent verification.
What you encounter is not at all like what appears on the printed
page. So it is this time. The 500-slip marina is half empty,
dilapidated, and neglected. No answer to
a radio call, and persons working on a car near the "office" take no notice of a visitor.
We get the Amberjack out of there and survey some of the others. We settle on a new looking place with
floating slips still under construction.
Still, I have to tie up and go looking for someone in authority.
In the office, they have no idea what the
transient fee is, and go off in search of someone who might know. It would probably be the same in Forked
River, as the Seaford area is just about the same distance from the inlet and
neither area sees much transient traffic.
We eventually get registered and tied up. Dock neighbors are friendly and helpful,
offering land transportation if we need it.
A walk around reveals an incredible canal complex that puts the Jersey
coast to shame. Every home is located on
a lagoon, and nearly every home has a couple of boats at the bulkhead. In addition, there are numbers of those
houseboats that are really houses on barges.
The boat population that I can see is probably multiplied a thousand
times across all of this area. No wonder
the waterways around here are so crowded on a weekend.
Good fortune has placed an excellent
restaurant two blocks from the dock, and we try to get an early dinner before
the heavy weather hits. This doesn't
work. A violent light show, accompanied
by strong winds arrives with the entree.
Soon as the meal is gulped down, I head back to check the boat. Except for a very scared Duchess, the
Amberjack seems to be OK. But a Searay 50 feet away has ripped out all but one cleat. The scary part is that a mini tornado had
touched down in the parking lot, only 150 feet away. A soft drink machine and an ice machine have
been tossed around like matchboxes. The
wind also removed an aluminum storm door and slammed it into a poletop
transformer, taking out the power for a major part of the area. It isn't until we're leaving in the morning
that the power company is restoring power.
Sunday,
August 29. I'm up at 5:00 am and
ready to get underway at first light. I
have about ten miles of unfamiliar canal and narrow channel, and I don't want
to tackle that in the dark. Today, I
hope it will be Jones Beach to Forked River.
Last evening's storm has killed the wind, but we can expect a steady
increase in wind and seas from the northwest today. When I uncover the flybridge, I find dozens
of little X-shaped holes in the curtains. Hail from last night's storm, so we didn't get
off free after all. Still, the curtains
are ten years old, so this will motivate me to replace them.
It's a 2-hour run to the inlet, and I'm happy to see that the waters have
quieted considerably since yesterday.
Without that incessant wind, they are now two-foot swells, and we're off
for home. It being a weekend, there are
plenty of fishing boats for company. I'm
surprised to see several Barnegat Light head boats headed at flank speed for
the Shrewsbury Rocks. The fishing must
be pretty bad for them to be burning fuel to go 40 miles north.
The predicted northwest winds build, but they
don't have time to do much mischief before we're inside the jetties at
Manasquan Inlet. A couple of hours in
the overcrowded green murky waters of Barnegat Bay puts
us in Forked River in the early afternoon.
The trip took 30 days and covered some 1300
nautical miles. This works out to 43
miles per day, or about five hours travel a day. This is at least twice what would be
relaxing. We ran into people who limit
their average to one or two hours per day, or even less. It should be pointed out that they don't
cover the ground we covered, even with faster boats. All the essential things worked this trip,
and I'm happy to note that I didn't have to make any repairs. And so ends New England 1993......