Peg Kocher's Journal Halifax to Round Pond on Apogee

7/27/87

Comfortable morning at home - final packing, notes for EK and Violet about the house while I'm gone. Couldn't get through to last business contacts for World of Waste fundraising. Deb called in some excitement about a possible Jersey City brownstone to buy. Despite Sunday's break from worst of the last 10 days, this morning was warm, humid, promised to become unbearable. Managed to make my sandwich and pack fruit for my lunch, as neither flight offered food. EK drove me to Air Canada, bought my Times, schlepped my three bags to the plane. Air clear enough to distract my gaze from the paper to the ground much of the time. Seaway and St. Lawrence widely visible as we descended to Montreal airport.

Customs no problem, but I missed the automatic return of baggage to new gate for Halifax, and walked up the stairs and the long way around. Ate my lunch, threw out a few catalogs, and watched what seemed like an enormous flotilla of tiny boats below, but might have been white caps, we were so high. Didn't find any servicemen or women on board with whom to bum a ride to Shearwater. But at the Halifax airport, did get money changed, found the PO was at the same window, so bought plenty of stamps for postcards to the US, found out about airport bus to Halifax, which Pete had told me stopped in Dartmouth-a local bus ride from Shearwater Naval Station, where the yacht club was hosting Pete's boat. Turned out that the one stop in Dartmouth was across the street from the Metro bus stop, but that stop was quite a few blocks from the Ferry Terminal where I could get the # 60 bus to Shearwater. So it took 2 buses, but while I waited between buses I walked over to the Ferry newsstand and bought 10 postcards - the only ones I was to find in Nova Scotia.

Got out to naval station base with no problems, and had another ¹/₄ mile schlep to the marina area, where Pete was on the lookout for me. Mighty glad I had equipped all bags with shoulder straps. Pete took my duffel and we were soon aboard Apogee, comfortably tied up alongside a long floating pier with slips on the other side holding a variety of sailboats, including one whose owner-serving as supervisor for the yacht club-had sailed around on her. We relaxed in the cockpit over drinks, and some excellent pâté Pete had made from chicken livers that morning. Gradually got round to the steaks I had brought, with some Mushrooms and beet greens from Pete's earlier shopping expedition. Wrote a few postcards to get them into the mail via a plastic bag under the windshield of John's van, and turned in early, anticipating an early start. Slept solid.

Up at 5 for coffee, underway at 6 with a handsome sunrise under clouds as we turned into Halifax Harbor proper. In the west a gray drizzle cloud provided a propitious omen ahead of us: a full rainbow surrounding the cloud. Sure enough, we did get a little drizzle as we headed south, but it cleared by the time we got out of the harbor and headed westerly along the coast. I still had on all the warmest clothing I had brought: jeans, turtleneck, cardigan , rainproof jacket, plus Stan's foul weather overalls, Pete's heaviest sweater, and my watchcap, covered by my jacket hood. That kept me comfortable, though both of us were barefoot on the dew-wet decks. We were heading SW along the coast for Lunenberg, a longtime fishing and boatbuilding port with a deep harbor-- for which Pete did not have the detailed chart. Wind fresh, we went to sail, a quiet relief, and much of the time I had the tiller, while Pete kept track of location and fiddled with the LORAN. He was much dismayed that he wasn't fiddling right, and the machine was only giving him back the information he put in.

A long stretch across Mahone Bay in the afternoon, with Pete concerned that we get to Lunenberg before dark, as he was not familiar with the local hazards and buoys. Bet we had one tremendously long reach and were able to point up some into the wind, and spotted Pearl Isle and with its conspicuous tower, Ironbound Island, the various surrounding hazards, and turned in, between islands, along the eastern edge of the bay to a breakwater that showed up clearly. Using the fathometer to be sure we had enough water, we dropped anchor just inside the breakwater, private yet well protected. We were soon hailed by a local couple in a sailboat who told us about the museum and stores for the morning, reassured us about the channel, asked about Apogee, as they were circling us. They wouldn't stop for a drink as they had no motor and the wind was dropping, more power to them from the wind! Used KC's crystal light lemonade powder to make drinks with the rum Pete had, and later with the 1 quart of "spirits" I was allowed to bring in duty-free. Dined on chicken, couscous, broccoli, canned pineapple, cookies. Made out some shopping lists for next morning, and went to sleep soon after dark, which comes about 9.

Up early, Pete fixed the rope ladder for me, and I swam just once around the boat in the icy water. Ready to dock at Lunenberg by 7:30. Nothing appeared open.

We tied up alongside the museum, where it is specifically prohibited, and, as expected, had to climb out over the fence. No great problem. Walked up the street of Government offices, toward a classic town park, with a neatly painted octagonal bandstand, a memorial statue to the fallen of World War I. Found a bank open at 8:30. Mailed the remaining postcards. Then we walked along the waterfront, admiring the trawlers, scallopers, repair facilities. Big ships that go out and do gritty work in the real world. Mechanisms that have evolved from long experience with practical problems. Pete got information about the working foundry here he wanted to visit. Did some routine food shopping at the IGA, and then back to the boat about 9 to find the Museum's proprietors examining Apogee. They were very friendly, opened a gate to let us in. Let us stay tied up another half hour before opening time, so I could go back to another store for baked goods.

Passing a marine supply store, I thought I'd be smart and get a chart for our next planned stop, Port Latour. But it turned out they didn't have one. Residential areas neat, preserved ,and restored, somewhat reminiscent of Oak Bluffs Cottages.

We moved off the pier at once as museum visitors were coming in. Went all the way to the head of the harbor, tying up to the foundry pier to look at their facilities and for Pete to talk to them about possible custom work for him and the boatyard he uses near Pemaquid. We saw no one at first, foundry buildings were open and empty, with sand and forms and cranes and furnaces, as if someone had just walked away from them. Turned out the foundry was on vacation, but Pete had a chance to talk to the manager, and we saw some of their commercial products, besides boat fittings they sell some handsome stoves.

We pulled away about 10:30 heading for overnight sailing to Port Latour, well along the NS coast. We needed to make some distance if we were going to have time to get to Rocque Island, north of Jonesport, a harbor sheltered by a ring of islands, and occupied by only one family. Sandwich and salad lunch, fruit, coffee & cookies. Nice sun, but the wind was not very helpful. We couldn't hold into the wind enough to avoid a long tack out toward the ocean, in order to provide for night sailing along one reach without getting too close to shore. Again somewhat handicapped by lack of detail charts.

Supper as we went. Despite the chop which made cooking, rough, as we headed directly into the wind with the motor, I made up two separate dishes from cod cheeks and sea scallops. Pete had bet that I could not tell the difference. I could, and so could he, though he thought the sea scallops were the cod. The truth is his stomach wasn't in very good shape, so we saved the fish dish and the beets and mashed potato.

Pete had been perusing his LORAN manuals to find out why he wasn't getting proper guidance, since we would be rather dependent on it when we were crossing from Nova Scotia to Maine. Was relieved to find that one button was in the wrong position, and has now been getting signals that confirm our dead reckoning, trailing log, and the buoys and visual markers along the way. Always remembering that you have to give it warmup time each day to overcome condensation. Set our night course about 9, with jib and mizzen sails, heading due south. Kept this until about 5 am. I took a 9 to 11 watch, then Pete took 11 to 1, and I took another spell till 3, and he finished off into daylight. Stars were wonderful. One lighthouse flashing every 9 seconds kept me reassuring company throughout the first watch. Other shore lights gradually left behind as we headed into open water.

On my second watch I sang all the songs I could think of--a rare occasion to sing out loud without disturbing anyone. Woke Pete to take a position and fill in the log before taking over the tiller. I'm not as good at recognizing or interpreting the lights as Pete is, although, since I wore my bifocals almost continually, I find I was often able to spot the buoys as soon as or sooner than he could--in contrast with the last time I sailed with him, where he could usually spot them 3 to 5 minutes before I was sure of them.

The nights were chilly. I wore all the clothes I listed before. Pete had mittens on in addition to his foul weather gear. I found it a little erie, when unknown lights ahead or to the side did unexpected things. They usually turned out to be boats and no real problem. In daylight, there seemed to be incredible numbers of upright flags marking fishing nets. Cocoa and cookies bolstered the inner man and woman as we changed watches.

Sailing through the night made it hard to keep track of the days. I took a long spell at the tiller in the early morning, while Pete got in another sleep and caught up with the navigation. I found I could knit and keep track of course, but not read. To much to watch for, net flags, birds, fishermen in small boats, miles from shore. First one I saw was isolated, well off to starboard, seemed motionless and I wondered if he were in trouble. I logged him in at 8:05, mile 137 on the log that we trailed to keep track of our sea miles (a long line with a spinner on it that registered miles on a dial near the stern, according to the number of revolutions), in case we needed to go back. Binoculars didn't give me enough detail, but I decided against waking Pete who had been asleep less than an hour. Glad I did, because by the time I had left that boat behind, and spotted a lighthouse tower on the shore, I also saw two more of the same kind of boats, standing by at their nets.

Mother Carey's chickens sitting in the water, and then the flutter of their jerky flight. Some fog ahead. Three or four dolphins. Pete thought he saw a shark. Near Lockporte we saw a whale, or maybe two, diving and surfacing for our delight. When he got up, Pete made a great omelet with tomato and the remains of the mushrooms. Topped off some good raisin toast with marvelous raspberry jam from Margotty.

We had started the night on a course of 180, with power on, and at Pete's suggestion I cut the power and used sail only after an hour. (I even remembered to pull out the stop button so the diesel engine would cut out) But to my dismay,there was not enough wind to hold the 180 heading, or even keep control, so I decided to try starting the engine on my own. It worked, and I ran at 1500 rpm the rest of my watch. (In fact we ran under power all the way to Port Latour, as the wind was in our face.)

Pete put the ventilating blower on during his watch, and we both forgot to turn it off, a serious omission as it draws 4 amps from the battery when the motor isn't running, and it's not helping to cool the engine when the engine isn't running. Our morning determination of position showed us in good shape to get into Port Latour by noon. And our morning heading of due west brought us across a wide bay right to the Salvages, rocks just before the LORAN towers that mark the entry to Port Latour. Pete had been identifying lighthouses along the starboard side, but we couldn't spot the Port Latour whistle, and we were starting to follow a fishing boat between the islands in toward the harbor when the whistle showed up in front of our noses. We had both mistaken it for a fishing boat of which there were several in the neighborhood.

With no detail chart, we counted on channel marker buoys, and Pete carefully plotted our headings in and had me remind him of the three charted obstacles, rocks on the way in. They were easy to see, but the town was not at all familiar to him. Perhaps the old cannery had burned down, but most of the area was very new. The fathometer was welcome to be sure we were in adequate water as we followed channel buoys into a dock where we could buy diesel. Pete filled up, moved Apogee to a raft position alongside a couple of fishing boats, and changed the engine oil, while I walked to the center of town. Hot and dusty, with a nice view over the harbor. One store, PO, church. No postcards, only the local weekly paper. But in the PO a quart of raspberries which I snapped up at $1.25 (Canadian!)

Had to swing a big fishing boat close enough to the wharf to step down onto her, then climb across and down by stages to Apogee. About 2:30, I warmed up the leftover fish and potatoes for Pete, had a big salad and cottage cheese, and finished off with the glorious raspberries with.the end of some sour cream Pete had. We didn't actually eat till we had anchored off Pace's Island for the night, perhaps 3/4 of a mile from the fisherman's wharf. Looked over our route, and decided to start on the 150-mile Bay of Fundy crossing early in the morning, since we had been sailing over the past night. NW winds predicted, not very good for our goal which was Rocque Island. But no matter, there would be no place to stop, meaning another all night sail. So we followed leisurely afternoon naps with reading and writing up the log to date. More of Pete's pât%eacute; with our drinks. Full dinner encouraged by the quiet of our anchorage--no diagonal bracing in the galley to keep from falling and bruising legs and buttocks. No need for the safety belt to lean against. Parslied potatoes - only no parsley, so I used basil - fresh beets, the other two strip steaks that had come through frozen from NYC in my bag, fried onions, a peach, and one of the very rich chocolate macaroons for dessert.

Very peaceful as the sun fell behind a solid cloud mass and a day-old moon showed up. But chilly to sit outside. Turned on the light, Pete to finish his book, I to write up notes, interspersed with some family talk, including Alvin's recent death, not unexpected. Early into our sleeping bags in preparation for an early start.

It turned out we were anchored too much in the channel for the Port Latour fishing fleet, in our concern not to be in too little water at low tide in case the wind shifted. After I turned the light out,, but before I undressed, a whole bunch of boats came through in a rush, power on, search lights picking us out., When I rushed to put on lights and shone my flashlight on the boom, some yelled at me to put on my running lights. I hit all the buttons on the panel, woke Pete, up. He kept his head hidden, had me put out most of the lights, but keep on the light on the top of the mast. He considered moving, but felt it would be dangerous, we wouldn't know where to go. And besides, most of the boats were probably in and we would be out in the morning, presumably by the time the fishermen were moving out.

No such luck. About 4:30 am we got the same treatment, but kept hidden. We had swung around and were more out of the channel toward the island. But we were soon up for good, to move out in light rain and fog. Easy enough to get into the channel with its two lighted buoys, but even with our headings worked out, we didn't spot the green spar buoy marking a rock very close to the channel. We did see the rock, however, and turned 5^o to our new heading, a lighted whistle buoy, six miles away, beyond the point of land where the LORAN spheres were barely visible through the fog. Put out our log, and Pete made us another sustaining breakfast.

From the second Port Latour buoy another long reach to another buoy before the open ocean. Pete chose a route to avoid the "Horse Race", an area of very choppy water where the tides meet outside the Bay of Fundy. He says it rattles your teeth for a mile or so, although some boats go there fishing. Careful navigating from now on, as we will be far away from 1and during the crossing and want to start out from a known position.

Never did hit the last buoy, but the LORAN was showing us in a position which tallied with our dead reckoning and showed the tide had been sweeping us along on our southwesterly course, probably giving us more over-the-ground travel than our sails. Much nibbling along the way. Much nibbling along the way. Onion soup for lunch. Taking turns watching our heading and napping before the night ahead.

Boat once trimmed holds its heading well under sail. Gradual clearing with pleasant sun by mid afternoon, but very slow progress on the chart. We had three potential targets for landfall, Portland, Bar Harbor, or Steele Island, depending on available winds and unavoidable Fundy tides. (We were never quite sure about the start and end of any tide run, although we could measure tide effect to a degree by the differences between our mileage log and our Loran position.) And so into the night with 2-hour alternating watches, Pete inevitably getting less sack time, as he takes the Loran position and keeps the logbook while I am at the tiller, as well as working out the headings and raising all the sails and lower thing, and handling the jib. When I'm asleep, he does it all by himself, with the tiller held by the comb. Pete dismayed at how slow we are getting across the Gulf of Maine, forgetting that we are working off a very large scale map (Do I have it reversed, is it a small-scale map that covers the largest area?) But the winds have not been helpful, so some hours we have made only 2 or 3 miles. We had to take one tack way to the south in order to be sure we would not be sucked into the funnel of Fundy tides which can be nasty and leave you far from your desired route. I had the wind die on me too, so I had to start the engine twice to hold the course. Fortunately it didn't make me go past the point of the wind we were set for, so the sails stayed in place and I didn't have to wake Pete up.

We continue with virtually nothing else in sight all day. Trying to figure the tides, working over miles actually traveled, Pete is pleased that we are keeping our planned course, while much of my time is tending tiller, keeping sails full when we are under sail. Food & naps between times. Pete is feeling off color, eating little, so we switched the menu from hamburgs to crevettes last night, with a little onion and celery and mashed potatoes. Grapes and some very nice "Pause Café" cookies from St. Pierre for dessert.

It is clear that we will not reach Maine before night-fall so we have a second night of little sleep ahead. Shearwaters are our company, swooping around the boat, almost always two of them somewhere in sight, sometimes 7 or 8, including very little ones, settling on the water after a couple of passes, then catching up again.

I have added to my nightwatch clothing a second t-shirt over my turtle-neck, and Stan's foul weather jacket right over my own, which has a hood. Using my knit gloves too. I take the first watch while Pete cleans up the dishes. I have to have my glasses on almost all the time. They help me spot buoys in the distance, and at night, particularly, they are necessary to be sure of compass readings 5' ahead of where I sit. In the pocket on the front of my pants I keep a flashlight, much used to check the fullness of the sails and to read the dial of the mile log. Also a paper towel in that pocket so I can wipe salt spray off the glasses. Spent a lot of time yesterday sewing velcro strips from Pete's sewing kit onto my jacket to replace the snaps that had been working loose.

I took the first watch. The night was touchy, not a disaster, but virtually no sleep for Pete. Maybe some worry, as we couldn't tell, exactly where we'd hit land, or when. Pete worked the Loran then headed for early sack time. I was all set with sails, choppy seas, to keep the best speed I could, with a good deal of leeway on course. But no sooner was Pete inside his sleeping bag than the wind died, and it wasn't just a matter of keeping our course, but of keeping control. I got him up and we tacked, which would tend to put us back from our schedule, but the new tack was terribly rough as we were heading into swells and smashing the bowsprit down into green water. Pete taught me to anticipate the swells by letting off a little downwind, and then pulling back. Doing that for half an hour kept me plenty warm. Pete went back to bed. But within 30 minutes, the wind died and I had to get him up again. He took the sails down in the dark, and we started the engine. He did another position. And we figured we might get to land any time between 5 and 10 am. Since he had had no sleep, I kept on another two hours and he tried to get in some sleep. But he did positions and only dozed and took over about midnight. I had some rain and rough seas, and was constantly sawing the tiller back and forth to hold headings. Missed the company of the stars. The bright sliver of the moon was lost behind thick clouds, and I couldn't see Sagitarius setting, or the planet I'd watched rise the night before. About midnight he took over.

Slept as soon as I got my foulweather gear off. Woke by 3, made cocoa, dressed, and relieved Pete who gave me a new course. He had put the sails up alone in the dark, and now again took a Loran fix to log our position. More clouds, a little more harmless rain. He had noticed the glow of some flashing light, and when he came up with the new heading, I could tell him it was a l5-second flash and bright, after a fairly large boat with cabin lights on had crossed our path diagonally far ahead. He went to look it up, without success, but kept watching, deciding we should go by and see the name on the buoy to confirm our position. It wasn't more than 5^o off our course. It was bright, but kept seeming distant, and finally he said he just had to lie down for a little bit, but for me to wake him up when we got near the buoy. After all, he had raised and lowered the sails by himself five times during the previous 24 hours.

After half an hour he was up again, looking, but the flashing light was no closer and the sky was lightening in the east. He said it might be a lighthouse. So I said couldn't we identify it from the special lighthouse charts. He told me which book of charts to get out, and sure enough both Mt. Desert Rock and Matinuset (?sp) had 15 second flashes -- way ahead of us. He was ready to take over the watch, but he was really punch drunk, so I persuaded him to give me a heading and sleep himself. Reluctant, but agreeing he was worn out, he decided to head us through open water for Roque Island. It was clear again, and in the brightening daylight he could spot the distinctive profile of Mt. Desert Island off ahead to our left. And he sacked out for his first two hours of solid sleep.

The sun poked up from a very broad horizon and calm sea, pale yellowish green sky that had started showing two hours earlier. Stars faded out , flashing lights no longer visible. Shearwaters still swooping around the boat, young ones learning. Maximum seen at one time (sitting on the water) 12. As I was doing stretching exercises to get blood circulating, a sparrow hopped onto the rigging and copped a ride with us for an hour or so. Not unusual according to Pete. Read an old New Yorker and knitted while I held the course with the engine on. (I had discouraged Pete from trying to put up sail again till he had slept) Finished off Nicholas' Christmas cardigan, a pair of mittens, and worked out and started a watch cap of the same royal blue.

With daylight and our return to island waters familiar to Pete, life seemed very tranquil again. Pete got up about 7:30 feeling ever so much better, stomach settled again. Liked our position . He made us fish cakes for breakfast, then took over so I could sleep. Sun bright enough so rays flickering back and forth over my berth, I doubted I could sleep. But I guess nothing could have kept me awake, once I got my clothes off. I got up about 9, to a sunny warm cockpit.

Pete proposes to put into Head Harbor tonight, shop in Jonesport tomorrow morning and on to Rocque in the afternoon. Then maybe to Cutler for dinner next day at a restaurant, out in the middle of nowhere that was excellent 10 or 15 years ago. Then mission accomplished head back south.

We kept motoring north at ease. Naps. lunch on surplus pork (canned) dressed up with peppers, onion, celery; salad; peaches that finally got ripe. Pete wrote up the log, read a paperback, napped on deck. Insects arrived. Fishing boats scattered here and there. As we spotted Steele Island lighthouse, we saw lots of sailboats, maybe a race, it being Sunday, and a big sloop. Pete checked the Loran to see how well it works this close to the coast and among the islands. He called the clarity of air this morning "a once in a lifetime" case, that let us see the hump of Mt. Desert from so far away. The 50 miles or so to Head Harbor by engine since there was almost no wind, gave us welcome time to read write. Sun welcome, but I have to watch out for my lower lip, a little painful from sunburn despite my anointing it with what is supposed to be a l5-level sunblock.

Past Steele Island lighthouse just after 4 pm on an outgoing tide, amid strings of lobster pots - a friendly local sign that the water is probably at least 15' deep at low tide. Turned in at the second opening to Head Harbor - the Cow's Yard - where we found two other boats already at anchor. Lovely spot, rocky shores, spruce covering the land right down to the highwater mark, a couple of floats with gangplanks leading to small shingled cottages. Pete made a circle and anchored us neatly behind and to one side of the larger sloop. A leisurely drink before supper. Both of us glad to hit the sack directly afterwards. And I managed 8 straight hours till about 5 am, despite the naps in and out all day.

Light rain when we woke up, and Pete was right; once out into the ocean from our protected hideaway, the fog was pretty thick. Not enough wind to make the sails worthwhile in the tight channels we would be going through from time to time. Made the red buoy at the mouth of Jonesport Bay and headed for Roque Island, one of Pete's favorites that had been our destination since Nova Scotia. One passage between islands a couple of hundred feet apart, with Pete watching the chart for obstructions and me at the tiller. Once inside the ring of islands, the water was still, no swell, and we started a circuit of the shore toward the beach at the far end.

Much of the main island, which is almost horseshoe shaped, is owned by the Gardner family of Boston (famous for the Gardner Museum) and kept pristine, supposedly entailed in such a way that it cannot be sold or developed. Pete full of tales about deer, and particular spots, like the rocky face where they backed an earlier boat up to the shore and tied up, with an anchor off shore, so they could simply pull the boat close and step onto the boat. That's how bold the shore is. Despite the inviting beach of fine hardpacked sand, the cold rain took away any incentive for a swim. Despite the lack of exercise on board, the thick woods clothing the slight elevations of the island made inflating the dinghy to go ashore for a walk seem hardly worthwhile.

Pete produced another great omelet of celery, onion tomatoes, basil, accompanied by toast with more of Margotty's raspberry jam, and we pulled up anchor. Headed out of the ring through a tiny passage, destination Jonesport. Met a lobsterman comlng through. Pretty low tide and we went dead slow to avoid rocks in the middle of the channel, shown on the chart. Then out to the open bay, to discover that three of the sloops that had been'anchored near the beach (there had been 13 boats there when we arrived) were following us. They passed us in the Bay and one turned out to be Temperance, which Pete and Tommy had seen in St. Pierre and once along the NS shore. We all waved, and they yelled something at us as they went by. We veered right at the #2 red buoy for Jonesport, they kept going straight, somewhat to Pete's surpise, until he figured out. They were going "outside" to the main Head Harbor Route, and must have been calling to warn us about the Jonesport fixed bridge. As sloops with single masts. they couldn't get under the 41' bridge. Pete's two masts allowed a shorter main mast, whose height he had taken the trouble to look up. And he had planned the route to arrive at Jonesport at noon, to take advantage of low tide for the extra 7' of clearance.

Followed the number buoys into the town, looking for diesel, since we were almost out, but none of the high piers we saw had any signs on them. Furthermore, there were no boats tied up or anchored near these very high pilings supporting the piers, which indicated very little depth at low tide. We noted considerable tide running by the angle of the lobsterpot buoys, so we hastened to sail under the central span. I would never have had the nerve. It looked as if we would shear off the top 18" at least, right up to the moment when the tell tale and mast light passed under the beam. Later the Coast Guard told us that low tide had been at 10:45!

A light was on at a small, very high wharf on the Beale's side, and there were numerous boats moored. So Pete turned on the fathometer (40') and moseyed in. A man on the pier didn't give us much of an answer about diesel for sale and I completely muffed throwing the rope up to a second man who showed by the time Pete had jockeyed the boat into the tight space. But we had at least established that there was plenty of water for us at the wharf, and Pete wove out between the boats and brought Apogee back in and we used the boat hook to pull us in the last 3 feet so we could tie up to the pilings.

We asked about groceries and water and they suggested we go to the Coast Guard station on the Jonesport side. So we went across, tied up to their handsome pier, and asked permission afterwards from the nice young duty noncom. They let us have water in our jerry cans, dump waste oil in their waste tank, and gave us coffee while we went ashore to shop for groceries. It was a good ¹/₂ mile walk in the drizzle to the IGA, where in addition to staples we got real crab for the price of artifical crab in NYC (and maybe not so tasty?), but no reasonable fresh fruit or attractive vegetables except corn on the cob. The Bangor paper (in the store where I got postcards) had an article telling workers where to go for bluberry-picking jobs, but no blueberries in the market. Pete said "that's a commercial crop here, no one here would eat them!"

Pete phoned while I went the last bit to the Post Office. Postmaster. when he heard I was on a boat that had stopped here to resupply asked me where we had got water, because he occasionally got inquiries from boating people. Jonesport is all supplied from wells, and the firehouse is supposed to have the best water. When we got back to the IGA where we had left our bags of groceries in the shopping cart, one of the checkout women offered us a ride back to the Coast Guard station, which we were quick to accept. Our young CG noncom came out to help us with water, which we lowered to the boat on ropes, and the groceries, and asked if our radio was in good shape. He sounded somewhat dubious about the weather.

It was probably 3:15 before we cast off to find a more sheltered anchorage near Beale's. Worked up a hearty lunch of the remaining tinned pork, oodles of noodles that Pete had thrown into the shopping cart. Pete read the paper. I conked out for a nap until 7:30 or so to the tune of rain pitterpattering on the hatch, sails dripping water into the cockpit, windows all steamed up with condensation, drips from the fittings. I put my towel under me inside the sleeping bag to keep my wet pants from making it soggy, but kept the pants on to try to dry them out some.

The boat was set for the night, but soggy ourselves, with a wet floor, we decided on sponge baths and dry clothes and felt much better after a little more internal warming. Read the paper, had a late light supper and were ready for bed. Only real problem was the chart book, with its pages wet, despite the zippered plastic cover, in danger of ripping from their spiral binding. We ended up leafing single sheets of our newspaper between every sheet of the chart, and came out just about even for the 78 charts by using two of the advertising insert per sheet. It worked too. When we removed the newspaper the next day, the charts, while not wholly dry, were manageable and on the road to recovery. We squandered battery to read for a while, but gave in to sleep shortly after 10, at ease in our sheltered spot, although the inside atmosphere was as wet as outside.

Each of us poked a head up through the hatch before 6 and immediately tucked back into our sleeping bags till about 8. So much fog we couldn't see the bridge or the diesel shack, nor any but the two closest moored boats. No reason to stir. Still socked in pretty tight when we ate breakfast and talked of improvement chores we could do while anchored: fix up the clamps that keep the pots on the burners during rough seas, a padding for the window clamp that always hits me in the forehead, when I go in to use the head. It tickled me to use to a good purpose the plastic packaging which we are careful not to throw out at sea (and which is also a problem in permanent safe disposal on land). Pete improved on my sketched design before I even started with my crochet hook. But then suddenly there was more light, and when we looked out, the sky was clear above, the fog was lifting and we were riding uncomfortably close to the shore. So we cleared out in a hurry along the Eggemoggen Reach, narrower than the Cape Cod Canal, for quite a stretch, gradually opening out to a bay and more islands, all by engine. Sun came out, just to show you shouldn't leave everything to the centrally located forecasters.

Set our sights for Corea, also thinking about Owl's Head to drop in on my friend Anita Siegenthaler the next evening. We needed to phone ahead, and as we proceeded nicely along our course we kept moving our destination further, aiming for Cranberry Island, a good harbor with an accessible telephone. Winter Harbor was our fallback if fog should close in. Motoring much of the way, we made Cranberry in good season, after anchoring for lunch by some small steep islands in Dyer Bay. Pretty deep to anchor. A rock astern with at least one auk, lots of other birds, three white seals and some beige ones playing around and sunny themselves. Pete pointed out what looked like a nice enclosed harbor, that has only a couple of feet of water in low tide. While we were finishing lunch, one of 3 or 4 lobstermen working their pots across a stretch of water, came by to ask if we were in trouble. Friendly.

Started on, mostly by engine, with inland passage buoys marking the channels between islands, most of which Pete had visited at one time or another. Lobster pots dotted all over, so equally spaced in some areas, it made me think of seagulls spacing themselves along a railing. We didn't shave past the wrong side of any of them, "This is real professional lobster country. I don't like to make a fool of myself here." Couldn't figure out why one sailboat was motoring down wind.

Turned into Islesford on Little Cranberry, where a restaurant pier had a handy phone. Pete put me off, carrying my shoes, paper and pen, but having neglected to take my spare hearing aid. First I had to change my battery. Then I got information to give me Anita's number, but they couldn't tell me if it was in the same area or a local call. So having dropped one dime through the cracks in the wharf, I got dialing directions. My credit card number wouldn't go through, so I gathered quarters, dropping another dime. Eventually got through and Anita said she would welcome us for supper, but didn't know whether we could get a mooring.

When I got back out to the end of the wharf, a stubby, two-story yacht was tied up where Pete had been, with elegantly dressed people coming off. Asked if they would be going by a mail box, and they seemed eager to be obliging, said when they went back to Southeast Harbor they would be glad to mail our bundle. Turned out Pete had to circle and they felt a little guilty to have bumped him from his spot.

No problem, he had tied onto the end of the wharf without killing the engine, and with two yanks of ropes we were off, weaving between dinghies, boats, and a great wall of granite blocks, out to a spot south of another island, where we should be sheltered from the north wind predicted with the passage of a front overnight. Just a few small boats moored and the depth went from 50' to 15' very fast. Not enough for anchoring over a change of tide. So we circled out, and Pete dropped the hook as fast as he could after the fathometer said 25', but even with his weight on a long line down the anchor rode, the depth showed as 47' and he let almost all of the rode out. But it held and we tidied up for the night, had dinner and sacked out for an early start .

Early start along Western Way, around Cranberry. We worked our way by sail up the Bay to the Deer Island Bridge. Very shifty wind conspired to fall off every time we got near.either shore. Near Black Rock Ledge Pete took down the sail and we motored along the reach. At the white buoy near Bucks Harbor we put up sail again and Chased a bunch of racers down East Penobscot Bay. Nice passages between islands, lots of buoys on the charts, but dying wind had us put on the engine somewhat before Owl's Head. Lighthouse no longer in use. Navy towers used to check speed over the land. Finally into a tiny cove jammed with lobster boats and one or two sailboats (Alexander Selkirk) and a big fat trawler.

Eased our way to the wharf where 6 or 8 lobstermen were loading up to go out, no one offered a hand with a rope or comment, but when Pete made a tight circle among boats hanging on moorings and returned as if to tie up on the side of the wharf, they said it would be too shallow for more than half an hour. So we asked about moorings that would be available overnight, and they pointed out one near a red boat. Backing and turning away from the wharf required some careful maneuvering to avoid a great pile of rocks. Pete caught the mooring with the boat hook and was trying to thread a line through the chain loop on the blocks of styrofoam held together by a heavy plastic netting when the fishing boat came by, and one of the lobstermen said that was probably all right, but he meant one of the two other free moorings. So we thanked them and moved on to the next. We tidied everything up for the night, changed into shore clothes, Pete in his black turtle neck, I in my #l grandma shirt and clean thin cord slacks. I even put my hair into a snug braid. Inflated the dinghy, put in the floorboard and Pete rowed us to shore.

We had thought to land on the beach and tie up, but what we thought might be a yacht club float proved too tempting. No one.in the elegant house facing over a manicured lawn, but when I started back out the wharf, the owner had come ashore in a skiff and given us permission to stay, so we walked up the hill, asked for directions, and turned up at Anita's back door about 6. Traditional farmhouse on the outside, with substantial inside modernizing. Polished knotty pine walls in a spacious new bathroom and the eat-in kitchen. Handsome iron stove with gas burners under the lid. Also a microwave.

Nothing started for supper yet--they'd just got back at 5--so we talked, drank fruit wine and gin and tonic, sliced salami, cut up fresh beans, blanched beets, peeled and cut onions and potatoes for fish chowder, looked over the house, made polite conversation with Bob's cousins from PA and fiddled with the 4-year old dog, clever, but relatively undisciplined. Managed to have half an hour with Tuesday's Times. Finally ate a little after 8. Fish chowder made with great pieces of flounder, sea scallops, but thin compared to what we were used to. Finally left about 9:15, with the others coming along for the walk down to the harbor. I couldn't get over the couple who had never had fish chowder, thought scallops and shrimp were OK, but had no use for lobster or any other fish. Hit the sack as soon as we got to the boat.

Destination Round Pond. Both of us up by 5 to a clear day, wind in our passage favorable, tide supposed to be against us for another hour, but it wasn't holding us back. Passed one marker bell by 7:15. Once past Ash Island we put up our sails. Another good breakfast omelet with mushrooms and sausage. On downwind most of the day. Couldn't have been nicer, quiet and sunny. We were into Pete's home territory now--all the water around Castine in Penobscot Bay, and all the coves within a day's sail of Round Pond. Almost always a story for each island, a memory from each harbor, maybe from a visit 20 years ago; a recollection of which channel markers were.significant. Occasionally some point of sea lore Pete wanted to pass on: unlike harbor channels where "red-right-return" remains the rule, the principle for channel passages between islands is that the sea side is always considered east and gets the red buoys, while the mainland side gets the green and black buoys. Pete pointed out Matinic Island, with a good growth of spruce. What I thought was a high beach was probably a meadow, since the island was 6 or 7 miles away, whereas our sea horizon was probably about 3 miles, so the beach wouldn't be visible from our boat. Later he pointed out a small island with a fair growth of spruce. Some years back it had been completely bare of trees. The cormorants were nesting in the trees and their yellow excreta are so acid it kills the trees, the source of so many names like Yellow Ridge and Yellow rock. Actually a neat balance of nature, no trees, no cormorants' nests; no cormorants, the trees soon come back, spruce very rapidly repopulating where undisturbed.

As we came down East Penobscot Bay toward Whitehead light, he pointed out two bridges, connecting Spruce Head (on the mainland) with Elwell Point and Sprucehead Island, the first a stone bridge, and the second ¹/₄ mile further, a wooden structure. It brought back the time he was taking one of Betty Levin's rams--an ornery one at that--back to the mainland, for eventual delivery to Lincoln, MA. He had been in a lobster boat in thick fog and had not seen any buoys, markers, or land, when he came up in the cove and saw the stone bridge. A great relief to know where he was--he hadn't done the passage in this direction before. And then he suddenly realized that this was a stone bridge, not the wooden bridge he was familiar with. That so shook him, he anchored and rowed ashore to find out where he was!

As we came up to the lighthouse at the tip of Whitehead Island, he mentioned the boathouse for the Coast Guard station there, the gable ends normal, perpendicular to the ground, but the floor sloping down to the sea, like a ramp. And there it was. Off shore were the Yellow Ledges and he told me to stay well clear of them. They were marked by a buoy. He remembered drifting helplessly toward them in Little Dipper, his first boat, with no engine, when he'd become becalmed. We began to see the mound of Monhegan Island, and mentioned mutual friends who had lived there. I asked about permanent residents, and he said, yes, quite a lot of fishermen, some quite wealthy. Their boats of elegant equipment on the cutting edge of new design. Their lobster taking is protected and they can harvest after the mainland season is closed.

I commented on the density of lobster pot buoys in Muscle Ridge. Pete said he sometimes wondered if you couldn't walk on the buoys dryshod from rock to rock in the summer season. Well at least you could pull yourself from one to the next like a rope ferry crossing. Pete remembered a fisherman's story of going whoring to Monhegan. A bunch of guys would tie a boat up at the wharf, cook up a big kettle of lobsters, and turn the radio up loud. And the New York girls would come down to the boat. He didn't doubt that this was true, because friends who lived on Monhegan spoke of the nuisance. No complaints about the morality--only about the loud music all night!

Around a headland into the broad bay across from Louds and Marsh Islands, Pete cut close to a subsidiary islet of McGee's Island (he calls it McGee's Pup) to show me an osprey nest atop a dead tree. With the binoculars we could see an adult and a chick in the nest, and the other adult in a tree behind the first. Going through a very narrow pass that he believes only lobstermen use, we saw a second nest, also with a chick. The wind died as we crossed the bay, so we.put on power, went around behind Marsh for a glimpse of Pete's wharf and hideaway on Louds.

Around the far end, we cut the motor and sailed past the land side of Louds, being overtaken by a fast little J-22, even though he seemed to have a hard time catching us. The three kids on board asked how long it had taken to come up from Puerto Rico (painted on Apogee's side as her home base). Pete explained that he had been 2 years trying to get there and was now on his way down, having cruised to St. Pierre, Miquelon and Halifax before heading south. He did not let on that Round Pond was his local home port, and probably astonished them by rounding the entry buoy close to shore smartly, immediately after jibing., and headed in among the clutter of moored boats to pull up by his peapod rowboat as neat as you please.

Before I had finished bailing out the peapod which had been on the mooring for a month, a friend of Pete's had tied up his dinghy to Apogee's stern. A handsome, thoughtful school teacher, he was glad to take a break from writing up a disciplinary policy for the school board. Clearly a sailing buff, he could not stay home on such a beautiful day, and was delighted to share a leisurely beer. When he want back to his boat, Pete put Apogee to bed for the night, and we got ready to go ashore. We were soon on our way to Joe's Dock. "What a pleasure to row the Peapod" towing the inflatable that we'd been pulling since Owl's Head for ease in deflation on the float.

The world presses in on us. First change was the felt need to read the Times at Anita's yesterday, the desire to get through the remaining New Yorkers, so I can leave them behind. Pete knowing he needed to contact the owner of his place on Loud's Island about new pilings for the wharf. Hoping Wilkie might be able to get them. But preferring to have someone else to put them in, rather than having to hire--or buy--a jet to dig the holes for them, and he and Wilkie do the work.

On the wharf some teasing about. the trip, customs, Pete's car, and we were off to the post office, the store, resupply of water, a doubledip ice cream cone. Did some telephoning at Joe's to Portland re bus, airplanes. No trouble getting on an 11:30 flight to LaGuardia, which seemed reasonable from an 8:02 am bus from Damariscotta. We picked up a couple of lobsters from Joe and were back on Apogee by 4 pm. The floor was wet, and Pete shamefacedly admitted that he had forgot to close the valve on the head when he first left the boat, earlier, but was saved by having to go back for a beer for Joe, though it had already overflowed a little. Mopped it up while Pete finished off the outside ropes.

A leisurely drink with the sun still hot and bright, as we critiqued boats coming in to moor. Next to us a big sailboat, whose.owner put his (eight-year old?) son to scrubbing the forward deck as soon as they came to a stop. Other friends in boats hailed Pete and came alongside or called out as they went by. And then there was the surprise of seeing another Quoddy Pilot, green like Apogee, just across the harbor. Pete had thought there was something familiar about that boat as we whipped into the harbor.

Pete, warm and relaxed went in for a nap, while I wrote my journal up to the minute. Started water for our lobsters about 6, got out some potato chips, and served up some peaches. Finished off the last 2 heavy chocolate macaroons from Lunenbert, and we enjoyed some of the great chocolate chip cookies Anita had pressed on Pete. Pete continued on his month-long stack of mail and took care of a good deal of it while I read the Boston Globe and packed up, determining that I could make it home in 2 (albeit heavy) bags, so I wouldn't have to check anything and wait for it at the other end. We ran the motor to cool the icebox. I tried to finish the Tony Hiss article "Experiencing Places" but despite my interest, I couldn't stay awake.

Didn't sleep too well, maybe change of pace or focus, staving off leg cramps. Up at 5 to another clear day. Coffee, little chores, and pulled away in the peapod a little after 6:30. Off to Damariscotta in the horizontal early morning light. While Pete filled up with gas, I phoned Eric with flight numbers and times--and almost left my pad with the whole journal on the desk!

End of the boat story. Transition from a feeling of the great reality and immediacy of a boat on the sea, with independence, self-dependence to identify and address whatever problems appeared, enormous spaces from a very restricted platform, to the very fixed cityscape where the individual is often indistinguishable in the mobs and repetitious routines. Descent to Boston proved nostalgic. I could identify the Ipswich dunes, Cape Ann, Nahant, Nantasket, even Spectacle Island where I used to do pylon 8s in 1941. Home in the early afternoon to my own enormous pile of mail.

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