I think you have to be on the prairie or at sea to observe a slow
moving weather front. The approaching cold front with its reported
hail, violent wind and lightning died out last night just the other
side of Booth Bay. We watched the light show, prepared for the worst
and then went to bed. There was a splash of rain. No more.
This morning I was eager to get the boat tied to the dock at the boat
yard so we could get her cleaned up. I'd spotted a hose on the floats
the previous evening. Once tied up Pete scrubbed the waterline and then
foredeck while I wrote on my laptop. Later I flushed and scrubbed the
cockpit and filled the water tank while Pete wandered around the boat
yard taking more pictures. Somehow being among all those pretty boats
made it a necessity to clean mine. We were on our way at ten, with the
first morning breeze from the Southeast.
We sailed today, all day. The day started tacking downwind and with us
still believing the wind would reach its forecast 15 knots with some
gusts to 20. The swells were still out there. Big waves rose abeam and
made new sudden horizons of jagged water on our horizon. Off Pemaquid
Point we watch Gannets dive into the sea from 40 and 50 feet with such
violence the sea surface exploded and sent a plume of salt water high
into the air along the track of their attack. We also saw seals and an
unidentified fin.
But the real interest today was the front stalled overhead. We must
have crossed back and forth through it two or three times today. On one
side the wind would be cool and from the southeast, on the other, warm
and from the north west -- off the land with the scent of pine pitch and
sand. At other times the division obscured and one moment warm 80
degree puffs of air would warm us, a moment later we'd drift into pockets
of cool air, still damp from offshore. The light was a Luminists dream:
glassy and ominous, colors vibrated with new vividness. Islands shook
in the thermal haze. Mirages rode the waves and fell back into the sea.
Islands and sails came and vanished in sea bound fog.
We anchored tonight in Harbor Island in Musongus Bay.
Showing posts with label london goes to sea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label london goes to sea. Show all posts
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Linekin Bay
Facing an approaching cold front and a strong wave of thunderstorms we stopped early for the night at the Paul E. Luke boatyard. The yard lies along the eastern shore of Linekin bay and is distinguished by a large Travellift and a series of sheds. The float is connected to the land with a covered gangway, much in the style of a New England covered bridge and weathered to a silver gray. It also seems to be used for storing masks and fishing gear.
This is one of those places where on a weekend, calling the office or hailing them on the radio does not seem to get results. So we first grabbed a mooring and I rowed to the floats find someone in the yard. The water at the float was so clear I could make out every peeble on the bottom.
Ashore I found a group sitting under the trees at the top of the bank overlooking the bay. A man with weathered gray hair and a ruddy complexion rose and came across the yard to meet me. Freindliness seems endemic up here. Frank Luke is a friendly man.
"You can stay right there on that mooring. 20,000 lb granite block on those. The ones further out ride smoother. Where'd you come from?"
"Near New Bedford."
"That's a way."
When I gave him the $15 dollars for the mooring, he said.
"Now that money is going from your vacation fund, into my vacation fund. He slipped the bills in his wallet and winked.
After we'd been on the mooring a bit we began to see the boats around us. Several wooden classic in tip top condition including a Herreshoff ketch and a gaff rigged schooner. We watched the many osprey dive and swirl in the air calling to one another with their peculiar chirps.
Today was humid, but out on the water it stayed cool. In the morning as we left New Meadows River the seas built to a good six feet, with a slight breeze out of the South. The motor stayed on all day to keep our speed up, we were eager to round Cape Small and get in on a mooring before the afternoon thunderstorms. Nancy had left in the car at 8:30 for Boston and Pete and I were off the mooring at Cundy's Harbor by 10 am. We passed Seguin Island at 12:30. In at the mooring here about 3pm.
This is one of those places where on a weekend, calling the office or hailing them on the radio does not seem to get results. So we first grabbed a mooring and I rowed to the floats find someone in the yard. The water at the float was so clear I could make out every peeble on the bottom.
Ashore I found a group sitting under the trees at the top of the bank overlooking the bay. A man with weathered gray hair and a ruddy complexion rose and came across the yard to meet me. Freindliness seems endemic up here. Frank Luke is a friendly man.
"You can stay right there on that mooring. 20,000 lb granite block on those. The ones further out ride smoother. Where'd you come from?"
"Near New Bedford."
"That's a way."
When I gave him the $15 dollars for the mooring, he said.
"Now that money is going from your vacation fund, into my vacation fund. He slipped the bills in his wallet and winked.
After we'd been on the mooring a bit we began to see the boats around us. Several wooden classic in tip top condition including a Herreshoff ketch and a gaff rigged schooner. We watched the many osprey dive and swirl in the air calling to one another with their peculiar chirps.
Today was humid, but out on the water it stayed cool. In the morning as we left New Meadows River the seas built to a good six feet, with a slight breeze out of the South. The motor stayed on all day to keep our speed up, we were eager to round Cape Small and get in on a mooring before the afternoon thunderstorms. Nancy had left in the car at 8:30 for Boston and Pete and I were off the mooring at Cundy's Harbor by 10 am. We passed Seguin Island at 12:30. In at the mooring here about 3pm.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Bigelow Bight
As I pulled into Rockport's Sandy Bay to anchor a guy yelled over from a boat which came in to anchor right behind me.
“I read your book! I loved it. Especially the part about the… Maybe we can get togther later.”
Jim’s boat is also a Cape Dory 27, with a radar mounted like mine on the pole at the stern. But there the similarities end. His boat has a wheel, cushions in the cockpit and a teak floor in the cabin! My floor is white fiberglass.
Jim and his crew were all from the Tufts Medical School, two professors of Public Health and a recently graduated student. A fine ship with a friendly crew.
Yesterday, sailing here, I wished I had a crew. Before setting off I had sent out an email to about a dozen sailing friends, but all the responses I got were for the return trip or the later cruising in Maine segements. I was to have picked up one old friend in Portsmouth, NH today, but his band scheduled a gig and that was the end of that.
Yesterday morning as I passed Plymouth and moved along the coast toward Scituate the wind really began to blow. Fortunately it was all from astern, but I still reefed the main sail so Autoleena could steer. A broad reach is her weakest skill. The rolling swell didn’t help either. With a fluxgate compass and a computer chip for a brain your options are pretty limited, not that Autoleena isn't a wonderful instrument. I could not be out here alone for days on end without her. Autoleena is my auto-tiller and has been like an extra right arm to me for nearly 8 years now.
So while I was struggling to get the boat to sail herself and the forecast was getting more ominous, I remembered just how hard this it. It's scarry sometimes alone out here, living with that last decision: the poor anchorage selection which leaves you tired, the realization you’ve gone too far and it is going to get dark or stormy before you can tie up again. Guess that's why I love it.
This morning I left Rockport a bit after 6 am, probably just about the time Nancy’s alarm is going off at home. Again I had the main up and the kettle on as I raised the anchor. It was calm so I could go below and pour the breakfast tea while we motored. The sea is glass, the sky hazy and humid. Now at 8:30 am I am 8.5 miles NNE of Rockport - steaming at 4.8 knots. I just went over an underwater hill. The depth went from 320 feet to 179 in the space of 1/4 mile. Moving on out now over the deep Scantum Basin.
A small brown bird has landed in the dinghy I am towing. I often see creatures land. Yesterday in all that wind a monarch butterfly managed to settle on the sail. These little passengers are welcome. I try not to disturb them.
“I read your book! I loved it. Especially the part about the… Maybe we can get togther later.”
Jim’s boat is also a Cape Dory 27, with a radar mounted like mine on the pole at the stern. But there the similarities end. His boat has a wheel, cushions in the cockpit and a teak floor in the cabin! My floor is white fiberglass.
Jim and his crew were all from the Tufts Medical School, two professors of Public Health and a recently graduated student. A fine ship with a friendly crew.
Yesterday, sailing here, I wished I had a crew. Before setting off I had sent out an email to about a dozen sailing friends, but all the responses I got were for the return trip or the later cruising in Maine segements. I was to have picked up one old friend in Portsmouth, NH today, but his band scheduled a gig and that was the end of that.
Yesterday morning as I passed Plymouth and moved along the coast toward Scituate the wind really began to blow. Fortunately it was all from astern, but I still reefed the main sail so Autoleena could steer. A broad reach is her weakest skill. The rolling swell didn’t help either. With a fluxgate compass and a computer chip for a brain your options are pretty limited, not that Autoleena isn't a wonderful instrument. I could not be out here alone for days on end without her. Autoleena is my auto-tiller and has been like an extra right arm to me for nearly 8 years now.
So while I was struggling to get the boat to sail herself and the forecast was getting more ominous, I remembered just how hard this it. It's scarry sometimes alone out here, living with that last decision: the poor anchorage selection which leaves you tired, the realization you’ve gone too far and it is going to get dark or stormy before you can tie up again. Guess that's why I love it.
This morning I left Rockport a bit after 6 am, probably just about the time Nancy’s alarm is going off at home. Again I had the main up and the kettle on as I raised the anchor. It was calm so I could go below and pour the breakfast tea while we motored. The sea is glass, the sky hazy and humid. Now at 8:30 am I am 8.5 miles NNE of Rockport - steaming at 4.8 knots. I just went over an underwater hill. The depth went from 320 feet to 179 in the space of 1/4 mile. Moving on out now over the deep Scantum Basin.
A small brown bird has landed in the dinghy I am towing. I often see creatures land. Yesterday in all that wind a monarch butterfly managed to settle on the sail. These little passengers are welcome. I try not to disturb them.
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