“See how you feel, eating candy all the time.” A mother might propose so, in the old days, hoping to demonstrate the foulness of such a diet with the inevitable tummy-twisting sickness. Then dad would put you in the closet with a pack of cigarettes.
Judging by my cache of food, I’d yet to learn my lesson: three dozen protein bars with appetizing names like “Vanilla Toffee” and “Chocolate Peanut Butter”; enough Gatorade to drown a gator; syrupy sweet Starbucks canned espresso; and of course the Irish cream. I sat up in my nylon bivy sac, pounded a coffee (caffeine… check!) and choked down a few protein bars. It was like eating sugared clay, but I would need the protein.
A generator roared to life nearby, signaling start of business. It was some kind of aquaculture operation: a floating shack and a couple of platforms anchored in shallow water, with a miniature plumb-stem Novi tied up aside. ([10. A “Novi” is a motor boat typically used for lobstering, of the type manufactured in Nova Scotia, with a nearly plumb stem, sharply upswept bow, a cabin which is well-forward and covered but not enclosed, and a broad stern deck with low freeboard and a wide, square rail for staging traps. But mine is not an expert assessment.]) You can see it from up on the Eastern Promenade, though like this island it’s easy to miss, small and far away and inconspicuous in a sweeping 15-mile view of island-dotted sea.
He’d be raising clams or mussels or who knows? Another boom-and-bust in the vein of urchins and elvers, maybe. They’re farming seaweed now, too.
I was up at 7:00 and ready to go at 8:30.
I paddled southeast in a sunny but stuffy morning calm, past yesterday’s collision site, past the aquaculturist’s man-sized gamble. Little Chebeague Island and my passage to the outer bay were a couple of miles away in a bank of fog. The surface of the water settled into a bulging black mirror that doubled the blinding sun. I was already thirsty and dripping sweat. Pins and needles pricked my feet where I sat on them. (I had intended to craft a foam seat, but ran out of time).
I dug in hard with my paddle. The fog was burning off now and baring the shoulders of Little Chebeague. I was desperate to get around it, through the gap of Great Chebeague and Long, and see the broad flat horizon of the Gulf of Maine.
I was nearing the edge of those “new waters” I had promised myself, at the northern tip of Long Island, when I saw a few people on the beach there. It reminded me that I had not entirely committed myself to self-sufficiency in bearing supplies. Fresh water I could beg. I needed more, and this was the last best place to get it. The beach-combing woman and her grandchildren did not know of a handy water source. They were only visiting for the day. But she pointed up the beach to where the paved main road came around.
This is the kind of island that just barely tolerates anonymity. It’s served by the Portland ferry, and has a few stores and restaurants. ([20. Other islands on the “mailboat” run, like Little Diamond Island, suffer strangers uneasily. The absence of paved roads and commercial enterprises seems to coincide with a reputation for insularity. (That may be changing. The island’s clubhouse is said to be a casino now).]) When a convoy of bicyclists passed by, I asked to be pointed to a water source. I was directed, pleasantly (and apparently without suspicion), to a nearby garden hose. With water for a day or two, I paddled across the channel to Deer Point, at the south end of Great Chebeague Island. A gulf wind stirred the surface into shadows with electric seams. It folded chips of water into strands of blue sky and spread a fine twinkling fabric to the horizon.
“She’s rollin’ now!” came a radio voice, firing my desire to sail. The waves and wind were building, out there in the gulf. I rigged up. I wanted to go straight out, southeast, into the wind, just to feel the sail-filling freshness of it, but of course sailboats can’t do that. So I had either to go south and tack back in open water or, more directly, go east behind Hope Island. I cautiously chose the latter, suddenly feeling small before the ocean. But Hope was tall enough and close enough to effectively block the wind, and the next mile cost an age.
In good wind I can “sit back” and balance the pull of the sail with my body weight, thru the connection of the boom to my seat harness. Without a counterweight, the sail is top-heavy and keeping it balanced is frustrating.
But alas, new waters. There ahead east was Broad Sound and rows of skinny ridge-backed islands all going northeast and southwest, the way this bay was built. Cliff Island rose steeply to my right. Beyond it, Bates Island and Ministerial Island blocked my view of the next cape. It was 2:30 by then. The breeze of noon had proved a tease, but the sun never let up. I tan well, but it was too much for one day. My arms were tender. I knew I was in for a burn. Belatedly I slopped on sunscreen.
A couple of nice white sailboats came behind on the same route, gleaming majestically, passed by and turned north toward Freeport. How they carry sail! It is said the two happiest moments of a man’s life are: when he buys his boat; and when he sells his boat. Use it or not, it grows old eating your money. But on a day like this…
Now the wind was gaining strength: a real sea-breeze. I rounded north of Stave Island and turned east again, with all 7.5 square meters of sail puffed and working. I hooked in with my harness and picked up speed. If I could stay upright, I’d make Bailey Island within the hour and go for Cape Small.
But I could not. Windsurfing is not easy, not for me anyway. I simply did not have the technique, the balance, or the strength required to keep control in higher winds. The sail (which looks and acts like a wing) stalled and then pitched forward violently, throwing me into the water. It’s striking to see a windsurfer fall, from a distance, because what might at first appear to be a sailing dinghy seems to disappear in an instant. The slim board may be obscured by waves, the sail is flat on the surface, and the sailor, for a moment, is probably underwater.
It’s no wonder other boaters are concerned by the sight. It seemed only seconds later that a little motorboat puttered up with an offer of assistance. It’s hard to explain, to someone who is not familiar with windsurfing, that man overboard is a natural state of being. A wetsuit is standard dress. We expect to be soaked.
Fortunately, the sail in the water effectively anchors the board so it won’t blow away. The trade-off is “uphauling”, an exhausting struggle to pull the sail up to sailing position. The rig is not terribly heavy, but it’s tall and poorly leveraged by the short uphaul line. With the wind flagging the sail and the waves rocking the board, it’s not uncommon for me to lose my balance and fall in again.
Compare it to log-rolling while weight-lifting. It can, and now did, result in a downward spiral of fatigue and frustration. After half an hour of trying and failing, I was exhausted. I sat down on the board to reassess. The wind was still too strong. I’d had maybe 10 minutes of good sailing as the wind speed climbed from “anemic” to “sporting”. There’s not much you can do to adapt a sail made for windsurfing. You can’t reef it or roll it on the mast, nor easily carry an alternate size.
I came back to the mantra that summarized my personal collection of wind wisdom: “just wait”. ([30. Mark Twain is popularly credited with saying “if you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait a few minutes”. His Dec. 23, 1876 speech on the subject of New England weather could be summarized as advising so, but lacks the wording.]) Conditions change. Rest a while. In the meantime I drifted north with the tide and the wind. I thought of deploying my “sea anchor”, which is like an underwater parachute, but the fuss of coiling 50 feet of line put me off.
I had made the sea anchor thinking I wouldn’t use it, then when I needed it I just didn’t bother. When did such sloth become acceptable? I thought of Merlin and the terrifying allure of shedding one’s cares, of finding oneself propped up by others’ labors. How do graceless infants grow to command themselves and then, in middle age, so readily deny themselves the will to proceed?
Everyone knows the afternoon sea-breeze settles down in the early evening, but I tired of waiting. Wind or no wind, I could gain ground with the paddle, starting now. Almost now. By the time the rig was stowed, it was past 4:00. I had drifted about a mile. I still couldn’t see Bailey Island. All day I’d imagined sailing into the marina there, stowing the board in some secret corner of water, under a pier, and arriving for dinner as if out of nowhere. Like much of the route, I’d never seen it before.
I passed north of Upper Flag Island and headed for Haskell Island. The wind softened in its stages, with another period of good sailing wind giving way too quickly to light air. The pain and numbness in my feet, together, were disturbing. Haskell Island was like a kingdom, guarded by granite cliffs. A few palatial houses rose from bold slopes of emerald lawn. I paddled under a fanciful observatory perched on the northern tip. It was a tidy, upright sort of island not suggestive of leisure, and at the moment appeared deserted.
Finally I caught a glimpse of the southern tip of Bailey Island, across Merriconeag Sound. I expected to see the marina and its restaurant but there was nothing of the sort. Then I thought it must be on the other side of the island. I paddled across the sound chasing an old dog of a sailboat. It headed south and tacked east, and I almost kept up with it on my side of the triangle. Either it’s slower than it should be or I’m faster than I thought.
I followed it into Jaquish Gut, past the famous “Land’s End Gift Shop”, which, at the very end of Route 24, fairly earns its name. On the other side of Bailey Island, the remainder of Casco Bay stretches to Cape Small. Swells rolled in from the southeast, as if to highlight the difference. I still expected to see the marina. I remembered seeing it on a snippet of a Google map on a search results page. I remembered the shape of it, sticking out into the sea, with a crescent-shaped cove on one side. But I hadn’t marked it on my chart.
The sun was very low. It was almost 7:00. Time to find shelter. I saw a break in the rocky shore, up ahead. It revealed a rocky cove choked with seaweed, and nothing that looked like a marina. A man by the shore at the Driftwood Inn, who was preparing for an evening swim, said he knew of no marina nearby.
“Dolphin-something, it’s called, I think,” I said.
He was not from around here, but thought it sounded familiar. “Yeah, I think it’s over that way”. He motioned westward.
I took out my phone. “No Service”. I suspected the marina was actually located at the end of Harpswell Neck, which I had passed a couple of hours ago. It appears similar in shape and orientation on the map. Uggh. Instead of making the sea anchor, the one I figured I wouldn’t need and declined to use when I did, I might have informed myself a hundred times over. Why so carelessly cast off a good sense of priorities, for a crafty distraction?
Maybe it’s adaptive. “Under-informed” is a state of mind I’m learning to live with. I don’t know when my cancer will come back ([40. Insert miraculous asterisk.]). My doctors don’t know how to beat it. So what if I don’t know where I’m going to sleep tonight? Let night come, I’ll find a place.
Turns out the place was nearby. At the inner end of the cove was a gravel beach, backed up to weeds and bushes. It didn’t offer much visual privacy, but with rugged, rocky shores on both sides I didn’t expect any foot traffic. Finding a fire pit sealed the deal. But on the question of dinner, “protein bars” was not the answer I preferred.
A little poking around revealed a path leading up from the beach to a green lawn and a white house on a paved road. The paved road. Across the street I could see the sunset over the opposite shore. I found a little ice cream shack, down the road a bit, and bought a hot dog, root beer and pie a-la-mode on special. The kindly silver-haired matron of the place made a generous comparison to Florida sunsets, of which she’s seen many: this one made the grade.
Mosquitos chased me back to the beach. I changed out of the wetsuit and ate quickly. A fire seemed just the thing, if only for the smoke. With the paper plate and a few handfuls of driftwood twigs and a couple half-burnt logs I managed to build a fire in a few minutes. It lasted about an hour, into the moonless dark. The sky was radiant with stars, shooting stars, airplanes, satellites…
I felt blessed. I wanted to bottle it up and save some for later. That I could not recover feelings like these, from memory alone, has caused me regret at times. But I’m learning to let them go.
NOTES:
