Re-Entry and Reflection

Onion "stored" in our car all summer

A friend asks how we are doing in "re-entry" mode since we left -- moved off -- Cilantro just over a month ago and returned to Arizona. Physically, the transition was simple: dismantle and stow boat equipment for cross-country transport, load clothing and personal effects into a heap of duffel bags, and get on an airplane, leaving Bittersweet Landing Boatyard with the heavier decommissioning tasks. Our rural desert home was as we had left it: empty of most perishable foods, slightly dusty inside and out, surrounded by waist-high grasses, but otherwise intact. One strange discovery was a sweet onion that had apparently spent the entire Arizona summer in the car, in the uncooled garage, and was none the worse for it -- it tasted fine sliced onto salads. Left on the boat in humid Maine, however, it might not have had such a happy ending.

Adjusting back to landlubber life has been interesting. Curtis marvels at the easy availability of electricity. There are no battery banks to monitor and fret over, no calculations of how soon we'll need to hook up to shore power or run the engine. You just flip switches and pay monthly! Sue initially felt wasteful using more than two mugfuls of water to wash and rinse dishes, but she's gotten over that and now happily fills a bowl or two for the whole operation (or uses the dishwasher, that blessed thing). The electric coffeemaker is pretty slick. Taking daily showers is a distinct luxury, and indulging in a second shower after hiking or weed-whacking is OK too. The washer and dryer are located in the house instead of 15 miles away by borrowed car. And climbing into a queen-sized bed -- from either side, no less -- is a welcome end to the day.

Weather-watching from the porch in Arizona

The view from our Arizona "cockpit" is radically different from the one we enjoyed this summer: desert grasslands, mesquite trees, distant cliffs and mountains. And yet, in many ways it is not so different. Looking out on a watery landscape and staring across the desert have in common the big sky and the long view, largely unchanging except for undulations of waves and clouds or wind-swept grasses and moving shadows. Then there's the occasional surprise of a pilot whale surfacing or a bobcat crossing the property. Weather events can be observed more than 30 miles away: "Look, it's raining in Mexico," Sue likes to point out, and Curtis practices forecasting from clouds and wind on the water as well as on land. The presence or absence of wind often determines how the day will unfurl. For sailing, that's an obvious point, but for life in the desert, we also note the wind patterns, because they affect bird activity, temperature fluctuations, and the general character of the day, not to mention whether we use our outdoor shower (!).

Weather watching from the boat in the Gulf of Maine

So, besides the sailing and equipment learning curves, what else did we learn or realize? How did we survive three months of living together, 24 hours a day, in an indoor space roughly the equivalent of our bathroom and walk-in closet at home and an outdoor space that rocked and rolled and resembled a narrow, uncovered porch full of step-ups and step-downs, unforgiving toe-stubbers, head-bangers, and underfoot sections of rope?

It wasn't bad at all. Curtis only broke one toe, Sue survived a mere few days of unnerving ocean swells, and remarkably few things fell overboard. Bruises heal, scabs fall away. Salt eventually washes out of clothing. We both got a bit too much sun exposure, more than we allow ourselves in Arizona, but then, that experience led us to consider purchasing a bimini shade cover for the cockpit. We spent a lot of money on the boat, and we are still recovering from sticker shock, but a cruising friend assures us that the outlay of cash falls off dramatically once you set up your boat the way you want it. We're almost there (we think) and we hope our friend is right.

Small freezer section (at right) of refrigerator

The onboard cuisine was fine; in truth, we ate much the same meals that we eat on land, although we tended to bring less raw meat aboard due to infrequent shopping and the fact that the small freezer didn't keep food rock hard. We didn't eat as much seafood as we (and our friends) expected we might, being in Maine. Sue thinks this was due to several factors: we didn't do any fishing ourselves, we didn't have a car to shop daily for fresh seafood, and we didn't chase down lobster markets in the dinghy. Sue wasn't keen on handling lots of messy prep and clean-up in our small galley, and our chosen cruising destinations were remote islands rather than busy harbors and fishing ports, where we might have purchased ocean-going delicacies. So, if a summer of seafood gourmandizing had been our goal, we failed, but we aren't exactly moping about it.

Curtis servicing one of our winches

Sue's 2-needle wheel cover method

We got along well 99 percent of the time (of course, 33 percent of the time we were asleep), with only occasional sniping and grumpiness when the weather was hot and humid or the work was difficult and tedious. Maybe we were both too busy learning and working to focus on each other, or maybe we are just lucky to be good traveling partners. We each chose or were willing to do different jobs, such as servicing winches (Curtis) and stitching a wheel cover (Sue). There were "luxuries" we did without, such as television and a car, but we didn't miss them all that much. We were fortunate to be able to borrow a car once a week, and that turned out to be plenty. We brought along 12 DVDs and watched none of them. Creature comforts on the boat were enough for both of us, and we found pretty good (though variable) Internet access along much of midcoast Maine.

Juvenile black guillemots kept us company.

But people have asked us how we managed to get along so well in tight quarters. We're not certain ourselves, but we think that a combination of shared and overlapping interests and mutual respect are keys to compatibility. We both love birding and mammal watching. Interests that overlap -- ones that we share but to a different degree -- include weather-watching (Curtis is very keen on weather science, maybe because of his pilot training; Sue is interested but less intensely) and botany (a recent passion of Sue's; Curtis knows as much if not more but doesn't obsess about it). Unshared but mutually appreciated interests are another valuable ingredient. For us, these include:

Sue working on the blog one evening

• Cooking: Curtis is a grillmaster, but he really likes Sue's cooking and is grateful for her willingness to put something on the table every night. Even leftovers receive high praise.
• Equipment research: Over the past several years, Curtis has researched (among other things) navigation systems, autopilots, wind-speed-depth instruments, windlasses, radar, batteries and energy monitors, wind generators, solar panels, dinghies, and sail construction. Sue is very thankful for his dedication! She is always ready to listen to the research results, but if she had been the one doing it, she would have burned out quickly and bought the first and cheapest model of whatever-it-was she came across. 
• Blog writing: It must be admitted that Sue is the author of all blog posts. Curtis is happy she enjoys writing, although he was surprised to find that she couldn't just "bang out" a blog post over breakfast each day. No, Sue explained, they actually take some crafting, sometimes several days' worth. 
• Apps for iPad and iPhone: Curtis is all over these: Navigation apps, tide apps, weather apps, etc. He's always on the lookout for new ones. What's out there? Cool. What are the reviews? Great. Who's using this one? Excellent. $0.99. $9.99. $49.99. Sue's approach to apps is more of the "OK, looks useful, I'll learn it" variety. We've added an "iOS Apps We Like" list to the right-hand column on the blog; check it out.

Of course, you can't reduce personal relationships to a formula of "interests." That makes it sound as if any two people who both like to bowl, fish, or gamble would automatically be compatible on a boat, or in life. But when we ask ourselves why it is we can stand -- no, why we enjoy -- being around each other day after day, this combination of shared interests and respect for the other person's interests seems to explain a lot.

From his rock-climbing days, Curtis knows a lot about knots. Bowline-on-a-bight is one of his favorites, along with the water knot and the one-handed bowline. Sue is not as spatially gifted as he is, so she put in some hours this summer practicing a suite of basic and not-so-basic knots. Toward the end of August, she graduated to eye-splices and whipping techniques to make a spare anchor line. Curtis was suitably impressed. So there's yet another set of shared interests keeping us together: knot-tying, splices, and whippings. Hah.

Sue's eye-splice joins nylon rode to a thimble

Whipping (brown twine) to secure the eye-splice

Back to Burnt: One Last Maine Adventure

On Friday, September 7, we set out from South Bristol Harbor for a last Maine cruise in Cilantro. (She is scheduled to be pulled out of the water on Monday the 10th.) We motored across outer Muscongus Bay to Burnt Island in three- and four-foot mixed swells from the south and southwest. We thought about putting up sail, but the winds were light, and we would have been on a broad reach, with wind abaft the beam (coming from farther back than the midpoint of the boat). With the motion of the boat climbing up and over the swells, we were worried about jibing and excessive boom bounce, so we charged up batteries instead. The swells were a parting gift from Tropical Storm Leslie that was bypassing Bermuda and heading northeast toward Newfoundland. (Sue's personal belief was that some of the swells approached six feet from trough to crest, but she went with the three- and four-foot estimates to seem more grown-up.)

Greater shearwater in Muscongus Bay

Being under power instead of sail meant that, whenever we saw interesting birds, we could slow up and watch or turn and chase them. We spotted a large group of gannets circling and diving, and Curtis saw a boil of fish beneath them (perhaps escaping from harbor porpoises or a whale), so we motored in that direction. The fish had dispersed by the time we got there, but we had great looks at gannets, plus a greater shearwater that Sue managed a so-so photograph of, panning with her point-and-shoot as it flew past the boat.

Our goal on this mini-trip had been to visit Monhegan Island if we could. Monhegan lies 10 miles out to sea -- the name means "out-to-sea island" in Mi'kmaq -- and is known for excellent hiking and birding, especially during migration. The island community is considered a quintessential part of coastal and island Maine culture. The problem is that Monhegan has no safe anchorages, and there are only a handful of guest or rental moorings available on any given day. If you arrive late or during a busy time, you may not find a place to stay and will have to return to the mainland or head to the nearest alternative (usually Burnt or Allen Islands, several miles away). Even if you do pick up a mooring in Monhegan Harbor, it offers very little protection from prevailing winds and waves. Curtis read aloud from the cruising guide: "The harbor is exposed to the southwest and, to a lesser degree, to the northeast. Even in calm weather, the ocean swells funnel into the harbor and make it rolly. During a blow from the south, the swells are awesome, and it would be an extremely difficult and dangerous place to be." The forecast for Saturday predicted strong south and southwest winds and six- to nine-foot swells, so we were uncertain at best about making the 10-mile trip offshore.

Monhegan Island on NOAA chart #13301; Monhegan Harbor is exposed

to southwest swells; the rest of the west shore is deep, with strong tidal

currents and numerous underwater cables.

Allen and Burnt Islands in Muscongus Bay (NOAA chart #13301); we

anchored in the curved bay along the north shore of Burnt.

Anchoring on the north side of Burnt Island, in a little curving bay that we had visited before, we were mostly protected from the ocean swells, but a few of them wrapped around the point of land to our east to roll the bay a bit. We followed our usual anchoring routine, with Curtis dropping the hook in about 18 feet of water and paying out the chain and nylon rode steadily as the wind blew our bow off and we drifted downwind. We waited until the boat's drift pulled the nylon taut, then Sue shifted into reverse to put mild and then moderate tension on it. As she ran the engine rpms up to about 1700, she could feel the boat making small jerks backward, and she could see the shoreline sliding by in the opposite direction. Up at the bow, Curtis felt the rode alternately tension and jerk loose under his hand, indicating that the anchor was skipping along the bottom. He signaled to Sue to shift into neutral, and he let out another 25 feet of rode. He felt the anchor take hold, paid out even more line, and then Sue powered against it again in reverse. This time there was no jerking and hopping (and the shoreline stayed in the same place!). We took a few bearings and kept an eye on our swing and drift for a while, but the anchor held nicely.

Sunset with great blue heron on Burnt Island

We took an evening row along the shore, watching double-crested cormorants perch goofily on a floating dock. We considered going ashore, but the rollers were sloshing and breaking rather messily on the cobbled and rocky beach, so Sue was apprehensive about trying to land. Curtis kept rowing, and Sue snapped a sunset photo with a great blue heron.

Three more boats eventually joined us in the bay, including a 40-foot or larger craft from Florida skippered by a single-handing sailor who competently dropped sail and anchored, then disappeared below for the night. One of the other boats was an older, wooden, cutter-rigged boat carrying a family of four plus a small dog. They arrived at dusk, anchored next to us but at a respectable distance, and hung what looked like an oil lantern from the inner headstay for their anchor light.

Neighboring boat departs in a foggy dawn.

Fog greeted us the next morning. Visibility was less than a tenth of a mile, so we could only dimly see the shoreline of Burnt and the neighboring boat. As the fog began to dissipate ("diminish," Sue would say, not "clear"), the Florida single-hander weighed anchor and motored out of the anchorage, climbing back and forth between the helm and the mast and foredeck, putting up his mainsail and readying his headsail for hoisting. He disappeared into the fog around the point. From the wooden sailboat next to us, two kids plus mom and the dog rowed to a distant beach in their hard dinghy.

Curtis marveled that Burnt Island was far enough offshore to make gannets a "yard" bird. At least twenty of these elegant pelagics flew past Cilantro while we sipped our coffee in the cockpit. An adult bald eagle flapped slowly through the fog from a spruce tree on Burnt to his "office" on a small rock-pile island to the north. We had seen probably the same eagle on the same rock pile during our last visit to Burnt.

Whale carcass on Burnt Island

We dinghied to the nearby rocky shore for a mid-morning walk on Burnt Island. Sue was still nervous about disembarking from the dinghy onto the wet and seaweed-covered rocks while waves sloshed into us from behind, but she survived the operation (with Curtis's gracious assistance). Burnt Island is privately owned, but boaters are allowed to visit in the off-season (not July or August), and there are several miles of well-maintained trails. Scanning the shoreline through binoculars from the boat, Sue had spotted what looked like a 20-foot-long whale carcass on the rocky beach, so we walked down the beach to get a closer look. The smell was terrific -- probably this summer's casualty, as the tail flukes were still visible along with other fleshy parts and skin -- but the gulls didn't seem to mind.

On the rest of our walk, land birds were few and far between: a northern flicker, a mockingbird, white-throated sparrows, robins, catbirds, and crows calling in the distance, but no warbler flocks. Sprays of goldenrod, yellowing rosa rugosa, and even orange lichen on a roof lent the island a distinctly fall feeling. Sue stopped frequently to "collect" photos of wildflowers and seaweed.

A fall feeling in the landscape on Burnt Island

Sonchus asper, or prickly sow thistle

Rosa rugosa

Fucus (brown seaweed) species

Assorted seaweed; Sue thinks the red and green fringed
ones might be Chondrus crispus, or Irish moss, along
with pieces of kelp and several Fucus species 

Returning to the boat, we prepared to depart into the slowly clearing fog. We weighed anchor without any trouble -- no kelp this time, but neither was there any mud, so we were probably anchored in rock -- and motored east and south around Burnt Island. We had to pass a mile or so farther south to clear Old Man Ledge and Old Woman Ledge, but by then we would be on a nice trajectory to sail back toward Pemaquid Point. We had ruled out visiting Monhegan Island, given the wind and swell forecast, but Curtis was hoping to get some good sailing in on our last day on the ocean. The swells were already higher than Sue liked, but Cilantro's motion through them was (Sue admitted) relatively controlled. We raised the main to see if it would steady us even more, and it seemed to, so we motorsailed for a while before unfurling the staysail and shutting down the engine. The wind speed was 12 knots when we started out, and it built to 16 or 17 as the day went along, so we left the genoa furled.

Curtis enjoying a great sail; Sue takes many photos to
distract herself. 

Curtis loved the sailing, the tightness of the rigging, the smooth motion of the boat, and her 8.2 knots of speed! He was in his element at the helm or sitting on the edge of the cockpit, watching the wind, fiddling with our heading, and trying to spot whales and seabirds. Sue spent most of the day just getting comfortable with the ocean. It was definitely "lumpy," as our friend Kurt Fisher describes it. She took lots of boring photographs of waves, trying to "commune" with the troughs and crests, and was occasionally able to laugh at herself. Climbing down the companionway to grab a snack or put something away requiring finding and using all available handholds and shifting your weight and balance to match the swing and sway of the boat. Curtis called it "gimbaling," like the movement of Cilantro's gimbaled stove on its axis. "You're getting the same exercise as if you were on a walk," he said to Sue. "So we are gimbaling through the sea instead of gamboling through the forest?" she asked, thinking the forest was a mite more appealing at the moment.

"A lovely day on the ocean," says Curtis. Where he found
beauty, however, Sue saw an endless series of swells.

"What about this giant one powering toward the boat?"
Sue asks.

"Look! Those guys are having lots of fun too!"
Curtis pointed out, as a couple of passing
sailors waved to us.

After passing Pemaquid Point, we sailed north through Johns Bay on broad reaches and a run, returning to the mooring in South Bristol Harbor by late afternoon on Saturday. Cilantro's decks (and the backsides of our shorts!) were coated with salt spray, but we hoped a forecast frontal passage and rainstorm might rinse her off overnight. The rainfall turned out to be minimal, but Mikey told us the next morning that a local fisherman had clocked a wind gust at 42 knots. Probably best that we saved Monhegan for another visit, we agreed.

So our last coastal cruising adventure in Maine has come and gone, along with the lumpiest ocean we have so far encountered. Sue was glad to be getting a gradual introduction to big seas, and Curtis was thrilled with the sailing. Cilantro the Pacific Seacraft turns out to be a very solid ship, and we look forward to moving her south and west toward her next adventure. She will be decommissioned (mast and rigging removed) by Bittersweet Landing Boatyard over the next couple of weeks, after which she will be trucked cross-country to Tucson, transferred to another truck, and driven south into Mexico.

Sunday morning in So. Bristol Harbor

"Hard to Larboard": Communication Onboard

Before there was “port and starboard” to refer to the left and right sides, respectively, of a ship, there was “larboard and starboard.” The etymology of these terms may be more surmised than certain, but starboard is said to derive from steorbord, or “steering side,” because many vessels had a steering oar hung on the right-side of the stern, most rowers – most people – being right-handed. Larboard, by analogy, is thought to come from laddebord, or “loading side,” since a ship with a steering oar hung on the right side would bring its left side to the dock for loading. When shouted the length of a ship or over the roar of wind and waves, however, the two similar-sounding words led to much miscommunication. In the nineteenth century, larboard gradually (or likely by British Admiralty Order) gave way to the term port, a term that may refer to the loading (access) port on the left side of the vessel or the fact that it docks with its left side toward the port.

A boat this size would need more than good hand signals to
communicate between helm and bow.

Clear communication between crew members is essential for many aspects of cruising and living aboard. Over engine noise or wind noise, or if one person has less-than-perfect hearing, it is annoying and often difficult to shout information loudly enough to be effective. Lip-reading can be useful, but established hand signals are probably better for critical business such as anchoring, when one person is at the helm, the other is at the bow, and the engine is running. We use a version of the hand signals described by Nigel Calder in his Cruising Handbook: point left or right to indicate “turn to port” or “turn to starboard”; point ahead for forward gear and aft for reverse; point upward to increase speed (we jab repeatedly for a quick increase) and point downward to decrease speed; hold palm up for neutral; swipe hand across throat for “shut down engine.” On a 100-foot boat, like the one we saw leaving Burnt Island before we arrived, the crew would probably use technology such as walkie-talkies, wireless headsets, or a hardwired intercom to communicate from one end of the vessel to the other.

Even with a standard anchoring routine and an agreed-upon set of hand signals, there are many opportunities for mishearing and misunderstanding. Sue has a particular beef with the word OK, a favorite of Curtis's during almost any multistep procedure. “What do you mean by OK?” she asks, trying to parse its sense in the moment. Curtis fully admits his "OK" has multiple meanings:

1. Keep doing what you're doing (such as motoring in forward or turning to port)
2. Stop what you're doing (such as motoring in forward or turning to port) and go to the next step in the sequence
3. Stop – that's enough (motoring in forward or turning to port...)
4. Hmm, I'm not sure, let me think for a second...
5. I'm lovin' it!

Sue would like to ban OK from the list of acceptable helm-to-bow communications, but Curtis is quite attached to his verbal habit. (Aren't we all.)

“Gannet, Dammit!”

Sue after a long day, probably trying to
interpret Curtis's hand signals at the bow.

On one of our early sails, we were both a bit irritable for some unmemorable reason – probably simple fatigue. “I'd like to come about,” announced Captain Sue, as we sailed on a close reach just west of Pemaquid Point and its shoals. First Mate Curtis was fixing something at the stern or checking the snaps on the dodger or some such task, and he wasn't ready. “Huh,” he grunted. “C'mon, we're getting close to the buoy,” Sue repeated. “Mmmpf, can't you wait a minute,” from Curtis. Sue likes to tack well in advance of shorelines and shallows. Curtis is into safety, too, but his tolerances are calibrated differently than Sue's, and this is our constant dance. “Ready about!?!” We came about. Not a lot of conversation (but an efficient tack).

Curtis went back to neatening the lines in the cockpit and rearranging the contents of a locker. A large white bird flew over. “Gannet!” shouted Sue. (It was the first gannet sighting of the summer.) Curtis didn't look up. “Gannet, Curtis!” “What are you swearing about now,” he grumped. “It's a gannet, dammit – the bird!” she responded. Curtis looked up. “Oh. Cool.”

Fifteen minutes later, on the same tack, we heard a snort and looked astern. A large black back with a very hooked dorsal fin rose and disappeared beneath the waves. Sue ran below for the marine mammal guide. Probably a long-finned pilot whale, we agreed. OK.

Two Days, Three Shearwaters, Forty Miles under Sail

We have been making our way slowly back to South Bristol from cruising parts east. We have also been gradually ramping up the amount of sailing versus motoring we do on each day, helped along by increasing winds. On August 26 and 27, the last days of our 11-day shakedown cruise, we spent most of each day sailing on south and southwest winds. Our combined trip logs for the two days registered about 41 nautical miles, 95 percent of which was under sail.

We left Home Harbor on Sunday morning and started sailing almost as soon as we were out of the harbor, near Two Bush Light. Our first leg took us out to Little Green and Large Green Islands; we ran the wide gap between them and headed for Metinic Island, a nesting ground for common, arctic, and roseate terns. According to the Bangor Daily News, after four days of nonstop rain in June of this year, all of the approximately 1,400 terns abandoned their nests and quit the island in a single day, likely due to a combination of predation by gulls and the terns' difficulty catching fish in the rain.

We passed south around Metinic and smaller Metinic Green Island –

Little Green Island, a smudge on the horizon

Sue has to interrupt herself here with a digression about Maine place names. They are, overall, wonderfully evocative – Escargot Island, Pemaquid Point, Round Pond, Two Bush Light, Muscle Ridge Channel, Muscongus Bay. Many places have kept their aboriginal names: Muscongus is an Abenaki word meaning “many large rock ledges,” a good description of the bay. (The cruising guide quotes a sailor as saying about the bay, “You have to navigate all the time.”) Penobscot means “the place where the rocks open out” in the Abenaki-Penobscot tongue. Pemaquid means “peninsula” in Mi'kmaq. Opechee reportedly means “robin” in Ojibway. Eggemoggin appears to be a Passamaquoddy word meaning “the place to catch fish” or “the fish weir place.” Damariscotta is Abenaki for “many alewives,” referring to a kind of herring. Monhegan means “out-to-sea island” in Mi'kmaq. Metinic and Matinicus both mean “far-out island” in Abenaki.

Many Maine places share the same name, so, for instance, you always have to clarify which Ram Island you might be talking about (there are 8 listed in the cruising guide). Likewise, there are 9 Hog Islands, 5 Burnt Islands, 5 Seal Coves, 3 Thrumcap Islands, and 2 places called The Gut, to name a few. And why Little and Large Green Islands – why not the more typical antonym pairs, Little and Big (such as Little Barred and Big Barred), or Small and Large? Then there's the small rocky pancake west of the Greens and south of Metinic called Metinic Green Island: perhaps the namers ran out of other ideas and just recombined names of the nearby islands? Place names appear to be as unregulated as botanical names – think of all the flowers called “sunflower” or “daisy.” Some people might fret over this messiness, but Sue thinks it adds a level of interest.

GPS track west from Home Harbor in Penobscot Bay to
Burnt Island in Muscongus Bay

– Getting back to the sailing. From Metinic Island, we headed northwest toward Burnt Island in Muscongus Bay, arriving there in mid-afternoon. Although we made nearly twenty nautical miles on this day, Sue doesn't have many pictures to show for it, mostly because of the difficulty of photographing low flat islands from a mile away on the water. They end up looking like greenish pancakes photographed end-on or smudgy lines separating sky from sea.

We did have excellent looks at (but no photos of, of course!) three greater shearwaters flying alongside the boat. These pelagic (meaning they spend most of their lives at sea) gull-sized birds fly on long, narrow wings that give them enough aerodynamic lift that they soar for a long time without flapping. Greater shearwater is probably a life bird for Sue, or even if it isn't, this was the first time she was able to pick out the fieldmarks for herself: the dark, well-delineated cap with white collar seen from above and the white underwing with dark markings seen from below. Groups of red-necked phalaropes puddled and fluttered around lines of floating seaweed; we counted 60 over the course of the day. But gannets were the big-number story: at least 125 of the elegant, white, plunge-diving birds flew past us or dozed on the water as we sailed. Alas, we don't have the equipment to photograph a veering shearwater or a diving gannet while sailing. It's usually all we can do to get a few panning looks while keeping the boat on course. Eventually we figured out that's a perfect use of our newly installed autopilot: simply press “A” (for Auto) on the control screen to continue steering at the current heading, then grab the binoculars. Simple.

Heeling more than 20 degrees; Sue
thought that was plenty.

We also used the autopilot for a break from sitting or standing at the helm. The wind was strong enough that Cilantro did some good heeling – more than 15 degrees at times – and on a port tack (heeling to starboard), our starboard-mounted galley sink took in some seawater through the sink drain. Not a flooding concern, but it did float the leftover coffee cups around, so Sue closed the drain seacock while we were on this tack. She appreciated the gimbaled stove when reheating leftovers for a hot lunch (see photo below). Because the wind was probably 12-15 knots with occasional stronger gusts, our two foresails (genoa and staysail) exerted significant forward and outboard pressures on the mast, so Curtis rigged the running backstays for the first time to balance the forces.

Gimbaled stovetop is actually level; everything else is atilt.

We worked on refining our tacking procedure with the staysail and genoa. We are finding that the genoa has a tendency to foul on the inner forestay when coming about, unless the wind billows it out forward and around. Sometimes the sheet frees itself, but at other times one of us has to go forward and release it manually. Curtis has been trying the technique of partially furling the genoa on each tack – so that we are shortening sail before bringing it across – and then unfurling it again, but this is a lot of line work to accomplish in a short time, and we lose much of our speed on the tack because we turn so slowly through the wind.

At anchorage by Burnt Island, with Outward Bound boat
and former US Coast Guard buildings in background

We anchored off the north shore of Burnt Island, protected from the southwesterly wind and swells. Outward Bound has a school here, and we shared the anchorage with what looked like a new crop of students climbing aboard and getting used to what would be their floating home for the next three or four weeks. The next morning, while the OB students took salty baths in the harbor, we pulled up our first string of kelp on the anchor. Sue, of course, wanted a photo, so she went to the bow. Hmm, the anchor is out of the water, but who is at the helm? We were in a “controlled drift,” says Sue, when she returned to the cockpit and found Cilantro headed in exactly the right direction to motor out of the anchorage.

String of kelp on our anchor at Burnt Island

Motoring south between Burnt and Allen Islands, we scanned the birds on nearby rocks and in the air. A pair of cormorants powered by, and we both shouted, “Great cormorants!” After days of studying cormorants, we had finally found two of these larger cousins of the double-crested cormorant. They are very similar in appearance, but the greats have a white throat patch below their yellow chin and somewhat heavier bodies. They prefer outer islands, so today's sailing route gave us the best chance to see them. Another life bird for Sue. Curtis apparently has seen everything before. 

We continued south, ploughing into swells that Sue thought were gigantic but were probably only about between two and three feet from trough to crest. She crawled out to the bow and took some photos and a couple of movies with her camera, only to be disappointed later when it all looked very tame. Curtis tried to cheer her up by reminding her that photographs always flatten reality. She tried to laugh at herself and was moderately successful.

Sailing from Muscongus Bay back to Johns Bay and South
Bristol Harbor

Once south of Old Woman Ledge and Old Man Ledge, we raised sails and headed west on a single long tack to pass Pemaquid Point and enter Johns Bay, where we tacked a few times for good measure and to enjoy the wind. We did more heeling and listened to objects sliding off the settees in the main salon. But we also hit our fastest sailing speed yet – 7.4 knots, towing the dinghy – as we neared Corvette Ledge at the foot of Johns Bay, just as we were preparing to furl sails and head into South Bristol Harbor. It made furling a bit tricky, but Curtis manhandled (is that where this word comes from?) everything while Sue held the bow into the wind, and we motored the last tenth of a mile to the mooring.

Jon Weislogel of Bittersweet works with Curtis
to remove and rebed our leaking Bomar hatches.

It felt nice to be back “home,” but it is an adjustment, too, after 11 days of traveling and exploring. Sue misses the rhythm of weighing anchor after breakfast and heading out on a new route each day. Curtis is torn between wanting that continued newness and taking care of business such as topside leak mitigation (it doesn't seem to end), scheduling the last refit projects, and arranging cross-country transport. “How terribly responsible you are,” says Sue, appreciatively. “How awfully adventurous you are becoming,” says Curtis.

Late August is a lovely time in Maine. The weather seems to be changing: for the first time since our arrival at the boatyard on June 21, the humidity fell to 35 percent, and the microfiber dishcloth dried out completely. Three mornings in a row, no dew soaked the decks and cockpit. As we head into September, we are looking forward to daysailing and maybe an overnighter or two before we depart mid-month. Still loving it.

Home Harbor, Thoughts on Anchoring

Owls Head Light at the north end of Owls Head Bay

From Rockland Harbor we headed south on August 25 through scenic Owls Head Bay, with its prominently perched lighthouse, to the top end of Muscle Ridge Channel. The channel tide would once again have been against us, so we took advantage of a light southeast wind to unfurl our sails and head northeast through Fishermans Passage. (We were determined to do more sailing than motoring, if possible, on this return leg of our coastal cruise.) Once clear of Crescent Island and some shoals, we tacked south, then northeast, and finally south again, straight toward the narrow entrance to Home Harbor at the south end of the Muscle Ridge islands. Home Harbor is well protected and quiet, a lovely bay surrounded by bird-perch rocks and bouldery islands. It seems infrequently visited, which suits us, and it's conveniently located on our way back toward Muscongus Bay to the west. We anchored and relaxed a bit in the cockpit. A few homes were visible on each island, and a dinghy and a small powerboat sat on nearby moorings, but for now, we were the only sailboat.

GPS track through Owls Head Bay (top), then tacking into
SE wind almost all the way to Home Harbor (bottom)

Before dinner, we climbed into the dinghy to explore the harbor and look for birds (and mushrooms, according to the photographs downloaded from Sue's camera). We went ashore on a small beach and wandered the shoreline and into the woods. The most common land bird by far was red-breasted nuthatch (we counted 35), but we also had great looks at a hard-to-see winter wren and a fledgling slate-colored junco being fed by its parent in a juniper bush. We were treated to an aerial contest between an adult bald eagle and an osprey: although larger and less agile, the eagle managed to get the osprey to drop its fish, which the eagle then snatched from the air and carried off. A resident merlin gave a great show chasing a shorebird (possibly a dowitcher) in dizzying zigags around the bay before finally giving up. Merlins are fast fliers, but the shorebird out-dodged it. Later that evening, we watched the merlin – or a merlin – go after a belted kingfisher. That would have been quite a catch for the small falcon. We lost sight of both of them in the gathering dusk, but the next morning, Curtis heard a familiar rattling call and said, “Ahh, the kingfisher lives to fish another day.” We also wished the merlin luck. It's tough business being a raptor.

Curtis birding in Home Harbor

Sue birding in Home Harbor

Fern forest

Yellow amanita?

Our Muir Hercules 1200 windlass

Spare 45-lb CQR anchor on port bow (foreground); working
35-lb CQR on starboard bow (background)

 A second sailboat entered Home Harbor just as we headed back to Cilantro, and we had the opportunity to watch them anchor. Sue admits that before taking some sailing classes and reading books about cruising, she really knew nothing about anchoring. She had only sailed small boats – who needs an anchor on a Sunfish? – and thought an anchor was just a heavy metal object you tied rope or chain to and threw over the side of the boat. Ground tackle? Scope? Holding power? Chain versus rope rode? Plow versus claw versus Danforth type? Electric or manual windlass? These were all concepts to learn and put into play. Cilantro has a Muir Hercules 1200 manual windlass, and we use a 35-pound CQR anchor as our primary anchor, with 30 feet of chain and 175 feet of nylon rode. A 45-pound CQR also came with the boat, but we don't have it set up to use. We store a back-up 25-pound Danforth with a mix of chain and nylon rode in a locker at the stern. All of this is probably adequate for our coastal Maine cruising, given the good holding and relatively shallow anchorages, but we are seriously considering switching to all-chain rode and, because this will be too much weight to lift manually, an electric windlass for the Sea of Cortez, where depths may be greater and the anchorages are not always well described.

View from above of both anchors on bow

We've watched quite a few boat crews set their anchors this week, and it's been a good way to see different methods and compare them with our own developing repertoire of skills. We've seen crews with windlasses and crews who lower and lift the anchor by hand or with the help of a winch. We've watched crews who bring their boat to a controlled stop into the wind, use an electric windlass to lower their anchor and all-chain rode in a straight line while backing down, reverse to set the anchor firmly, and finally rig a snubber line to take the weight of the chain off the bow roller and windlass. We've seen other crews power up to a spot, heave the anchor over the side (or drop it all at once from the windlass), then throw the engine into reverse and back down quickly and hard. Still others toss the anchor out while still moving forward – which seemed to us to be a less dependable method, since the anchor could start to set in the wrong direction and then be broken out or the rode could tangle on top of it as the boat drifts back downwind.

Patience seems to be an important factor in anchoring. Bill Creighton of Toda says he likes to let out some scope and wait, wait, wait while the boat drifts downwind, then let out more scope and pull it back in, helping the anchor to dig deeper. He might do this more than once. When he finally puts the engine into reverse, he likes to pull hard enough to feel anchor just start to move, then he waits some more. Nigel Calder (the former owner of Toda, when she was called Nada) recommends patience after anchoring as well. Before he is willing to load everyone into the dinghy for a trip ashore, he takes some bearings and then drinks a cup of tea, keeping an eye on the boat, the wind, the current, and the general environment for any potential hazards.

Curtis working our Hercules 1200 manual windlass

Especially in crowded anchorages, we've noticed that many cruisers in Maine anchor on very short scope, 3:1 or even 2:1, even though all the books we read before coming here advise 7:1 as ideal and 4:1 or 5:1 as adequate. We still prefer using more than 3:1 scope when we can, however, so we try to position ourselves in an anchorage accordingly. We've seen all kinds of approaches to anchoring on our short stint here in Maine, however – short scope, quick stop and quicker reverse, forward-moving anchoring, and throw it all over at once – and it has all seemed to work out OK for folks. We feel very fortunate to be getting our first anchoring practice in coastal Maine, where there are many recommended anchorages, the depths are well charted and fairly shallow, and the holding is generally good, usually a grayish mud. Weather and wind conditions during our cruising have also been benign. We've picked up and re-anchored a few times – twice in Dix Island, to reduce our exposure to current and to avoid swinging over lobster pots, and once in Seal Bay to put more distance between us and a neighboring boat – but it's all been character-building, especially for Curtis, who does most of the cranking.

Curtis using the washdown pump to spray
mud off the anchor as it comes up

Rockland Harbor: Going Shoreside for a Day

Friday morning, August 24, we prepared to leave early from the Barred Islands, although we were sorely tempted to stay the morning and dinghy over to Butter Island (owned by the Cabot family) for a hike. We wanted to catch the ebbing tidal current toward Rockland, however, and we hadn't been very lucky or smart about currents so far – except for Eggemoggin Reach! We had some boat business to take care of in Rockland, and we needed to fill our water tanks. We'd been out for eight days and didn't know how much of our 85 gallons of fresh water was left. We also wanted to re-provision with fresh produce and bread. It's not easy being big salad eaters on a boat – Curtis was turning to V-8 for his vegetable fix – and without sandwich bread, Sue resorted to spreading her peanut butter on sourdough pretzel knobs for lunch. “These are pretty good,” she mumbled stickily. (Of course, Sue could be baking her own bread onboard, but she's still pre-preparing for it.)

Sailing by 7:25 a.m. on a light north wind

We motored out of the Barred Islands anchorage by 6:55 a.m., and Sue insisted on sailing by 7:25 (our earliest sail yet) in the north wind that was riffling the water. It worked pretty well, and we sailed several miles along the north shore of North Haven, past Pulpit Harbor, and part of the way across west Penobscot Bay. Eventually, however, the wind became light and fluky enough that we motored the last couple of miles into Rockland Harbor. (Charging the batteries, we tell ourselves. Curtis admits to being surprised at the amount of motoring we have ended up doing during this week of cruising.)

Our GPS track from the Barred Islands north of the Fox
Islands and into Rockland Harbor

The lighthouse on Rockland Harbor Breakwater

Approach to Journey's End Marina

Rockland Harbor is easy to enter, with good protection from a long breakwater with a lighthouse at its tip. There is a large U.S. Coast Guard facility here, along with numerous private and rental moorings and a generous anchorage. We brought Cilantro in to the dock at Journey's End Marina, where we filled our water tanks, bought diesel, did laundry, took shoreside showers for 25 cents a minute, and rented a mooring for the night. It would have been just as easy to anchor out in the harbor, but we didn't mind giving them some business. Being at the dock also made it easy for Curtis to have Doug Pope of Pope Sails come down and take measurements to quote on a new Sunbrella cover for our genoa and a new high-cut Yankee headsail. After spending an entire week removed from the world of commerce, it took only minutes to careen back into spending mode.

Doug Pope of Pope Sails measures our genoa
for a new Sunbrella cover.

Dinner at the Lobstermans Restaurant

We walked over to Rockland's main drag on Route 1 for an early dinner at the casual Lobstermans Restaurant and then continued another mile or mile-and-a-half to a big Hannaford's Market for groceries. “Don't buy too much!” we kept reminding each other, since it's easy to forget you haven't come by car, and we don't have a cart yet for toting things back to the boat. As it was, our arms – or was it our elbows? the body is such a fickle machine – fairly ached from carrying our bags of fruit, vegetables, bread, and dairy products back to the boat. And although we enjoyed our brief visit to the mainland, we were just as happy to bid it good night, climb back into our floating home, and head out to the mooring field.

The next morning (August 25), we motored out of Rockland Harbor past two of Maine's famous "windjammers," or schooners, on their way in. Their sails were furled, and they were being pushed along by their motorized dinghies. These beautiful sailing-only boats occupy an important niche in the state's history. Many were originally built as fishing schooners, oyster dredgers, or freighters to carry granite and other products to southern ports, but by the 1930s, their commercial viability and profitability had declined to the point that most were retired, converted to power, or allowed to disintegrate at their moorings. Enterprising captains, however, began restoring and using the classic boats for fishing charters and passenger tours. Today there are more than 20 windjammers afloat along the Maine coast, some restored and others newly built. There are published "field guides" that help you identify the different ships by color, sail and mast arrangements, and hull shape. Most of the windjammers sail from Rockport, Camden, or Boothbay Harbor, but we saw several in Rockland Harbor while we were there. They continue to be sail-driven only, piloted by expert captains who can articulate the many sails to steer the elegant ships throughout Penobscot Bay and other regions of the Maine coast.  

Windjammer entering Rockland Harbor

The Isaac H. Evans, designated a National Historic
Landmark