Robinhood Cove to Love Cove ME

We left the Robinhood Marine Center yesterday after spending about five days there getting work done on our boat's motor. The weekend delayed things but there was no extra charge and we got to use all the great facilities at the marina. The weather was so bad that we would not have been moving anyway, so, it turned out OK.

We moved to Love Cove yesterday and hope to head out to Nova Scotia tomorrow if the weather is good. We figured there have only been about five good weather days in the last 15 or so.

Cape Porpoise to Robinhood Cove

Another note about our position reports: Pangolin does not seem to be recording them at all, lately. We are currently in Robinhood Cove off of the Sheepscott River in Maine. Visit Google Maps to see where we are as of June, 19, 2009.

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Willy Beamis, the director of the Isles of Shoals Marine Lab, left a comment on our blog site clearing up the bird doo issue. Seagulls do indeed crap aggressively when they feel their territory is being invaded. Thank you, Willy. Tim Ahern, Amy’s brother-in-law, had also confirmed this behavior as intentional. So why then does the expression, “bird-brain,” refer to a person as having confused ideas and being incapable of serious thought? Seems like it should mean someone who is very protective, cunning, and has good aim. Oh well, on with the story…

On June 10, under increasingly gray skies, we bid adieu to our seagull friends in Isles of Shoals and headed for Portland. As often happens, the weather forecast was off the mark. So, after four hours of fighting wind and waves, we decided to put in at Cape Porpoise just a stone’s throw from Kennebunkport. We dropped the hook amidst a few sailboats and many lobster fishing boats. After swinging on the anchor for a few hours, a friendly local sailor came out on his skiff and told us if we wanted to take the nearby mooring, we were welcome because the owner would not be using it in the near future.

We had planned on departing the next day, but the weather was gray in the morning and the wind still against us, so we moved over to the offered mooring ball. In the afternoon, we hopped in the dinghy and went to explore the town and eat lunch. No sooner had we exited the dinghy when a man came out of a restaurant, and headed straight for me. “Do I know you? Do I look familiar to you?”

I studied his face for a second. “I don’t think so…”

“You’re the ones on the mooring out there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well that’s my mooring. I thought maybe I knew you, ‘cause I tell people I meet cruising to use it if it’s empty so I thought maybe we’d met...”

“Oh, do we need to get off? Another sailor told us to go ahead and pick it up, so…

“No, no, you’re fine there. My boat’s out of the water…”

His name was Peter and he told us to make ourselves at home. No problem at all. Cape Porpoise was turning out be a swell place. The little town was full of beautiful homes, a library, a few restaurants, and a small but well-stocked grocery store.

Later on, we settled into the Ramp restaurant near the wharf for clam chowder and mussels. It was excellent.

The next day the sun shone for the first time in days, but we stayed on in Cape Porpoise anyway. The big news in town was that George Bush Sr. would be jumping out of an airplane and landing in nearby Kennebunkport. It was his 85th birthday. Go George!

Kenny’s second cousin Brian and his wife Samantha, who live in Kennebunkport, picked us up and treated us to dinner at their favorite restaurant in town. Everyone was so generous with us; we started thinking maybe we should just stay in Maine forever.

At the bar of the restaurant, was a paratrooper who had jumped with George. A CNN reporter was there too. For a minute, it felt like we were back in DC.

Saturday was clear and sunny so we headed out for Jewell Island in Casco Bay. We got there in the late afternoon and were the third to last boat able to fit in the small anchorage. The island is state-owned and permanent moorings are not allowed in the harbor. On any given summer weekend, it would be jam-packed. Fortunately for us, it was still early enough in the season that the numbers of people and boats was small.

We hiked to the World War II era observation tower which is still maintained for natural resources marshals who look for lobster poachers. However, the public is allowed up the eight story tower to take in the grand views of Casco Bay. It’s a hike well worth the torment of the mosquitoes.

The beautiful weather ended Saturday evening when the rains came. It was so rainy we decided to stay put for another day and go to Portland on Monday. Despite the heavy rain, several Mainers were out there fishing, seining and otherwise enjoying the island.

We arrived in Portland Monday morning and took a mooring at Portland Yacht Services. There is no anchoring allowed in the harbor. We set out on our mission of buying the necessary Canadian Charts from Chase and Leavitt and going to the grocery store.

We managed to accomplish all our tasks and still have time for a much needed shower. Once back on board, we did a routine check of the oil and found an excessive amount had leaked out during the short trip from Jewell Island to Portland. Not a good sign.

We had considered heading straight to Nova Scotia from Portland since the weather prediction was so favorable, but decided instead to go to Boothbay Harbor both to test the motor and to visit with cruising buddies on Blessed Spirit whom we had met in the Bahamas. When we arrived in Boothbay Harbor, we checked the engine. There was even more oil oozing from the motor than before. Our boat’s motor is a Perkins 4-108 and is widely known to be sturdy, reliable, and a leaker. We’ve always had leaks like all the other owners we’ve talked to or read about on the Web. However, this was well beyond our comfort level.

When our friends, Corning and Tita, came out to our boat for cocktails we discussed our options. Corning told us who to contact and who in the area had a good reputation. They then took us out for a wonderful dinner at the Boothbay Harbor Yacht Club. We were the only patrons since it was the first night of the season for the restaurant.

Wednesday morning we called a few of the boat yards Corning had recommended and decided to go to Robinhood Marine Center which was only about four miles away off of the Sheepscott River. We had been there in our previous trip to Maine. Gordon, the friendly mechanic came by within a few hours of our arrival and diagnosed the problem. We figured it was a gasket issue, but we wanted the opinion of an expert. Gordon said it was the timing belt cover gasket and that we could continue our trip but it would need to be fixed at some point in the not-too-distant future. So, we decided this was as good a place as any. Besides, we were running out of oil-absorbent pads.

Readers who are not boaters may wonder why a motor is important on a sailboat. Well, it’s a big convenience. It allows you to keep going if the wind dies as well as navigate through narrow places where you cannot sail such as docks, narrow inlets, rock-strewn coves and other such places.

So, here we are, Thursday afternoon, hanging out in a very pretty, very protected cove waiting for a gasket to arrive. We repeat the adage that “cruising is fixing your boat in exotic places” and feel we’ve come up a rung from Cape May, NJ.

Gloucester, MA and the Isles of Shoals

We arrived in Gloucester, MA, on June 5. The small anchorage was a bit crowded, so we opted for a city mooring. We called the harbormaster to be sure it was okay, but he did not respond to either the VHF radio or cell phone. We figured we had ourselves a free mooring, but he caught up with us the following day and let us know that our chosen mooring ball was in fact reserved, so we moved to another one and wrote him a check.

Sister Molly came that day and whisked us off to her lovely lake house in Littleton, MA. There would be a small gathering at her house that evening of 18 people. As she left to come and fetch us, her husband, Tim, was removing all the patio furniture from the deck and was pressure washing it in preparation for a paint job the following day.

“Could you put the table back for the party?”
“No, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

On top of it, the house was a mess and there were piles of wood in the yard from the demolition of a fence and mountains of gravel intended for the new Japanese rock garden. All this, Molly explained while driving a hundred miles an hour in the left lane with me hanging on for dear life.

I reminded her of our maternal grandmother’s favorite adage:
“The cow is in the hammock
The cat is in the lake
The children in the garbage can
What difference does it make?”

Everything would turn out fine. She’d left Tim a list of things to do and it was a potluck party after all. Molly just had to make margaritas and guacamole.

She was right. It was a fabulous party with live music and roasted pork and trips out on the little lake aboard Tim’s homemade wooden moon-viewing boat. Molly is an excellent jazz pianist and most of her friends are musicians so parties are usually a nonstop jam session.

Tim’s wooden boat is equipped with an electric motor, so it is silent. The design is based on Japanese boats employed for romantic moon viewing outings. The boat seats about eight people comfortably. Tim usually wears some kind of Japanese habille while at the helm. The night of the party, one of the musicians brought a guitar out on the boat and softly sang Brazilian ballads with a Brazilian woman who was in attendance. Parties at Molly and Tim’s are always a treat.

As promised, the following day, Tim, son Woody, and his friend Garrett, painted the deck “burning red” and moved mountains of gravel into the rock garden, while I did one thousand loads of laundry. Later we all sat on the newly painted porch and drank champagne to celebrate Molly and Tim’s 15th wedding anniversary. Woody enticed us into games of badminton, which he always won. He’s a vicious player with no mercy.

The morning of our departure from Littleton we enjoyed a generous breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast and fruit on the wooden boat. It is not exclusively for moon viewing. Back in Gloucester, our cruising friends Raffi and Lisa, who charter their beautiful 49-foot Hinkley ketch Windfall, had just returned from the Bahamas. Lisa took us on a world wind tour of Cape Ann followed by dinner at a funky, local, BYOB, seafood restaurant called the Causeway. The food was excellent, copious and cheap. (If anyone is ever interested in chartering a sailboat in New England, please checkout wwww.defiancesailcharters.com. Raffi and Lisa will treat you like royalty.)

On June 9, we took leave of Gloucester and headed for Isles of Shoals, six miles off the coast where New Hampshire meets Maine. Five of the Isles are part of Maine and the remaining four are in New Hampshire. We were torn about remaining there as we had an excellent breeze and could have easily sailed all the way to Portland. But the free moorings at the Isles are hard to come by in July or August so we thought we’d better grab one while they were empty. There was only one other sailboat moored there and it appeared to be unoccupied.

We jumped in the dinghy to visit the islands of Appledore, Smuttynose, and Star. These islands once boasted a thriving cod-fishing industry, and then became a popular vacation destination with the construction of two hotels in the mid 19th century. Today the Isles are the stomping grounds of Christians and marine biologists.

Arriving at Appledore we were met by an employee of the marine lab. She was very friendly and indicated the walking paths explaining that it was seagull hatching season, so the “birds were a bit more aggressive than usual.” The most prevalent specie of gull on the island happened to be the world’s largest: the Great Black-backed Gull with an average wingspan of 5 feet. Indeed, there were seagulls nesting all over the paths and they terrorized us every step of the way. One of them chased Kenny for several yards as he passed by a nest, so I took an alternative route at that juncture and was molested by another bird. Of course, the baby gulls were adorable – little beige fluffy things with black spots. Why did they grow up to be so huge and vicious?

After a very brief and frightening walk, we determined to leave Appledore and try another island. A boat was having difficulty landing at the dock, so we stood by to take their lines. The boat was full of students and professors who had come to visit the Shoals Marine Lab. The director of the lab walked straight up to Kenny and me, introduced himself and launched into a description of the experiments being undertaken at the lab followed by a discourse on the history of the islands. He was certainly a jolly and gregarious fellow with an enormous affection for the Isles. He would not allow us to depart Appledore until we promised to go and visit the garden of Celia Thaxter. She was the daughter of the lightkeeper on White Island who built a resort hotel on Appledore in 1850. Celia grew up to be a poet, painter and gardener who attracted all sorts of famous people to her father’s hotel. Painter Childe Hassam and writers Nathanial Hawthorne and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow were among those who visited Appledore. (Yawn).

We didn’t have the heart to tell him we were tired of being chased by seagulls and just wanted to get back in our dinghy and disappear, so off we tramped through the seagull gauntlet once more to Celia’s jardin. Next to the garden, which needed replanting, were the remains of the stone foundation of Celia’s house where more students were conducting an archeological dig around the perimeter. A friendly teacher’s assistant explained what they were doing when the professor approached to expound upon the cod industry on the islands such as it was in the 1700s. Such a friendly and informative bunch, we had never encountered.

Galloping back through the seagull gauntlet, we finally regained our dinghy and escaped to Smuttynose. There we were greeted by two goats and the keepers of the otherwise deserted island. They offered no lecture, so we headed off down the walking trail and were immediately greeted by an even more aggressive population of gulls than we’d encountered on Appledore. Forget it. We did an about face, jumped back in the dinghy and headed for Star Island, which we were told had fewer seagulls.

Star island is co-owned by the Unitarian and Congregationalist churches. The historic hotel is now used for religious retreats and as a conference center. From the dinghy, passed the hotel and down wooded paths to the rocky coastline we walked unmolested. Kenny suggested we walk back around the island on the rocky shore. I looked up and saw hundreds of gulls flying above the rocks.
“But the birds are there.”
“Oh they’re just up in the air.”
“Okay.”

We scampered joyfully over the rocks enjoying a bit of uninhibited exercise. This carefree rock bounding lasted for about three minutes before we were sprayed by the largest amount of birdshit ever known to descend on human beings. I’m sure that gull must have been constipated for days. How could we have forgotten my sister Mary’s wise words: Bird equals turd.

Kenny tried to rinse the spots off his jacket in the saltwater pools between the rocks, but I was hit in so many places I didn’t know where to begin. I had crap on my hat, my jacket and my jeans and it stunk! I removed the jacket and hat, held them at arms length and started retracing our steps back toward the dinghy as quickly as possible. Kenny and I argued the whole way about whether or not the bird did it intentionally. He insisted that they didn’t have that kind of aim. I resolved to Google the subject matter but have yet to do so.

Back aboard Mary T we jumped vigorously into the cocktail hour. Appledore, Smuttynose… who knew the Isles of Shoals would be more fun to say than they are to visit.

Atlantic City, NJ to Provincetown, MA

A quick note about the position reports on http://www.pangolin.co.nz/yotreps/tracker.php?ident=WDE2028: we do not haul our boat ashore at every landfall and carry it inland a quarter mile. The latitude and longitude are correct but Pangolin's map is off by about .25 mile south of our actual locations.

Our stay in Atlantic City left us no richer or poorer than when we arrived. The boardwalk and casinos depressed me more than usual. I was going to spend $20 of the cruising kitty on slot machines in hopes of winning big, but it’s no fun to play them anymore. They don’t even take quarters. You have to start with at least a five dollar bill and the machines don’t give change just tickets… By the time the cashier finished explaining to me how it all worked, I’d lost any desire I once had to play.

Instead of throwing our money away gambling, we wandered outside onto the boardwalk to check out the scene. There is beach on one side and casinos on the other, with a lot of other crap thrown into the mix like an amusement park, carnival-style games, a Ripley’s Believe it or Not, and a thousand shops selling T-shirts and cheap jewelry. We purchased a funnel cake and huddled on a bench, cowering from the seagulls to devour our treat. A funnel cake is a tangled mass of worm-shaped deep fried dough bits covered with powdered sugar. Delicious. According to my sister Mary, a funnel cake has 780 calories.

After stuffing our faces, we continued walking in the stream of tourists until we could stand it no more. We ducked into the Irish Pub, just off the boardwalk for a drinkypoo. We later learned that one of the employees there had been stabbed and killed trying to break up a fight. That was our only foray into town and I couldn’t wait to get back Mary T.

One day in the anchorage at Atlantic City, an old acquaintance, Alison Nichols, paddled by in her kayak looking for the grocery store. It was not a huge surprise, as she’d informed me prior to her departure from Annapolis that she and her husband Russ were headed for Newfoundland. Still we did not know they were in Atlantic City. We explained that there was a grocery store nearby, but nowhere to land a kayak and no way to get ashore without walking through a marsh and scaling a rather high seawall.

Undeterred, Alison set off in the direction we indicated. An hour and a half later we saw her paddling back toward her boat loaded down with bags of groceries. We were most impressed. Later on the phone she explained that she had pulled up to the dock of a house for sale, tied up her kayak and simply proceeded to the store. She and Russ are now in Martha’s Vineyard and will continue from there directly to Halifax, Nova Scotia. They will probably arrive in Newfoundland at least a month before us.

Cruising is all about waiting for good weather. Where you decide to sit and wait is often an interesting challenge. A safe cozy anchorage is great but generally, you don’t want to leave the boat alone for any extended time. A marina allows you the freedom to go for a land cruise but the docking fees take a big bite out of your budget. We chose the anchorage in Brigantine, next to Atlantic City in hopes that the bad weather would break in a day or two. However, it was just about a week of languishing at the anchorage before we could set sail for Block Island, RI on May 30.

We motor-sailed all the way and made the trip in 29 hours. As night fell another sailboat hailed us on the VHF radio. We’d been sailing in tandem for quite awhile and they finally broke the silence. We checked in with each other every hour overnight which helped alleviate the monotony and loneliness of night watches. The name of their boat was THE GREAT CATSBY. Owners of catamarans cannot resist giving their vessels cutesy names with feline references. Salty Paws, Rum Tum Tiger, Cat’s Meow are some of the names we’ve come across. If I had a catamaran I’d call it Kitty Litter.

We spent two nights in the Great Salt Pond anchorage at Block Island. Block Island is a treat with its tremendous vistas and all the Cape Cod style houses with weathered shake siding. The anchorage tends to be very windy though and we couldn’t seem to silence all our halyards. Silencing the night noises is one of Kenny’s favorite jobs. He just loves pulling himself out of bed, half asleep to trudge up on deck in the clammy dark to figure out what is making that banging noise.

The highlight of this trip so far was meeting up with our cruising friends Lou, Jane and Tony in Mattapoisett, MA. They were heading south in their Freedom 36, called Ripple Effect after extensive repairs in Newburyport, MA. Last summer they went crashing into the bridge over the Annisquam Canal. The bridge was in the up position, but apparently it didn’t go up quite high enough and their masthead caught the light hanging from the bridge. It put an abrupt end to last summer’s cruise, but they’re back in the water again. We had a gay night aboard Mary T in the Mattapoisett anchorage together and I’m sure if anyone could have heard us, they would have been sure we were a bunch of adolescents. I brought out all the percussion instruments and we had a jam. Lou was the chief lyricist, singing songs about Mattapoisett and New England types who use summer as verb and songs about the wreck of Ripple Effect.

As I write, we are underway in Cape Cod Bay headed for Provincetown, MA. This body of water is habitat to the Northern Right Whale, so I’ve had my eyes peeled, but so far, no luck. I did come here on a whale watching boat several years ago and saw several at the time, so I know there down there playing possum. The most memorable part of that trip was when my baby nephew threw up his clam chowder and his father managed to catch all the liquid in his two bare hands. Without spilling a drop he carried the regurgitated soup and his son to the restroom.

It is now two days later, June 5, and we are in Cape Cod Bay again heading for Gloucester, MA. This time the giants of the sea revealed themselves. A family of five Right whales was feeding and we lingered nearby, maintaining a respectful distance as much out of fear as admiration. It was a glorious and majestic site to see them spout and then slowly curve downward to sound revealing every inch of their massive bodies finishing in white flukes. It was a graceful water ballet.

Yesterday in Provincetown we wandered up and down the ever-so-cute main street of endless galleries and restaurants. Finally weary we plopped down for lunch on the deck of a restaurant with a view of Mary T (off in the distance in center of photo).

Well rested and nourished we marched into a bike rental establishment and were given two very nice bikes for only five dollars an hour each. Delighted with my new form of locomotion and happy to be ogling a different section of the main drag, I failed to notice an open car door, looming in front of me. Had Kenny not shouted out a warning, causing me to swerve at the last second, I would have impaled myself on the door. I missed it by millimeters. Thank you, Kenny.

The seashore bike trail wound up and down through dunes and forests and sometimes hugged the shoreline. The crisp New England air felt cool and clean in my lungs.

Kenny’s bike ended up having a problem so he couldn’t use all the gears, which made it difficult getting up some of the steeper hills, but we still had a swell time. The guy at the bike shop was so mortified he only charged us for one hour even though we were gone for 2.5 hours. Kudos to Arnold’s Bike Rentals for doing the right thing. After all the biking and walking we returned to Mary T a couple of limp rags and slept like a two pigs.