Our plan to leave Gloucester and head north to Maine led to an difference of opinion as to which route to take. Going up the Annisquam River is the easier option, but you have to hit it on the right tide. The other option was to sail around Cape Ann, which I was nervous about because:
As we hadn’t yet instituted good cruising habits such as stowing everything the night before, checking tide tables, and paying attention to the clock,* the morning of our intended leaving we ended up missing the tide. So, in reality we had one choice. Go around Cape Ann.
And for that I wanted to know how much fuel we had. Since my math and the physical evidence were conflicting and inconclusive, I insisted we top off the tank before heading out to sea.
Tom rolled his eyes, but relented and we motored over to the fuel docks. None was open. Which wasn’t too surprising at 7:00 AM on Sunday, Independence Day weekend. I did a search using my phone, and used Tom’s to call all the numbers to find out what time they opened. All were either closed on Sunday or said nothing about their hours. I left a couple of messages.
I was faced with a choice – sit in Gloucester for another day, or swallow my worries. I thought hard about the evidence, then accepted the idea that we still had some fuel left in that hollow sounding tank, along with the accompanying idea that our little 18 horse Yanmar sips fuel. We headed out of Gloucester Harbor and east.
There was no wind for the first leg out and around the Cape Ann Light on Thacher Island. As we rounded the island a little breeze teased us and we put up sails. The sea was glassy and giant rollers lifted us and dropped us maybe three feet, but they were so wide that the motion was almost undetectable.
We easily made it around Cape Ann and set a new course for the Isles of Shoals. One of the most famous of these is Appledore Island, where Celia Thaxter grew her garden and Childe Hassam painted it. Another is Smuttynose, famous for a notorious murder and a kooky name,which now graces the Smuttynose brewery and line of beers.
Sometimes there was a breath of wind and we sailed for a bit, but most of the time we motored across an glassy expanse of sea known as the Scantum Basin.
Just short of the islands we encountered a fog bank, but it was light and short lived. Once we had the islands in sight we re-set a new course for Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Past the islands, with the outline of the mainland visible we found ourselves in a breeze and sailed a little north of Portsmouth, just for a change of pace, then we sailed back south again, dropped sails and headed into Little Harbor, where we would meet up with Jesse and Stacey and spend the night.
Jesse and Stacey had taken a slip at Wentworth by the Sea marina but we, on our shoestring cruising budget, were intent on trying to pick up a mooring. The cruising guide informed us that the harbor was full of state owned moorings that were leased for the season, that at any one time there were likely to be half a dozen unused moorings, and that it was the done thing for transient vessels to borrow these moorings for the night. The one caveat being that, should the lease holder return in the middle of the night we’d need to be prepared to surrender the mooring. (We’ve since learned from a local that the moorings are actually private, but the fair use policy still prevails.)
And so we started the search for the perfect mooring.
The first we tried had no pennant, was not maintained, and the line appeared to be too light for Sunshine. Too small.
Mooring number two we approached too fast, I grabbed it but couldn’t hold the hook, and then couldn’t get it loose of the buoy. The hook pulled out of my hand. Tom shoved the engine into neutral and dived overboard. He was afraid we’d lose the hook, but really, we could have just gone around again and retrieved it, it floats, and besides, stuck as it was it wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe he just wanted to cool off, it was a hot afternoon. Too embarrassing.
Mooring three lay ahead and I easily grabbed it. This one belonged to the Portsmouth Yacht Club, and we awaited the launch to charge us or kick us off. In the end we kicked ourselves off. The boat seemed to be caught in a current and rocked and rolled while the boats around us sat still. Too bouncy.
The fourth buoy we chose was further out in the field, I nabbed it successfully and once tied off we found it much more stable. Just right.
We spent a comfortable night and didn’t get rousted out. Early in the morning I found fog had settled in and went out for a row to take pictures of Sunshine in the fog. After showering I rowed us to the marina where we met Jesse and Stacey for coffee. While we were ashore the wind came up.
Since I’d been intent on rowing, I’d convinced Tom we didn’t need the motor to go so short a distance. Oops, now he had to row back against the wind and the current. It was hard going, the only way he could do it was if we hopped from moored boat to moored boat, grabbing onto them so he could rest. One was a Freedom 30. We circled, her checking out her rigging and equipment for ideas.
Tom’s strong and we made it back to Sunshine just fine, but the oarlocks took more strain than they’re designed for and are now slightly bent, so we can’t take the chance of getting in that situation again.
Jesse and Stacey were changing their plans due to the weather. They’d wanted to make it to Kennebunkport but their vacation time was running out so they settled on a short hop to the tiny historic town of York Harbor, Maine as soon as the weather broke. We would tag along with them there, then when they headed back south from there we’d try taking another hop north and get our first taste of cruising entirely on our own.
The next morning we did some laundry and grocery shopping and poked around in Portsmouth, a charming old town with many 17th century buildings. Shops displayed things I’d not seen before – dishes made from chunks of salt that look more like marble than a condiment, vests and handbags like silky chain mail that might have been made in Rivendell. (On closer inspection they’re cleverly made from discarded soda can pop tops crocheted together with almost invisible threads.) A gallery was full of fanciful – but far from kitschy – finned creatures in sizes from Christmas tree decoration to mammoth wall made from found materials and wildly painted. The Portsmouth Brewery was worth a stop too. While the others enjoyed sampling and critiquing flights of the various beers, I took in the architecture and interior décor, notably the stall doors in the bathrooms, which are pieces of old brewing tanks.
Though the weather was still blustery and gray, we headed out of Little Harbor the next morning, motoring fast for York Harbor. We left first, but before long Smitty, with her 26 horse engine, blew past Sunshine and we trailed them into the zig-zag entry to York Harbor.
We spent three nights in York enjoying the laid back surroundings of serious lobster boats, balls-to-the-wall kids from the very friendly Agamenticus Yacht Club learning to sail, and terns fishing for herring.The town of York was a short walk up the hill where a looping route took us past a great bagels and coffee spot, the oldest jail in the country, a likewise ancient cemetery and down to John Hancock’s wharf. Beside the wharf was an old store building that’s now a gallery. Walking toward it, I spied part of a huge wooden wheel in the window up under the rafters. While wandering the gallery viewing art pieces inspired by the 50th anniversary of the publication of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring I had to ask what that wheel was. And just like that we got a tour of the inner workings of the old store. The wheel was the still intact hoist that was used to lift provisions up and down for storage or delivery.
After we were done at the gallery, a nice walk in the woods led down to the wiggly bridge that crosses the mouth of the old mill pond and on to the pub on the cliff top that replicates below decks on a schooner. That’s where I discovered the Strawberry Basil Smash that I’ve been thirsting for ever since.
On the way Tom got a call that scared him, and the look on his face and the things he was saying scared the rest of us. A mother was telling him that she’d found his phone number in her underage daughter’s phone. She wanted to know why her daughter was calling strange men. Heck, I wanted to know why her daughter was calling Tom. Jesse and Stacey were just fascinated by the whole drama.
It took a few minutes, but we sorted out what had happened. I’d called the gas dock using his phone, the daughter had used her phone to return the calls from the business answering machine. Tom had received a strange message that he couldn’t figure out and deleted it. In the end the woman was satisfied that he wasn’t messing with jail bait and he barred me from using his phone.
Jesse and Stacey tried to leave us the next morning, but after making it out the mouth of the harbor they were turned back by the fog. When they were able to leave the morning after that we were sorry to see them go. For one thing, because they’d wanted to make it further into Maine. For another, because we were clinging to togetherness as a kind of security blanket. We would now have to make our way into the wilds of Maine all by ourselves.
Which is probably why we instead decided to walk the six mile round-trip to Cape Neddick, where we were caught in a rain squall, and got back too late to get fuel. A Freudian walk as it were. We had to stay another night in York.
And we missed the tide again. The low tide depth at the fuel dock in this little harbor wasn’t quite enough for Sunshine’s keel so we had to wait for the incoming tide to head over to the fuel dock. When Tom finally pumped that diesel into the twenty gallon tank it took only nine gallons. We’d used less than half a tank since December! All that worry for nothing.
* Full disclosure – after two months cruising we still haven’t managed this.