Milford, Point Judith, Onset, Gloucester… Slam Bang, I’m in Maine!
Why the rush? Well, not since my 13 day run from Beaufort, SC to Washington. DC in the dead of winter have seen such a great stretch of traveling weather, lacking only a good long screaming run under sail. Anchoring last night also justified all my eagerness.
Every night to the westward, and for much of the time underway, I was looking at densely packed houses and bouncing in the chop driven by the powerboats that swarmed around me like seagulls at an open dumpster. Last night, there were only four boats anchored in a cove that could hold dozens. The island shore is mostly wild with only a small farmhouse and outbuilding visible with a tractor in the yard.
People are camping on the beach from kayaks and canoes but the only continuous sounds I could hear were surf and insects singing ashore. Something about Maine prompts people to leave their music boxes ashore and respect the peace.
I’m anchored in the town where I was a father raising two sons and in the waters I once oversaw as Harbormaster but it looked so new and magical last night that there was little sense of return. This town is no longer home. Home, in the sense or roots and family history, is the Hudson River area. Home in the sense of where I live and go about my affairs is the coast from Halifax, NS to Florida and up to the head of navigation on the Hudson.
The view this morning also justified my rush eastward.
I have a knack for getting places just before the weather changes. It promises now to be an unsettled week, good for hanging out in some snug coves awaiting Dreameagle’s arrival Friday. First, I’ll be resupplying fuel and ice and having dinner with my son.
We’ll be hanging out at Bailey Island for a few days while Dreameagle attends an art workshop and then all of the most incredible coast in the east offers itself to our imagination.
Why the rush? Well, not since my 13 day run from Beaufort, SC to Washington. DC in the dead of winter have seen such a great stretch of traveling weather, lacking only a good long screaming run under sail. Anchoring last night also justified all my eagerness.
Every night to the westward, and for much of the time underway, I was looking at densely packed houses and bouncing in the chop driven by the powerboats that swarmed around me like seagulls at an open dumpster. Last night, there were only four boats anchored in a cove that could hold dozens. The island shore is mostly wild with only a small farmhouse and outbuilding visible with a tractor in the yard.
People are camping on the beach from kayaks and canoes but the only continuous sounds I could hear were surf and insects singing ashore. Something about Maine prompts people to leave their music boxes ashore and respect the peace.
I’m anchored in the town where I was a father raising two sons and in the waters I once oversaw as Harbormaster but it looked so new and magical last night that there was little sense of return. This town is no longer home. Home, in the sense or roots and family history, is the Hudson River area. Home in the sense of where I live and go about my affairs is the coast from Halifax, NS to Florida and up to the head of navigation on the Hudson.
The view this morning also justified my rush eastward.
I have a knack for getting places just before the weather changes. It promises now to be an unsettled week, good for hanging out in some snug coves awaiting Dreameagle’s arrival Friday. First, I’ll be resupplying fuel and ice and having dinner with my son.
We’ll be hanging out at Bailey Island for a few days while Dreameagle attends an art workshop and then all of the most incredible coast in the east offers itself to our imagination.