It finally happened. After over 5500 miles, I made a town too hot for me.
In a seaside community, which shall remain nameless so my transgressions do not taint it, I came across a brand new set of floats outside the breakwater bulkhead for the town docks. There were no signs or notices but they clearly appeared to be installed for transient use and the self service pumpout yet to be relocated to them.
I tied up and remained on the boat and in the area to see if the harbormaster would show up so I could inquire if it was OK to stay there for a quick provisioning run. No boats showed the slightest interest in the dock, the locals all have slips inside the breakwater, no one knows the floats are there yet, the weather had been lousy, and it’s early in the season.
Rich Stidger showed up and took me on my quick and much appreciated food run. I had invited them for dinner aboard to serve them my Chicken Feta Accompli, famous up and down the eastern seaboard. Since no one was using the floats or seemed to have any interest in them, we decided it would be easiest for them to just join me there.
As I was standing on the float waiting to take their lines, the assistant harbormaster showed up. He asked how long I was planning to stay and I told him I was leaving right after dinner with the boat on its way in and that they would then be returning to their mooring. I asked what the eventual rules for the dock would be. He said that wasn’t settled yet but they probably would be free for short stays and $40 overnight. He said he wouldn’t charge us anything since there wasn’t a fee schedule yet.
I told him that I was the retired harbormaster of Cape Elizabeth and we talked some harbormaster shop talk. He said, “Oh, there’s my boss.” We shook hands and he got aboard the harbormaster patrol boat that swung in to pick him up.
The boat went by, I waved at the Harbormaster. He just glared back. I’m a pretty good judge of character, I mean; I can tell if someone is prejudiced just by looking at them. I thought, Uh, oh.
Sure enough, during dinner, I looked out and the assistant was again standing on the dock. He was like a completely different person. “I thought you said you were leaving a few minutes after we talked.”
“No, I said after dinner.”
“Well, that’s not what I heard. We charge for the use of these docks you know.”
I assured him we would be leaving as soon as we finished. I noticed that he kept looking nervously down towards the other end of the float.
We talked about it over desert and concluded that the assistant had been reasonable, had probably gotten reamed out by his boss for being nice, and been forced to put on that little drama with his boss watching. It also seemed probable that he had been told not to go home until he saw us leave so we decided to cut a very pleasant evening a bit short. Rich and Carole returned to their mooring and I ran down to anchor outside the harbor.
Rich left me two bottles of his homemade wine which I’m looking forward to drinking on an appropriate occasion. They asked as they left where I was going today. I said that I didn’t know but I certainly knew one place I wouldn’t be.
This morning, I ran up Mount Hope Bay to Fall River where I unexpectedly found the Schooner Westward forlorn, stripped, and battered at a dock where she has evidently been for the last year.
My involvement with this ship altered the entire course of my life and probably determined the course of everything that has happened in the last 35 years more than any single thing or person. It’s very sad to see her looking so old. Time is relentless.
In a seaside community, which shall remain nameless so my transgressions do not taint it, I came across a brand new set of floats outside the breakwater bulkhead for the town docks. There were no signs or notices but they clearly appeared to be installed for transient use and the self service pumpout yet to be relocated to them.
I tied up and remained on the boat and in the area to see if the harbormaster would show up so I could inquire if it was OK to stay there for a quick provisioning run. No boats showed the slightest interest in the dock, the locals all have slips inside the breakwater, no one knows the floats are there yet, the weather had been lousy, and it’s early in the season.
Rich Stidger showed up and took me on my quick and much appreciated food run. I had invited them for dinner aboard to serve them my Chicken Feta Accompli, famous up and down the eastern seaboard. Since no one was using the floats or seemed to have any interest in them, we decided it would be easiest for them to just join me there.
As I was standing on the float waiting to take their lines, the assistant harbormaster showed up. He asked how long I was planning to stay and I told him I was leaving right after dinner with the boat on its way in and that they would then be returning to their mooring. I asked what the eventual rules for the dock would be. He said that wasn’t settled yet but they probably would be free for short stays and $40 overnight. He said he wouldn’t charge us anything since there wasn’t a fee schedule yet.
I told him that I was the retired harbormaster of Cape Elizabeth and we talked some harbormaster shop talk. He said, “Oh, there’s my boss.” We shook hands and he got aboard the harbormaster patrol boat that swung in to pick him up.
The boat went by, I waved at the Harbormaster. He just glared back. I’m a pretty good judge of character, I mean; I can tell if someone is prejudiced just by looking at them. I thought, Uh, oh.
Sure enough, during dinner, I looked out and the assistant was again standing on the dock. He was like a completely different person. “I thought you said you were leaving a few minutes after we talked.”
“No, I said after dinner.”
“Well, that’s not what I heard. We charge for the use of these docks you know.”
I assured him we would be leaving as soon as we finished. I noticed that he kept looking nervously down towards the other end of the float.
We talked about it over desert and concluded that the assistant had been reasonable, had probably gotten reamed out by his boss for being nice, and been forced to put on that little drama with his boss watching. It also seemed probable that he had been told not to go home until he saw us leave so we decided to cut a very pleasant evening a bit short. Rich and Carole returned to their mooring and I ran down to anchor outside the harbor.
Rich left me two bottles of his homemade wine which I’m looking forward to drinking on an appropriate occasion. They asked as they left where I was going today. I said that I didn’t know but I certainly knew one place I wouldn’t be.
This morning, I ran up Mount Hope Bay to Fall River where I unexpectedly found the Schooner Westward forlorn, stripped, and battered at a dock where she has evidently been for the last year.
My involvement with this ship altered the entire course of my life and probably determined the course of everything that has happened in the last 35 years more than any single thing or person. It’s very sad to see her looking so old. Time is relentless.
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