At 6 a.m. the moon is high and the fog is low and gathering. I packed my overnight gear and carried it back down the hill to where I?d left the kayak, at the top of the launching ramp. The general store, on the front side of the restaurant, was open now and I went in looking for breakfast.
The scene reminded me of Percy?s, being a source of craft beer, bug spray and ?I was here? apparel. The actors were far less jolly, however. A stocky 30-ish woman in the kitchen appeared to have dragged herself out of bed only moments before. I ordered a plate of eggs, bacon and homefries and she seemed to slump a little in announcing ?the fryalator?s down.?
While waiting, I paid up. The woman at the counter, maybe 70, was one of those formally polite but expressionless matrons who can wither smalltalk with the lightest touch.
I ate from a paper plate, at the lone dining table by the counter, then returned to the kayak to pack up. I was almost ready to go when I realized my spray skirt was missing. A wary young man with a knife in his belt loped over to the store from Mosquito Island Lobster Company, across the top of the launching ramp. He regarded me intently for a moment, possibly with curiosity though not in a friendly way.
It seemed unlikely that someone would steal my spray-skirt. It?s not much use without a kayak. I was so close to the high tide line, I thought it might have floated away in the night. The lobster company?s parking lot overlooks the ramp and the wharves, and as I headed that way I stole a glance at the bed of every pickup truck I passed. Hey, nobody?s accusing anybody of anything, I thought to myself.
Carefully scanning the water again I saw it floating under the wharf near the restaurant. What a relief! Without a spray skirt fitted snugly to both the cockpit coaming and my torso, the cockpit would gradually fill up with drips and splashes. (Or, if I flipped over, quite suddenly with gallons).
I paddled out and recovered it from the greasy shallows beneath the wharf, none the worse for wear. I got out, rinsed it, stepped into it and pulled it up to my torso, got back in, secured its elastic lip to the coaming, and was off.
Visibility was down to 100 yards in the fog. It was easy enough to make Marshall Point by eye and merge into the sea road again, but after that it was new waters. I had just enough clear air to see the ins and outs down to Mosquito Head, then the shore ran straight a few miles northeast. Outside Tenant?s Harbor the fog lifted a bit and I could see the village, a mile or two west.
Continuing northeastward, I came (finally) to the far edge of the ?Cape Small to Boothbay and Tenants Harbor? chart, which I had entered by sail some weeks before. On a grander scale, I was moving from the midcoast, with its long tidal rivers and little bays, into the vast expanse of Penobscot Bay.
The east-northeasterly run of the midcoast bends here to north-northeast along the side of the funnel-shaped bay, which pushes tides as far north as Bangor, some 50 miles away, before returning south to Deer Isle and Isle au Haut, 20 miles to the east. It is, by far, Maine?s largest bay, evidenced by the notch it cuts in an otherwise undetailed coast on our world map. ()
Unfortunately for me, the midcoast chart and the Penobscot Bay chart failed to overlap. I was left with a two-mile gap from the eastern edge of one to the southwestern corner of the other, and so guessed my way in between. Fortunately, I could see for miles and puzzled my way through it visually, all the while reading transoms for clues.
The sun was out by then and giving us a nice warm day. I found a mooring field of mostly lobster boats with a lot of ?Spruce Head Island?, and took it as a good sign. My Penobscot Bay chart showed part of Spruce Head Island. In the distance a rowboat was on its way out to one of the moored lobster boats.
I paddled up to it, chart in hand, and politely requested the aid of the man on board, who seemed to have nothing to do at the moment. Pointing to the map, I asked ?am I near this 44-degree latitude line?? Even as it fell out of my mouth, I knew it was a ridiculous question. Yes, the chart does show a line running through the island and yes, it is 60 nautical miles to the next line, but no one speaks importantly of crossing the 44.
I tried again: ?Am I on this map?? He explained that I was not on the map, but would be soon if I kept the island on my left. I thanked him, he replied politely, and I went on my way.
After passing under a small bridge to Burnt Island, I came around to Muscle Ridge Channel and a bank of fog. () I was not far from shore, maybe a mile or two, but I could only see about a quarter-mile: time for ?map and compass? work. The GPS had stayed home.
The chart showed a line of cans and daymarks leading to Ash Island and Ash Point, on the mainland. The were spaced every half-mile or so, purely by chance as they marked ledges. I couldn?t hold the compass flat and paddle at the same time, so I used the line of the wave pattern to keep my angle. One by one they emerged from the fog: green can ?7? at Sunken Ledge; green daymark ?9? at Garden Island Ledge; green daymark ?11? at Otter Island Ledge; and green can ?13? at Ash Island Ledge. I didn?t hit them dead on, but I found my way.
The sun broke through at Ash Island, briefly. I had hoped to start my crossing at Ash Point, but the fog north and east seemed impossibly dense.
I was not happy about the idea of crossing Penobscot Bay in the fog. I broke for lunch and considered my route. My goal for the day was to cross the bay. An eastern run to Isle au Haut would be most direct, but to my eyes that?s a lot of open water. NOAA weather radio called for winds and seas to build the next day (Saturday), and I was wary of raw ocean waves.
Stonington, on Deer Isle, would be a better choice, I thought: northeast today and east tomorrow, rather than the other way around. It?s somewhat more protected, especially today with a passage of the Fox Islands Thorofare (between North Haven and Vinalhaven) to split the crossing in two.
Visibility improved again and I struck out for Sheep Island. I reached it, but then the fog closed. A little unsure, I cheated north with the compass and found the west side of Marshall Island as a pocket of light showed off the mooring field at Owl?s Head.
It was time to cross. The west shore of Penobscot Bay wouldn?t get any closer to North Haven than it was now (about four miles). At least two fog horns were groaning insistently: Owl?s Head and the Rockland breakwater, most likely. My radio was chirping non-stop with securit? calls, like ?Securit?, Securit?, Breezy Bee departing Camden Harbor on a course of one-five-zero.? ()
The water of West Penobscot Bay bore a glow of strained sunlight. Working within a half-mile view, I set a course of 70 degrees true and found a faraway lobster buoy to keep me on the line. With correction for leeway, it was 10 or 15 degrees off the port bow. I repeated the process at least a dozen times. After more than hour out of sight of land, I spied the outline of a headland almost dead ahead. Stand-In Point, North Haven!
I was annoyed to lose sight of it in the shifting fog, though little by little the fog was thinning. I saw a car ferry about a mile to the south, out of Rockland I guess, and watched it for ten minutes or so as it faded away to the southeast, two or three miles away, on its way to Vinalhaven.
A sailboat was over that way, too, a little white daysailer with blue sails, reaching west. Stand-In Point emerged again and within a few minutes the fog was all behind me. Bright sun and light air cheered me and I felt relieved. Then I noticed the daysailer had turned around and was coming with me into the Thorofare. It passed me and gained a lead of a few hundred yards.
Why I couldn?t abide by that I don?t know. Perhaps I used it as incentive. (It was mid-afternoon already). Perhaps I refused to admit that any other mode of travel-by-water could be both faster and easier than this. That?s what I?d wanted from windsurfing but failed to get.
I stroked furiously for about 10 minutes and caught up to it. The two on board seemed unaware of our race. Then in the stillness of the Thorofare near North Haven village they slowed and I relaxed.
The cottages on the Vinalhaven side were spacious and well-groomed and delicately aged. Many had private docks and clusters of moorings. I stopped for a moment to gawk at a beautiful Morris yacht, a pristine and perfect and impossible thing, all tied up and lonely and innocent, like it never tasted salt spray or shouldered a gust.
Coming through the narrows I saw Waterman Cove, and above it an old house and barn at the top of a broad green field, acres and acres of field. A float plane flew over. I sensed a flavor of rare wealth. From a musty lake cabin to a beach condo, to a stony island hideaway, to a fly-in fly-out saltwater farm, the scale is broad and deep.
I was bothered by a predilection for contempt of these precious gems in the form of places and people and things. Since my cancer diagnosis I?d found it easier to relate to all kinds of people, knowing more surely that we?re equal in death, if nothing else. Still instinct pokes at reason: despite my respect for civility and the nominal fairness of our varied shares, I struggle sometimes with their phantom judgements, as with my guilt of judging them.
Around Calderwood Point, the Thorofare opened to the east. Finally, the end was in sight: dead ahead Mark Island light and the passage to Stonington; the rest of Deer Isle on the left; and the profile of Isle au Haut off to the right, ribbed with its wild hills.
But first I stopped at Widow Island, where a mixed rank of gulls and shags held the long pier railing. All departed on my approach, with four or five of the birds dropping chalk-white guano bombs on take-off. I was specifically forbidden to enter the island, according to a sign. As a kayaker, I except myself on the theory that I can not be expected to handle my gear on the water, as most things are packed away where I can?t reach them. It?s just one of those kayaker ?facts of life.?
I also took the opportunity to swallow a pain-killer: not ibuprofen but vicodin. I still had a few pills left over from the first days after my brain surgery, more than a year before. The sun would set within the hour, and I was facing the task of crossing East Penobscot Bay in the dark. I could use some relief from the pain in my arms and upper back, I thought. I also carried with me a vision of paddling through the night: an idea of stubborn endurance, partly borne of my rush to beat the weather, but also of a reckless shadow.
This is what puts you in the newspaper: ?Drugged Kayaker Drowns on Night Crossing.? I understood the frustration, even the anger, of the safety-conscious kayakers who might read such a headline. I understood that even if I was successful I would be setting a bad example. But I pressed on, with my reckless shadow, into the gloom.
The seas and winds were calm and the lighthouse was clearly visible, so despite an early nervousness the crossing was easy. I kept a flashlight ready to warn off any boats coming my way, but there were none. () Once I passed Mark Island, I looked for the flashing light on Crotch Island, inside the Deer Isle Thorofare.
As I paddled I noticed a faint light on the edge of my wake as it spread from the bow. At first I saw it as a reflection of light from somewhere else. But where? There was no moon. There were no lights nearby. Then I saw that each of my paddle strokes made a swirling orb of green light in the water. Bioluminescence! I?d heard of these tiny single-celled creatures that glow when disturbed, but I thought they were a tropical sight.
Coming in to Stonington harbor, a lobster boat chugged by me from astern. Despite it?s practical form, the chorus of frothy voices said ?booze cruise.? As it crossed before me toward a slip, someone turned a blinding spotlight on me. I squinted. I waved. Sounds of amusement and bewilderment followed, then they docked and stumbled away.
As usual, I looked for a public landing, in the form of a paved ramp, but found none so obviously marked. I settled for a somewhat rough incline at the far end of the waterfront, next to an old wharf building. It was quiet and desolate at this time of night, about 8:30. By the time I hauled my kayak and gear safely above the tide mark and changed out of my wetsuit, it was past 9:00.
I headed for town, about a five-minute walk, looking for dinner. The ?Fisherman?s Friend? restaurant had just closed and the staff was mopping up. I continued walking along the main street, found another just-closed restaurant, then suddenly ran out of ?town.?
I saw three people walking in the street ahead of me, coming my way: a man and two women. I supposed that, like me, they were travelers. ?Are there any restaurants open at this hour?? a woman asked me.
?I was going to ask you the same question,? I said.
I walked with them, back the way I came. At Fisherman?s Friend, one of the women pounded on the door audaciously. The man who answered explained, with generous sympathy and regret, why it was not possible for him to serve us dinner. But he did offer to go ?next door? to the store (part of the same enterprise, apparently) and pick up some beer. ?Cash only,? he said. As I was the only one among us with any cash, I paid for two six-packs of Geary?s with a $20 and took $3 in change.
In the interest of following my beer, I accompanied them to their lodgings. It turns out they were three parts of a string quartet that had played the Stonington Opera House that very evening. I shared my beer (there was more than enough) and they shared what was left of their food, plus frozen dinners they found there.
They offered me a couch, which I gratefully accepted. But before I thought of asking for a blanket, they?d all gone off to bed.
Source: http://mybraincancerdiary.com/2012/12/20/heron-part-7/
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