Downeast in 21 feet

July 2023

By Kevin McCarthy

July 4, 2020 found me socked in by fog in Rockland, Maine, on a cold, raw afternoon. This was not the day to get under way. I had towed my 21-foot Eastern Pilot, with her four-stroke Honda 135, from my home in New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, looking for challenge and adventure. The launch operator offered me the empty dock for the night.

For cruising, I designed and installed a convertible top, side, and aft curtains to create a full enclosure. Unlike Bimini tops, the convertible top snaps directly to the windshield. The slight loss of headroom is more than made up for by the improvement in weather protection. Even in fair weather, it creates a comfortable environment. I had a set of screened side curtains made for air flow.

While inside my glorified tent, I spend much downtime on the portside bench that serves as an aft-facing lounge chair, berth and workbench. My cooler is a makeshift cockpit table. I use a camp-style stove to boil water for coffee, and music pumps through a small, high-quality Bluetooth speaker that’s connected to my phone. The Pilot has a small cuddy cabin with a screened hatch where I keep my personal items and sleep in inclement weather.

July 5: I woke to more of the same: Socked in with rain and rawness, visibility a half-mile. I enjoyed coffee and breakfast while reviewing my charts. At 7:50 a.m. I slipped the lines and got underway toward the Fox Islands Thorofare, between North Haven and Vinalhaven, and then across to Deer Isle and my first destination, Stonington. Aware I was near a state-ferry route, I kept a close watch through the unsnapped corner of my canvas top.

Using a compass and a five-inch GPS, I estimated a 40-minute first leg doing around 8 knots. As if on-command, the nuns and cans appeared out of the fog. To describe things as “uneventful” is to discredit the senses as they worked in harmony, delivering data in the form of sound, smell, movement and, to a lesser extent, sight. Three hours later I was in Stonington, looking for coffee and conversation. I found coffee.

Throughout the trip, I would glance at my orienteering compass first, then to the GPS for backup. Long before satellites aided mariners, I depended on dead-reckoning – speed-distance-time – to calculate where I was on this planet at a given time. Although I appreciate how technology has made travel on the ocean safer and easier, my charts and tools are always present at the helm.

I was focused on three accomplishments during this cruise: exploring by boat, using the skills required operating in wild, remote areas; spending time on my inflatable stand-up paddleboard; and hiking on Maine islands. Several groups – including the Maine Coast Heritage Trust and the Maine Island Trails Association – maintain trail networks along the shore.

I planned on overnighting at Frenchboro, Long Island, in hopes of hiking on a weather-whipped island at the edge of the continent. Upon arrival in Lunt Harbor, I met David and Sandy Lunt. David’s family has been living and working on the island continuously for over 200 years; he pointed out that he’s only been around for 84 of them. The Lunts offered me free dockage for the night, and were generous with their time and knowledge of the island and trails that run through it. Their son had chronicled life on a Maine Island in a book entitled “Hauling by Hand.”

Thanks to the long summer day, I was able to ramble almost 10 miles of remote, yet well-maintained, trails. From the time I left Frenchboro to the time I returned, I did not encounter a single person. Truly a Heaven-sent place.

July 6: I watched and listened as the small working port woke up. Skiffs carried lobstermen (and women) to their boats. By 7 a.m., I was riding on the back of a groundswell toward Mount Desert Island. I planned on running up Somes Sound, the deep fjord cut into the heart of MDI. Again, the persistent fog created an ominous effect. I could hear the waves breaking to port, while trusting that my line was true.

After cruising the sound and refueling in Southwest Harbor, I set my sights farther east. This next leg would have Schoodic Point pass to port, with Jonesport as my next stop. Visibility was still limited, but a promising high-pressure pattern was pushing through. The “2S” Bell appeared, setting up the way to the Petit Manan Bar, which runs 1.5 miles from the point to Petit Manan Island. It’s known to break in all but settled weather, prompting the guide book to warn: “Take the longer route around if unsure.” But what fun is that? Despite the lack of visibility, I depended on my ears and the quicker motion of my vessel to tell me things were closer at hand. The West Bell greeted me, and the East Gong wished me goodbye. As if entering a different dimension, the sun burned through, and, for the first time, the aft curtain came off.

The sun has the ability to change one’s view of the world. For starters, I can see where I’m going, reducing the level of hyper-awareness required to operate a vessel in unfamiliar waters. I further uncovered the boat, removing the side curtains and stowing the top in its upright position. With clear visibility, I was able to throttle up to a comfortable 20 knots.

Islands like Bois Burbert, Jordans Delight and Big Nash were left in my wake as I made time toward my destination. My route constricted at Tibbett Narrows and Moosabec Reach, which led the way into Jonesport. If I were expecting a grand welcome, I’d have been disappointed.

My first few attempts at fueling found me at commercial outfits that had no interest in selling gasoline. That all changed when I docked up at O.W. & B.S. Look Company, where the guys at the dock could not have been more welcoming, providing local knowledge and all the fuel and ice I needed. I had seen Roque Island on the charts, and they confirmed this was the place to drop my hook for the night. With the bright ball in the sky still drying my boat, I headed for the anchorage, only a handful of miles away.

Clearly on island time, with nowhere to rush to, and no one to meet, I poked my bow around the cut between Great Spruce and Little Spruce islands. It’s like they invented gunkholes around here with one spot just a little more inviting than the last. With the promise of an expansive sandy beach just around the corner, I pressed on to Roque Island Harbor, where I saw the first two or three pleasure boats since I’d left Mount Desert.

I tucked into the lee of a small bluff that created a private corner, where I found a solitary mooring ball. Being mindful of the extreme tides, I figured my shallow draft Pilot should remain floating throughout my stay. In time, I inflated the paddleboard – eight minutes from folded to floating – while scanning the beach.

This was not your typical Maine Coast pebble beach. Before me was a full mile of blond border that separated the land from the harbor. Any trace of human passage had been erased by the receding tide. I hopped on my board for a look around. Apparently, the island is home to a small academic community challenged by farming the land the way it was done a century ago. There were no signs of their efforts. However, a posted notice informed visiting boaters that they were welcomed on the beach, but not any farther inland. A pleasant evening was spent gliding around on my board, followed by dinner and a restful night.

July 7: I woke to sunshine, coffee, music and thoughts of the day’s route. Getting up with the sun allowed for a relaxed start, and I was free of the mooring by 7:15. The abundant sunshine would be short-lived. As I threaded my way between Anguilla and Halifax islands, I entered a wall of heavy fog.

Operating at safety speed, around 8 knots, I probed my way northeast, toward the mouth of Machias Bay. I had thoughts of the famous blueberry pie for which Machiasport is known. But, despite my insatiable sweet tooth, I decided to reverse direction and ready myself for the long slog toward Penobscot Bay.

Operating in thick fog is an acquired skill. With no reference from land, and roughly 100 feet of visibility, I called on all my other senses for piloting and navigation. There was no horizon, no definition between sky and sea, no left or right. I planned on staying outside of the islands . . . keeping America to my right. I plugged in a waypoint and dialed in a compass setting. Long ago, I’d observed how a compass can seem to swing wildly in the fog on an apparently straight course. The compass won’t lie; you just need to trust it. I double-checked my charts, referred to my GPS and compass, then set a course and speed.

I have found that my Pilot, with her four-stroke Honda 135, operates well in the 10- to 12-knot range. At this speed range her V-shaped bow rises just to the point where I retain good visibility. The Pilot also performs well on a plane in the low-to-mid 20s – just not in fog.

Winter nights pawing over Maine charts had left plenty of pencil marks suggesting points of interest. One such spot was coming up soon: The Cows Yard, on Head Harbor Island, which seemed to be a promising harbor of refuge. Entering the remote place, through a wall of fog, my hunch was correct and I re-entered the visible world where a true mariner’s heaven was revealed.

If it had been later in the day, I would have stayed the night. I drew on my memory to make a sketch of the area, then turned back out into the fog. Patience and attentiveness worked together as I counted down the miles to my next waypoint – “2S”– off Schoodic. I could now get a visual of Mount Desert, giving me the confidence to apply more throttle – 22 knots changes the cruise. I took aim at Bar Harbor, and I was half-expecting culture shock from waking up Way-Down-East, then dropping into the heart of Touristville. However, in that Covid summer, the shock I got was from how dead the town looked for the first week of July. Rather than waiting in line for fuel, I found the docks empty and the gas pumps closed. Restaurants lining the harbor were either closed or offering reduced services. Even a quick walk into town revealed a minimum of foot traffic. I returned to my boat and got back under way.

I had allotted a week to explore this region. The weather so far had dictated that I keep moving rather than play in the sun, so I had already covered most of the miles I had planned on. One of my favorite cruising grounds in Maine, Merchants Row, lay ahead. Certainly, it would be easy enough to find a hideaway for the night. However, the thought of my wife caring for her mother back home gave me reason to push on back towards Rockland.

Despite my proximity to Canada when I’d awakened, several hours from now I could be on the trailer in Midcoast Maine. And three and a half hours after that I could be in our living room in New Hampshire. I opted to cut the trip short in favor of adding days off closer to home. By 5 p.m. I was in Rockland Harbor, having logged 231 miles over 22 hours under way. My average speed was 11 knots, consuming an average of 3.6 gph.

When I look at the chart, I see a huge swath of islands and mainland that I’d covered in only a few days. Having filled in some gaps in my cruising resume, I can now say I’ve operated vessels from the Canadian border, down the East Coast and the Intracoastal Waterway, through the Bahamas and into the Caribbean as far south as Grenada. Stay tuned for my next minimalist cruise.

Kevin McCarthy is a USCG-licensed marine-industry professional. He has operated 100-foot motor yachts, whale-watch vessels, harbor-tour boats, push tugs and towboats – and seemingly everything in between. In Kevin’s new business, Capt’n for Hire (www.captn4hire.com), which focuses on training other mariners or assisting them with their vessels, he draws heavily on these experiences.

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