A rare day off
July 2024
By Paul Keyser
The day’s forecast is a promising one, and I desperately need a break from the hectic world of business. I phone in a vacation day and add an “out of office” message to my voicemail and email. I want the message to include, “And I’m not sure when I will be returning,” but professionalism gets the better part of me.
My wife Wendy has commitments and the kids are in school, so today it will be just me and Morning Star, our Catalina 30. I grab my camera and set sail to nowhere in particular. The Newburyport Bridge tender wishes me a good sail as I clear the raised spans. I look back as I approach the Coast Guard Station downriver and notice that one of the spans is stuck in the open position. I can imagine the upset this has created for the many drivers waiting to cross the Merrimack, rushing to their morning appointments and destinations. This is but one small example how each of us can unintentionally impact the lives of others during the course of a day. It doesn’t have to be a broken drawbridge span. It can be an airport check-in, in a lecture hall or during a meeting. Every day we touch others, hopefully in positive ways.
Seals are all around me in the river and enjoying Badgers Rock, where they are sunning themselves on a day that will see fading sunlight. The only wake in Newburyport Harbor is that of Morning Star’s. Actually, trailing behind me is more of a bubble-filled ripple than a wake. I’m not moving fast enough to create a wake. This is a perfect speed for the occasion. The harbor and the ocean are made of flat water today, undisturbed by a light, wispy wind. I am headed toward Mt. Agamenticus in southern Maine. It’s 10 a.m. I have just cleared the Merrimack River riding on an outgoing tide. The sun is low and ignites the water with sparkles. The remnants of an offshore weather system send rollers towards shore. Morning Star slowly rises and falls as she climbs over them. They have traveled far from the weather that created them and are showing weariness as they near the end of their journeys. Their presence encourages Morning Star to misbehave. Without them she would be perfectly balanced and require no helm adjustment. But with the rolling waves, periodic adjustment of the wheel is needed as I sit in the quiet of the cockpit writing in my journal. I set up the camera to snap my picture – we’re still a few years from the ubiquitous cellphone selfie.
The wind is light and finicky off the port beam. The world seems at peace as the boat gently lifts and falls. I approach Seabrook and a dying breeze slows the boat. A wake from a passing lobster boat rocks Morning Star’s boom back and forth over the cockpit. My peace is disturbed by the boom’s metallic clanking and snapping sail. The lobster boat reaches its destination and stops with engine idling; its throaty diesel also detracts from the formerly peaceful surroundings.
As Morning Star slowly advances, the wind pipes up enough for the boat to leave behind it a gentle wake. Lobster pot buoys wave to me as the rollers pull taught and then slacken their lines, forcing their pickup spars to rise from the water and then fall back into it. Miss Allison from Hampton Beach is tending to her pots. As she pulls and resets each trap, she puffs black smoke to move on to her next buoy. Her cabin radio is blaring Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville” over the water. Seagulls fill the sky above her.
As I move north at a leisurely 4.3 knots, a tired little yellow breasted bird lands on Morning Star. It has arrived from the Isles of Shoals, about 12 miles distant. I reach for my camera and it flutters to the stern rail, pauses for a moment, and then flies off towards shore before I can click the shutter.
11 a.m. The wind again softens and shifts from the NW to W/SW. I adjust the sails to capture as much air as I can. Clouds are slowly filling the sky overhead. I am now off Boars Head in Hampton, N.H. A concrete lookout tower peers over the ocean from the rocky knoll, a reminder of a different era when the world was ablaze in war. This tower coordinated with other lookout towers to align coastal guns on enemy targets. Offshore, destroyers hunted U-boats. My dad undertook such a mission near here. He and his crew are now long gone, but the tower remains as a lasting monument to a war that fades further from memory with each generation.
A butterfly visits me, resting on the back edge of the mainsail. It, too, appears to have flown from the Isles of Shoals. Soon it gathers strength and heads for shore in a jerky flutter.
More lobster boats appear on the distant horizon. They wear their steadying sails. Small fishing boats dot the ocean’s horizon further out. No fellow human is closer than perhaps two or three miles. I notice that even though I relish my quiet solitude, the presence of another human being, even though miles away, creates a feeling of safety.
It’s now 2 p.m. and in the vicinity of Rye Harbor I notice the sky darkening above the cars on nearby Route 1A. Weather is coming. I wonder if rain will fall before I reach home. The wind freshens a bit to a steady 10 kts from the S/SE. My first tack takes me toward the Isles of Shoals. The rollers have stopped, and the water is flat as can be. Conditions are ideal to lock the wheel and let Morning Star sail herself. It starts to rain. I throw on a slicker and sit beneath the dodger for protection. I am now just a passenger as Morning Star tends to herself to keep course. I pass another sailboat. We wave to each other. I tack again, this time towards Newburyport from the White Island Lighthouse. The Isles of Shoals drift away from me with the course change. A lonely foghorn calls out its warning over the still water. I lock the wheel and again Morning Star keeps the course by herself.
I slowly travel toward the Merrimack River. A fin pops up and I change course to investigate. It flops back and forth and as I get closer; I realize it’s a large sunfish – at least 6-8 feet long with eyes the size of tennis balls. It swims away after we examine each other.
At 5 p.m., I enter the Merrimack River under a dark, gray sky. My navigation lights illuminate my presence. The warm glow of city lights and church steeples invite me home to Newburyport. As the sky further darkens with a downpour, a distant orange streak of lightning flashes. It’s good to be back home from my 42-mile sail to nowhere.
I am rejuvenated from my day off. Tomorrow will arrive, and this will quickly become a distant memory as I restart my endless race against the clock. I return home to inboxes full of emails and voicemails, all claiming need of my immediate attention.
Paul Keyser graduated from college with an engineering degree, but his career evolved into business leadership. At age 15, he peeled potatoes and bussed tables at Amherst College. At 62, he retired from Stanley Black & Decker as business unit president. He then moved on to teach at the University of Massachusetts for another seven years. He loved it all, but his greatest joy is his family, and his favorite pastime is sailing. He and his wife Wendy reside in Hampton, N.H., and sail their Catalina 36 from Rye Harbor. In inclement weather, he dabbles in writing.
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