Stay of Execution

December Morning

Got up before 6 this morning, and met my parents up the coast for a beach walk with the doggies on Popham Beach.  It's chilly again -- not as cold as December can sometimes be, but not the mildness that made late November feel so eerie.  There were, on the beach, the prints of someone's bare feet, not yet washed out by the tide.  It was hard for me to imagine someone walking on that cold sand late last night or before we got there this morning, but they had.

The dogs romped ahead of us, chasing one another and jumping sideways into each other, then peeling away up into the dunes or to stop and sniff some washed up lobster trap.  Cody likes the water, but Lila prances only up to the edge, then pulls back onto higher ground. 

When we turned the corner the wind had made tiny dunes, and in the low slanting morning light you could see the ripple patterns in the dunes, small blue and yellow curves, undisturbed by tracks.  The dunes felt softer underfoot than the more densely packed sand, and as we walked the texture of the ground below us alternated in some pattern I couldn't make out. 

On the way back our faces were in the wind, and my cheeks warmed up in the car on the way back, while I thought about the eggs and toast and hot coffee I would be ordering soon. 

One Morning In Maine

It's warm for late November, a mild milky 50s, and the bay is thick with a lazy blue-grey mist.  The foghorn is going off, steady and unobtrusive, so after a while you don't hear it any more.  There's a breeze, stronger than you'd expect, and more west than south.  Three black ducks float just offshore.  Two more fly past, toward Mackworth Island.  The highway noise hums along behind you, and the tide is in almost all the way, with little waves making small hushy lapping noises along the rocks and the grass.  You can pick your way around the point, a dog running along and snuffling in the damp oak leaves ahead of you, and as you step over rocks and look for a driftwood stick to throw, you might feel very much at home. 

The Pay Is Lousy, The Hours Are Long, But You Can't Beat The View

I guess I'm really a coach now, because I can't really enjoy these pictures.  In each one of the photos I notice and fixate on something that someone is doing wrong.  Except for the picture with boat 2 sailing alone, and the sun setting.  But even that: it's still light.  Why are they heading in already?  I see a missed opportunity for a few extra minutes of practice.

Layering

This is the hardest time of year to dress.  I completely failed to dress right for my run this morning.  You wake up and it's still dark, and with your sleepy head you think the whole world outside your warm cozy bed is a chilly wasteland.  So you dress warmly: thermal long underwear, shell pants, capilene zip shirt, warm jacket, hat, gloves, scarf.  Turns out, on the run, you've called it completely wrong.  Should have worn running tights, long sleeved shirt, vest, baseball cap.  I spent the whole run peeling things off and tying them around my waist, stuffing my hat and gloves into my pockets, feeling stupid. 

Dressing for the day is tricky, too.  Mornings are cold -- steam rising off the water, frost on the windshield.  But by the sunny afternoon, it can feel almost like summer.  And then the sun dips below the treeline and it drops twenty degrees in ten minutes.  I've forgotten how to dress for this season.

It's Not Summer Anymore

I've pulled out my Smartwool socks, and my winter hat.  I haven't worn my gloves yet, or my long underwear, but that day is coming, soon.  Even in the bright sunshine it is crisp, and there's a chilly undercurrent.  When the sun sinks below the treeline, or even disappears behind a cloud, you can feel the frosty edge.  The fleece pants are in service.  The silk thermal undershirt is on duty.  The fleece vest has been doing good work but it's almost time for the down jacket.  It's almost time for the flannel sheets.

Gloaming

I've been paying attention to sunset lately, in a sort of mundane way.  We can't sail in the dark, obviously (or maybe it's not obvious -- some coaches tape flashlights to the masts as a way of dealing with fall's increasing darkness).  And we can't start practice until class is over, so as the season goes on we have a shorter and shorter window to work with.  Over my desk I have calendar showing the sunset times for the next month, and I look at it often when I'm thinking about what we'll do at practice.  Next Tuesday it will come 13 minutes earlier than today.  The week after that, another 12 minutes.  On the water, I watch the sun dropping toward Pole Island, and the light getting yellower, then flatter, then blue-shadowy.  I look at my watch, because at this time of year I don't know what time it really is based on the light.  Driving home I look at the sky and at the clock.  About 10 minutes after official sunset there was still light in the sky, but the treeline was black, a silhouette against a yellow sky.  I can't figure out how the sky goes from yellow-red to blue without passing through green anywhere, but it does, and away from the place where the sun is brightest it is red-orange, changing to a darker blue-purple without seeming to go through yellow.  Tonight the moon was up, a sliver, hanging near the horizon and glowing silver.  We'll have a full moon next Friday, October 6th, which I know from my sunset calendar and from trying to plan a moonlit practice for the team.  I suppose there are people whose job gives them reason to keep track of the moon, just like I'm keeping track of sunset these days, but the moon always takes me by surprise.  I never know where in the sky to look for it, or how big it will be, and it seems that just when I'm getting used to it being full it's getting small again.

This Is What Maine Means To Me

My parents are just back from cruising on their new boat, and my mom has posted some pictures.  It is this glimpse of Maine -- the islands of Penobscot Bay, the seals on the rocks and the piney shores and the shaded ferns waving from the wooded paths, the different blue-pinks of water and sky and a boat to row back to when you're done exploring.  This is why I love this place so much. 

Self Portrait

My parents called me tonight.  They've been off cruising on the boat they bought this summer.  All my life my father, a sailmaker, has spent his summers sailing on his customers' boats.  It's great that they finally have a boat to head away on where there's no obligation to make sure other people are enjoying themselves.  Anyway, they called and said they were in Quahog Bay, just around the point from where we practice.  I jumped in the whaler after practice to meet them for a drink.  I found my digital camera and goofed around with it, taking pictures of myself while I drove there.  When I look at them I gasp a little bit with pleasure.  This is my office.  This is where I work every day.  How on earth did I get so lucky?  You can see all the pictures here. 

On the way home it was dark dark dark, and the sky was full of stars.  You forget, when you don't spend nights on the water, how many stars there really are.  I drove back slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.  The air was cold -- not quite frosty, but in the 40s, certainly.  Besides a few cottage lights on the shore and the blinking of an airplane going across the sky, it was just me and the stars and the pines, with the quiet breathing of the seaweed on the rocky shores.  Beautiful. 

Sudden Squall

Last night I did the Thursday Night casual race with my friend Mac Daddy on his cozy cruiser.  Ruby came too, with a girlfriend, so we decided to deem it ladies night on Mac Daddy's boat.  We insisted that he wear a temporary tattoo, and then at the weather mark we donned feather boas and gave him the pink wig to wear.  It was a slow and comfortable procession around Clapboard Island for the cruising boats, while the racers went up the bay towards Diamond Island.  Sunshine, a light but steady breeze, and we were sneaking up on our cruising nemesis and trying to hold off the fast racing boat that was sailing in the cruising division. 

And then the sky got black to the west.  Not black -- a thick, deep grey, and, scarier to me, a sort of eerie teal grey-green that you only see in serious thundersqualls.  We watched it a little bit and then I suggested that we furl the jib, take down the main, and head in.  We put away the boat pretty quickly.  Several other cruisers were doing the same, and we could see some of the racers across the bay dropping their sails. 

We were put away, sailcover on, and motoring in by the time it hit, but it hit fast and suddenly: a wall of water and instant whitecaps.  The wind instrument read 31 knots when I looked at it; that was a steady speed, and I expect the gusts were higher.  The rain was horizontal, and visibility was severely reduced.  I was worrying about my friends who were out, on the racers' course, in an Etchells -- no motor, no cover.  I called the skipper, but she didn't answer her phone.  I asked our skipper if we could motor out to them to check whether they needed assistance, and radioed the race committee that we were doing so.  He had abandoned the race and when I told him the location of the Etchells he drove the RC boat in that direction.  Another big cruiser who'd headed into the anchorage ahead of us turned around, presumably to rescue the smaller boats who hadn't taken their sails down before the squall hit. 

Our friends in the Etchells were being towed in by a J/110, we confirmed.  The Race Committee spotted an overturned vessel near Cow Island and was on the scene, summoning the Coast Guard and rendering assistance.  We notified them that we were standing by to aid anyone who needed it.  The small boats were limping in okay.  The wind dropped down to about 18 knots -- windy but manageable, and the rain softened.  We proceeded to our mooring and took cover.  I watched a lobster boat towing in a small sailboat.  A moored boat's roller furled jib had come loose and was flapping helplessly.  On the VHF radio a trimaran with a tiny outboard gave its location to the Race Committee boat to get a tow in. 

We sat on our mooring for a while as it got dark outside, below deck with the cabin lights on, eating cheese and crackers and listening to the rain falling on deck.   On the launch and the dock people were trading tales of near escapes.   One J/24 hadn't yet come in, but the skipper and crew are very experienced and I expect they headed south or took cover across the bay.  I don't know the details of the overturned vessel in Cow Island passage yet, but I think the rescue was well under control by the Coast Guard. 

It was a night that reminded me how fast things can turn on the water, and how important it is to have working equipment readily accessible -- lifejackets, radio, anchor, tow lines, flares.  It also reminded me of the capability and seamanship of the people in the area -- people were on hand to render assistance to boats who needed it.  I've never seen a storm come through so quickly.  The most casual sail can become an extreme situation in the space of a couple of minutes.

Before and after photos from the evening.
 

 

Goal: Sail Every Day in August

I set myself a secret little challenge on July 31st: to sail every single day in August.  I haven't been able to do it (couldn't sail Friday -- no wind, or yesterday -- no time) but I modified it instead to: go on a boat every single day in August.  So far, so good. 

I think it explains why I'm in a much better mood.  I'm still lonely and wistful, longing for partnership.  I am still out of balance.  I still need to sort out how to earn enough money and how to manage all the physical details of maintaining an old house, a boat, and a car that all need attention. I still need to push my writing projects along in a more directed, focused, and commercially viable way. I still feel sometimes like my reach exceeds my grasp. I still have fragile moments when I feel like I'm not living up to what I wish to be in so many ways.  And yet, I feel good, generally.  I'm fumbling my way through all these brambles and it's hard work and sometimes it stings, but I feel kind of cheerful about it.  That probably doesn't make any sense at all but there you go.  And I think it's because of the time I'm spending on boats.

Last night I realized I hadn't been on a boat yet that day.  I didn't have very long; I had to feed my dog and then meet with Neighbor and 517 to talk about the ceremony for their wedding (I'm officiating, in 10 days, in case you'd lost track.  Yikes!).  I was tired and stressed out.  I debated with myself whether it was worth taking a treck out to the yacht club and jumping on the launch just to stick to a silly little goal. 

And you know what?  It was.  The water was blue and the sky a kind of velvety lavender-pink.  The launch driver was just getting ready to fire the shotgun and take the flag down when I arrived.  I waited with him, joking and looking out at the boats in the anchorage and smelling the salty breeze.  And I sat on the bow of the launch as we went out and picked up the J/24 racers who had finished for the evening.  The launch filled up with friends, who asked me about my mast and complimented me on the article I wrote in a current issue of a sailing magazine and handed me a beer.  And as the night turned blue-purple, someone pointed at the huge orange moon peeking over Clapboard Island and I felt both comfort and wonder.

On a boat every day: this makes me feel good.