The sun is low, the day is short, and it is too rough to haul. The stove is warm, the roof is tight and there is nothing to do but knit bait bags and yarn about summer days.
I think of cruising way down east and cheery people whose words I can never forget. Mary and I were homeward bound from Eastport in our Friendship sloop EASTWARD. She was gaff rigged, painted with house paint a little worn and carried not a spot of varnish on her. The shortest course was down Lubec Channel under the bridge. On the day in question, we figured that when the bridge pier on the east side was awash, we would have three feet of clearance between our topmast and the bridge. At that time, the ebb tide would be running vigorously out of Passamaquoddy Bay.
We carefully checked our calculations, and watched the clock. We watched from afar the height of the water on the bridge pier. We watched the rush of current as it accelerated under the bridge. At what we judged to be exactly the right moment, we headed for the middle of the bridge. We went as slowly as we could, but the current hustled us on. It was too late to turn back.
From astern came a Grand Manan sardiner, her diesel howling and her rig safely below the bridge. As she rushed by us, the skipper stepped out of the pilot house and shouted cheerfully, “You’ll never make it, Cap.”
But we were committed. We pressed on perforce. The topmast looked higher. The bridge looked lower. Our rig was fragile. White-knuckled, we held our breaths. We made it! Was he teasing us? He never stopped to see.
On another day we were homeward bound from Seal Cove on Grand Manan. To make the most of a fair tide, we had to start at first light. At first light there was no wind, very little light and the fog was choking thick. Visibility? There wasn’t any. However, we had a good compass, a reliable engine and a whistle buoy to run for. We shoved off, backed away from the float and turned around — not easy among the fishermen and the yachts that had gathered for a gam the night before. However, we did it without damage and without even waking sleeping yachtsmen. I headed down toward Southwest Head and glanced at the compass. It was crazy! It didn’t point north any more! I looked back at the float and the boats I had just left. They were gone. I was alone in a gray nothingness. I was rattled, confused, lost, and suddenly, scared.
A voice from Nowhere: “Better go back, Cap. It’s too thick.”
The voice must have come from Somewhere. A cheerful, confident, rational, teasing tone. I settled down, decided to trust the compass after looking to see there was no knife in the binnacle, and headed off into the fog. We made the whistle buoy on time just as we had planned.
One more from Grand Manan. Long, long ago, before GPS, before Loran, back in the days of clock and compass, so long ago that I have forgotten names to protect the wicked, I was cruising down east with a crew of paying customers. They were three boys who were learning piloting, seamanship and how to have a good time on the water with reasonable safety.
We had come across Grand Manan Channel from Cutler, made the cliffs on the west shore of the island and followed around its north end. There we got a welcome scale-up and slipped into North Head Harbour, a made harbor between heavy granite wharves. A generous fisherman let us tie up alongside his boat so we would not have to tend long lines to the wharf, for there is about 20 feet of tide here.
The night settled down and with it the fog, dungeon thick. But we were secure behind the heavy wharf. In due course, the boys turned in and I was coming right behind them, but took a look-around on deck first. Black as the Egyptian Darkness, somewhat relieved by a light on the wharf, which cast a small pool of dim radiance. I was about to go below when I heard the rumble of a distant diesel engine. Surely no one would be coming in here tonight. But the beat of the diesel grew louder and heavier. I heard the rush of a bow wave. Through the narrow entrance between the two wharves burst the navigation lights of a big sardiner. She swung around in the dark, headed right for our fragile little sloop. I picked up the boat hook, I don’t know why. Standing there in my pajamas with a slender boathook in my hand and three boys sleeping below, I felt utterly helpless and very stupid.
A head appeared over the huge bow and shouted, “Cut him in half.”
There was a great churning of suds under the monster’s stern. She stopped, swung around. The presence on the bow came aft and dropped tires over the side as she slid gently alongside.
“Wouldn’t cr-rack and egg, Skipper-r. We ain’t dr-runk but we bin dr-rinkin’.”
A car appeared under the light. The skipper’s wife took him home. At a cordial invitation, I put on my pants, aroused my crew, and we spent a profitable evening learning how to outfox both American and Canadian customs officials.