The skipper had held a six-passenger Coast Guard license for over 50 years and had sailed day parties and cruising parties in his Friendship sloop. In one boat or another, he had cruised from St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands to St. John in the Bay of Fundy. He is now sailing a neat little 28-foot schooner built in the tradition of the Gloucester schooners of a century ago. But he has a game leg and isn’t as strong as he used to be. Even with the help of his wife, his first mate for many years, he can’t sail the schooner alone. On this particular day, he has his boy along. His “boy” is in his 60s and himself has held a Coast Guard license for years.

So these two old guys set out to sail the schooner to Boothbay Harbor to buy fuel for the schooner’s diesel engine. It had been several years since they had bought fuel, and only two gallons sloshed around in the tank, measured with a notched stick.

It was a lovely summer day, sunny and warm with a gentle southerly breeze. They set mainsail, gaff topsail and foresail, let her drop back clear of the peapod on the mooring, set staysail and jib and were on their way to Boothbay Harbor. They had to beat out of Linekin Bay, round Spruce Point, and run up the Harbor to the fuel float at the marina. It was a pleasant beat down the bay. Schooners don’t point very high, and DOROTHY ELIZABETH was no exception. Two Lightnings and an Ensign overtook them from leeward, and that bothered the two old guys not at all. A red Coast Guard picket boat flashing blue lights zipped up the bay on some mission of mercy. A powerboat rumbled by and raised a big wake. The little schooner took it in her stride. A Boston Whaler circled around taking pictures. It flew a banner from the starboard side telling where on the Internet one could buy prints. Other power boats whipped by, some ignoring them, some waving cheerily, some hailing the skipper by name, their words indistinguishable. Another elegant Ensign knifed by, outward bound. In due course they fanned through the dead spot off Spruce Point. The main sheet blocks clattered as they bore off up the Harbor.

With the wind astern, it got hotter. The foresail winged out opposite the mainsail. They slipped by Burnt Island Light, by the nun buoy and by the elegant Spruce Point Inn. A sleek J-22 passed, beating out, and a Boothbay Harbor One Design sailed alongside and gradually dropped astern. It got hotter. A huge whale-watching boat churned by. The schooner LAZY JACK passed, crowded with passengers. They passed the flasher off Tumbler Island. It got hotter and things happened faster. They passed the old NELLIE G. tied up in a dock. The Squirrel Island ferry passed genteelly, raising no wash. It was time to roll up the big jib. Vacant mooring buoys sprouted thickly, then yachts swinging at moorings lying close together. They threaded their way through, approached the fuel float. The “boy” doused the staysail. The skipper rolled the wheel over to luff alongside. A big sloop under power crossed DOROTHY ELIZABETH’s bow. The skipper rolled the wheel the other way, the sloop slid alongside the float, reversed her engine and passed lines ashore.

The schooner, perforce, continued up the harbor, dropped her foresail, started her engine, weaved her way back to the float where lay the sloop and a huge New-York-Apartment-Afloat ahead of her. It pulled out, leaving an oily smell, and DOROTHY ELIZABETH eased alongside.

Two efficient dock boys took her lines. Another passed over a hose, covering its business end with a paper towel lest a drop foul the deck.

“How many gallons, Sir?”

“Five”

“Five!” exclaimed the dock boy.

“Yes. Five. Not five hundred.”

Five gallons were carefully measured out.

“How much do I owe you?”

“$12.35”

The skipper took exactly twelve dollars in folding money and 35 cents in hard coin from a worn wallet. The “boy” set foresail and staysail, and when they got clear of moorings, the jib. The two old guys sailed home in the cool of the late afternoon, hailing the schooner EAST WIND loaded with passengers and saluting the red Coast Guard boat tearing back to base. When they got home, they picked up their mooring and rowed ashore in the peapod.