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September 3 – 22, 2018

     One of the many bonuses we found after purchasing Exit was the extensive library that was left aboard.  A book entitled A Cruising Guide To The Maine Coast summed up Robinhood Cove with the following observation:  You won’t have much company of the human kind, but the mosquitoes might throw you a party.

      Not only humorous, we found this to be an astonishingly astute statement.

     The main part of the bay, approximately a half mile in diameter, was occupied by dozens of unoccupied boats tied to mooring balls, just off Derektor Robinhood Marina.  To the south, Robinhood Cove narrowed to not much more than a thousand feet wide, but extended for more than three additional miles.

     It was along this stretch that we found Dena and James at anchor aboard Nomad.  We dropped anchor slightly farther south of them, the only boats there except for a small power boat and another sailboat, both unoccupied and sitting on mooring balls.

     There was certainly cause for celebration.

     Dena and James had just committed to buying a Baba 30 and had already started the process of finalizing the purchase.  In addition, James had previously corresponded extensively with a guy in California, named Ed, who had been following their blog Sovereign Nations for quite some time.  Ed was convinced he wanted to buy Nomad, and was currently flying over to take a look at her there in Robinhood Cove. 

     If they successfully made both deals happen (buying a new boat and selling theirs simultaneously), it would be pulling the proverbial rabbit out of a hat.  We had written this same scenario off as virtually impossible when we were still looking at boats eighteen months ago, leading us to buy a boat well beyond our initial capabilities… a decision which we have not regretted for a moment.

     While we chilled out, awaiting the final thumbs up that they could begin moving aboard their new sailboat, currently named Island Moon, we enjoyed the tranquility of near complete isolation, with the exception of the regular traffic of seals passing by.

     Much less social than the numerous dolphins we had grown used to seeing further south along the East Coast and in the Bahamas, the seals always kept their distance from us.  For the most part, the solitary head of a seal, possibly glancing over at us as it passed by, was the extent of our contact.  Occasionally, a splash in the distance would reveal to us the presence of one leaping part way out of the water as it hunted through a school of fish.  

     Overall, we ranked the dolphins as far cooler… but we still always greeted the seal with a “hello” and a smile.

     Once Dena and James solidified the purchase of their new boat, they were able to begin the arduous task of moving their belongings from one boat to the other by dinghy.  Though, in the end, one load was all our dinghy was needed for, we made certain to provide maximum assistance in the boat-warming party department.

     One day, we made the mistake of procrastinating our storm preparations on Exit when a weather advisory for potential gale force winds was issued.  The first blast of wind hit us while we were still securing things on deck. 

     Trapped between the opposing forces of a two knot current pulling in one direction and thirty knots of wind pushing in another, Exit momentarily listed precariously to one side as she struggled to find a balancing point.

     One of the stern rail-mounted solar panels, which had not yet been lowered and secured, swiveled upward as it was caught by the gust, causing its support strut (a $5.00 Walmart extendable squeegee) to slip out.  A loud bang emanated from astern as the panel swung back down against the stern rail.

    Looking back from amidship, it took me a few seconds to process what had happened.  Then I saw the squeegee bobbing on the surface of the water, drifting quickly away from us.

     For some unknown reason, our dinghy was still in the water, with the engine still mounted, tied off to the transom (normally we would at least stow the engine in case the dinghy flipped or we needed to sink it during a storm).  In this case, it was fortuitous.

     I quickly gained Kris’ no-contest-consent more than approval (she is typically much better at distinguishing between rationally improvised quick responses and poorly thought out, foolish, knee-jerk reactions) before hopping in the dinghy to retrieve a $5.00 squeegee in rough waves and twenty five to thirty knot winds… hmmmm. 

     With the precious squeegee recovered, we hunkered down and waited out the rest of the wind in the security and comfort of the cabin below, knowing our Rocna anchor would hold fast and hoping our rusty and decrepit chain would hold (James had staunchly insisted that we need to replace it sooner rather than later).  

     Fortunately, Robinhood Cove provided enough protection that we never saw winds higher than the initial onslaught that hit us right at the beginning.

    We thought we had come out completely unscathed until we realized that we had foolishly left the aluminum bench for our dinghy on Nomad’s deck when we helped Dena and James move to their new sailboat.

     A search of Nomad quickly confirmed that the bench was indeed light enough to be lifted up and carried by the winds we had experienced earlier.  A more lengthy dinghy-based search and recovery mission along the shoreline for more a mile in both directions proved fruitless, confirming only that, if aluminum dinghy benches even do float, ours never made it to shore.

     After the storm, we became even more determined to get out anchor chain sorted out.

     It had confounded us for months.  

    The quantity of rust the chain was shedding on the deck both created an absolute mess as well as stained the aluminum, on deck as well as running down the side of the hull where a rust streak marked the location of the deck drain.  

     Some of the wear points in the chain links were substantial.  It had now gotten to a point that, when setting or bringing up anchor, the chain was beginning to chronically jump out of the gypsy track (both a safety as well as equipment damage concern).  

     James had described the condition of the chain as a critical safety issue.

     The challenge: as a French built boat, Exit was equipped with a windlass set up for 12mm chain.

     The problems:

1. 12mm anchor chain is unbelievably difficult to get in the States.
2. Goiot discontinued our windlass model years ago and has no current parts or information support.
3. We haven’t been able to find a replacement gypsy allowing us to switch over to half inch chain.
4. Obviously, we can’t be at anchor while we replace the chain.

     The variables:  There is 145 feet of spare G4 chain in the bow locker that was lashed to the secondary anchor.  It appears to have never been used.  The Lyman-Morse Boatyard, who maintained Exit for fifteen years, has a record of Exit receiving half inch chain in 2015.

     The theory:  The chain skipping is potentially due to a worn chain as well as some wear to the gypsy itself.  Half inch chain is closer to 13mm than to 12mm.  Hopefully, the potential wear in the gypsy will accommodate the slightly over-sized chain.

    With more time than money, we committed to pursuing the potential option of a free resolution to the ongoing chain dilemma.  

     After digging some of the unused (and previously untouched by us) chain out of the locker and fitting it to the gypsy, we concluded: it was possible that maybe we could unconvincingly verify that the half inch chain might feasibly work in the current windlass gypsy.

     A few days paying to be on a nearby mooring ball gave us the ability to experiment.

     We pulled the entire new chain up on deck, measured and marked it, and did a few additional experiments to try to bolster our confidence that the chain fit on the windlass correctly.  Definitely G4 chain… stamped right on the links.  Seemed to be 1/2″ diameter… seemed to have never been in the water.  Seemed to fit the windlass gypsy better than the old chain.

     We were ecstatic to learn that the extra 165 feet of line already spliced to the end of the chain was actually unused 5/8″ yacht-braid (a quite expensive line designed specifically so it could be run through the gypsy just like a chain.

     Three hundred ten feet, or nearly one hundred meters, of anchor rode… sweet… as long as it works.

     Our first hurdle appeared as we tried to disconnect our Rocna anchor from the existing chain.  Not only were both screws on our $75 Lewmar swivel completely seized in place, but they were also completely stripped.  The only way the swivel was going to come off was with a hacksaw.

     I suspected it could take me thirty hours to completely saw through two stainless steel pins larger than half inch diameter.  Surprisingly, it took less than thirty minutes.

     We had already foreseen the predictable calamity of, after having just cut free the chain, watching our precious unsecured anchor slide off the bow roller, splash into the water, and promptly sink to fifty feet.  We had already taken precautions.

     James and Dena, who came by to lend assistance with connecting the new chain to the anchor, laughed when they saw the anchor, secured not only with two separate lines to the bow roller and deck, but also attached to a spare halyard hung from the top of the mast… possibly overkill.

     As for the now useless swivel, we were stuck.  We couldn’t find the same swivel anywhere in the area, and were told alternatives would cost hundreds of dollars.  

     Using a shackle in place of the swivel was an option.  Both methods have their proponents and critics.  Ask a group of surly sailors:  when connecting an anchor to chain…swivel or shackle?   Then stand back and watch the entertainment begin.

    After locating a shackle, already aboard, that James and Dena assured us was more than sufficient strength, James helped get everything attached properly.  It was agreed that, for the long term, it would be best if we used a slightly different bow shackle; however, everything was golden for the immediate future.  

     Rather than use Loctite, which would be a bitch to break free in the future, we followed our Sailing Gurus’ recommendation to mouse the threaded pin with stainless steel wire, preventing any possibility of it inadvertently backing out, but still allowing us to get it off easily when it came time to switch to a different shackle.

     Before getting off the mooring ball, we lowered the anchor where we were, as a test run.  Though the chain jumped slightly on the way out before the anchor hit bottom fifty feet below, it worked like a dream on the way back up.  Our confidence began to grow that we had actually found a solution which had been on the boat the entire time.

     We returned to our original anchor spot and dropped the hook.  This time it seemed to work even more smoothly as the chain was paid out.

     Woohoo!  We were now brimming with enthusiasm.  Our rusty chain was secured in the bow locker (where it would stay until we were 100% sure we didn’t need to use it as an emergency fallback) which meant that our rust stain woes were nearing an end  pending one final removal process of the current stains.  We had a brand new G4 anchor chain that was twenty five feet longer than before.  We had an extra one hundred sixty five feet of unused 5/8″ yacht-braid attached to the end of that chain which had been confirmed was perfectly safe to deploy if needed (which also ran through the gypsy).  Our gypsy seemed absolutely content running with the half inch chain.  And, to top it all off, we still had two thousand dollars in our bank account that would have been spent otherwise… gotta like that.

     True, at some point we would need to acquire additional chain for our secondary anchor.  But, at least it wasn’t an emergency (we had never had the need for a second anchor during our first year aboard Exit); and it appeared that half inch chain was now an option as well.  Happy days!

      Shortly afterwards, we received word from Dena that Ed was going to pull the trigger on Nomad… he was buying the boat immediately.  They had pulled off the impossible – successfully buying and selling two boats, in the same location, in less than one week’s time! 

     True magic… no sleight of hand, no safety wires… our heroes.

     There was undoubtably cause for big celebration, which the four of us undertook in fine form.

     Other than Derektor Robinhood Marina (and a restaurant above the marina office), there were no facilities for miles.  Fortunately, since the boat Dena and James were buying was on a marina mooring ball, they had access to the marina showers and courtesy car, which meant plenty of opportunities for provisioning.

     When they rented a car for a few days, we tagged along for a much appreciated one day road trip, an excursion to explore Portland and Boston.  We may be seeing a pattern developing… a reunion with Dena and James mandates a bit of Road Trippin’.  Lobster rolls in Beantown… yum!  But what’s with all the mayo?!

We also had plenty of time to explore farther up into Robinhood Cove by dinghy, which slowly transformed into more of a creek and eventually a marsh.

     The last project we felt compelled to do prior to a haul-out, which was now becoming imminent, was an attempt to clean our dodger and bimini covers.  

     Though very durable, a year on the water had begun to take its’ toll on the Sunbrella material.  The bright white had slowly morphed to a dull and dingy gray, eventually starting to show the black specks and dark stains of the relentless assault from the elements.   Now, even shades of green were becoming visible in places… algae.

     Without fully removing either the bimini or dodger cover, we spent the better part of two days carefully applying and rinsing a bleach/water mix, trying to minimize dripping on the teak or aluminum (generally a no-no on both).   Though we were dubious that anything short of a complete removal of the covers from the frames, followed by an aggressive cleaning off the boat, would have satisfactory results, we decided to give it a try.  

     During the process, Kris saw a post on one of the cruising forums, asking for advice on cleaning bimini covers.  Kris replied with a summary of what we were doing and how it seemed to be working.

     Forty eight hours later, with the bimini and dodger covers fully dry, we were stunned at how clean they looked, almost new even.  It had turned out far better than we had imagined possible.

     Later that evening, while we reveled in the cockpit drinking sundowners, beaming with pride and basking under the cover of our now gloriously clean dodger and bimini covers, Kris read a followup post on the cruisers network which lamented…

     … Just had to replace my bimini and dodger covers.  The bleach ate through all the threads.    

     Kris closed the laptop and we made another toast.  You can’t win ‘em all but some successes taste extra sweet.

September 2, 2018

    Our destination of Linekin Bay was only eleven miles away, so it afforded us a late start… something I thoroughly enjoy whenever possible.  

     However, heading nearly into the wind with very little wind, not to mention a plethora of lobster pots to navigate through, made for especially difficult sailing.   

     Even if we did get the engine shut off for a while, sailing through the pots quickly became exhausting and stressful.  The autopilot was on standby; manually steering by hand was the only way forward.

     Also, sailing inside a true wind angle of less than sixty degrees gave us very little ability to steer to the right to miss lobster pots without losing all our speed and steering as the sails luffed, or having to tack completely around to a different point of sail.

     In the end, we found ourselves having to do a lot of motorsailing… those dastardly lobster pots.

     And it seemed that, as we got closer to land, the numbers of lobster pot floats kept growing exponentially.  It reached a point that it appeared they had been placed more with the intention of catching boats than lobsters!

    We passed right by the very popular Boothbay Harbor without even blinking, precisely for the reason that it was very popular… more of a destination for the marina and mooring ball dwellers.

      Our intended anchorage was Lewis Cove, just around the opposite side of Spring Point.  It appeared that it would be much less crowded, yet still easily within walking distance of all the facilities located in Boothbay.

     A sound idea… but we crapped out on the actualization of that plan.

     In Lewis Cove, we were delivered three strikes – mooring balls everywhere, lobster pots everywhere, and low tide depths of greater than thirty feet anywhere there was a gap between balls or pots.  We would have to find an alternate location.

     After nearly an hour, we settled on a quiet corner of the bay further north… no lobster pots, no mooring balls in the immediate vicinity, and depths of fifteen feet.  

     Immediately suspicious and skeptical, we were wondering what we were missing.  However, the anchor set perfectly and all seemed good.  We had our own secluded spot, with very few houses along the shore and only a handful of unoccupied boats on nearby mooring balls.  The only uncertainties were shore access and whether we were miles from any facilities.

     A dinghy ride to one of the private docks netted us twenty two gallons of water, after gaining permission from a man of few words who didn’t seem to entirely get why we were anchored so far away from civilization without access to a car… oh well, free water is free water.

     A bit further along we found a public dock with dinghies tied up to it.  However, an exploration of the area uncovered only one small general store with nothing we needed.  I passed on the $25 lobster roll.

     Trying to give Dena and James all the space they needed to work things out, instead of being a distraction, we spent three peaceful nights at Linekin Bay.

     During that time, we met a immensely friendly local resident named Charlie, who stopped alongside Exit in his dinghy.  He gushed compliments at us for our choice of boat, pointed out that cruisers almost never anchor here as it’s so far away from anything, passed on information regarding lobster fishing as well as advice aimed at avoiding being fouled by the lobster pot lines, and gave us permission to fill up with as much water as we could hold using the spigot at the dock we had gotten water from earlier.

     Once again, we were amazed at the hospitality and helpful nature of some people we stumbled across.

     Even stranger was the exchange we had when we were visited by two women and a man rowing a pair of kayaks.  They had seen our hailing port of Pullman, WA on the transom and couldn’t resist coming over to talk to us.  

     We were stunned to learned that the man and woman were actually from Pullman, on vacation in Maine visiting their friend (the third person).  They had lived in Pullman for fifty years and, though we did not know them personally, we immediately recognized the street they lived on.

     Then, as if that wasn’t enough of a small-world-holy-shit-moment, further conversation revealed that their daughter Jennifer and I had actually graduated in the same high school class!  We have had some pretty bizarre crossing orbits in our travels, but that one has to be near the top of the list.  

     Later that afternoon, we received a text with the news we had been anxiously hoping to hear.  Dena and James were buying a new boat.  Woohoo!

     We immediately decided to lift anchor the following day and head straight for Robinhood Cove, just twenty nautical miles to the west… right after filling our water tanks.  Thanks Charlie!

August 30, 2018 

    The tiny island of Seguin only has a small bay measuring approximately five hundred by three hundred feet.  There is also a power cable running across the bottom through the middle of the bay, which supplies power for the fifty three foot tall lighthouse standing regally atop Seguin Island. 

     Fouling your anchor is bad enough… causing a lighthouse blackout while trying to bring up an anchor caught on the lighthouse power cable would most likely bring down all kinds of grief upon us.

     Fortunately, a non-profit group called the Friends of Seguin Lighthouse have set up, and maintain, a handful of free mooring balls in the bay.  When we arrived, there was room alongside another sailboat and small trawler.  It was the first mooring ball we had utilized since Carolina Beach last December, when we went on our epic road trip to New York City with Dena and James.

     By the time Dena and James arrived at Seguin there was only one other boat in the bay, the rest obviously there for just a day trip.  Essentially, we had the bay all to ourselves… sweet.

     We took our dinghies ashore and climbed the path to the top of the island, one hundred forty five feet above the bay where the lighthouse, museum, and Lighthouse Keeper’s residence are.

     The Seguin Lighthouse was commissioned by none other than George Washington in 1795.  Originally built as a wooden tower, it was constant exposure to the elements that eventually forced its’ reconstruction sixty two years later using granite brick. 

     By necessity, lighthouses are often built in inhospitable, dangerous, or remote locations.  The Lighthouse Keeper, tasked with the imperative of keeping the light shining at all times, especially in the worst weather, had to endure those conditions year round.  The mystique of a courageous individual, living in solitude, acting as the guardian and protector of sailors by warning them of impending dangers, has a very powerful resonance in the human psyche.

     But, like so many of the once truly iconic paragons of classic Americana that now reside only in history books and stories, the Lighthouse Keeper has all but become extinct.

     Alas, almost all lighthouses are now fully automated, as was the Seguin lighthouse in 1985.  

     Nonetheless, the Friends of Seguin Lighthouse do a brilliant job of maintaining the facilities largely through volunteer efforts.  During the summer months, the lighthouse is also tended by two volunteer Keepers who live at the residence, keeping up the grounds and trails, giving tours, and looking after the museum and shop.

     Though we arrived at the inopportune moment the volunteer Keepers had started making dinner, they were still kind and patient enough to take us up to the top of the lighthouse tower, letting us see the incredible First Order Fresnel lens, answering our questions, and chatting in the yard with us for quite some time.

     Returning to Exit, the night degenerated into a haze of Kraken-inspired conversations, stories, and laughter between the four of us.

     Dena and James sailed off their mooring early the next morning.  They were making a sprint for Robinhood Cove, only about fifteen nautical miles away, where they had the exhilarating and distinct possibility of both buying and selling a boat at the same location.  If they could pull it off, it would be accomplishing what we thought would be an impossible task.

    We stayed at Seguin Island for one more day so we could explore the many footpaths that spider out from the lighthouse grounds.  Some paths led us to striking, rocky beaches pounded relentlessly by waves.  Others to breathtaking vistas looking out over sweeping expanses of ocean and the shores of Maine to the north.  

     One of the paths took us to the northern tip of the island, where we could see Exit, at anchor in the bay next to us, as well as seals swimming through a channel fifty feet below us. 

That same path had endless wild blackberry plants growing alongside its’ edges, which we collected and savored as dessert that night.

     Mmmmm… free dessert.  That may be $6.00 for the credit fund…

August 29, 2018 

    For fifteen years, Exit spent her winters hauled out at the Lyman-Morse boatyard in Maine.

     Having been told numerous times, by many different people, that Maine was the perfect place to be sailing in autumn, it was high on our list of potential destinations during the fall of 2017.  But, alas, the timing simply didn’t work out.  

     By the time we were ready to leave the Chesapeake last year, it was already November.  Shifting winds and plummeting temperatures dictated that south was the only direction we would be sailing.

     Now, ten months later, we had sailed right past New York City with the steadfast determination that we were going to get to Maine this year.  We could always stop in the Big Apple when we returned south. If we didn’t press on, we might not make it again.

     Having spent more than half her life in Maine, Exit was as much at home here as anywhere.  

     We were stricken with how much the coast of Maine reminded us of the San Juan Islands, back in our own stomping grounds, the Pacific Northwest, where we had both spent most of our lives.

     It was easy to see why so many people had recommended we come here.  It was also easy to see why our broker Pete had ultimately recommended starting in the Chesapeake Bay instead of Seattle.  

     In some ways, Maine represented the best preparation the East Coast could offer for much of what would be expected if we ever sailed up the coast of Washington State.  

     Rather than sandy beaches, jagged shorelines and rocky crags comprise most of the endless bays, inlets and shores of thousands of islands.  An amazing variety of both evergreen and deciduous trees, now just beginning to show the first colorful signs of fall’s approach, interweave and merge together into dense forests running all the way down to the water’s edge.  Long, rubbery tendrils of deep red seaweed, swaying in the current, can be seen just below the surface of the dark, cold water. 

     This was very different from the Chesapeake, with it’s softer slopes and endless places to drop the anchor (or run aground) in chocolate colored water.  

     Also, it was much different from the white sandy bottom of the Bahamas which could be easily seen below infinite shades of blue, crystal clear water that looked and felt more like a bathtub than an ocean.

     Both the Chesapeake Bay’s very forgiving, mucky, muddy bottom as well as the sandy bottomed Bahamian Banks rarely reached deeper than twenty five feet, even miles from shore, offering solid and consistent holding to confidently anchor in.

     Here, in Maine, safe and/or feasible places to anchor are much farther and fewer between.  As much as ten foot tidal exchanges resulting in monstrous shifting currents, and rocky bottoms scoured by millennia of water movement, can create treacherous conditions for even the best ground tackle and anchoring techniques. 

     It is not uncommon for depths immediately off the shoreline to be thirty to fifty feet which can, at times, put you uncomfortably close to unforgiving rocky shores.  

     Even if you find a spot with good holding and enough room to swing at anchor, that’s getting to be two to three hundred feet of anchor rode required for adequate scope during even normal conditions

     Conversely, fifteen foot depths at high tide may not be adequate to keep your boat off the bottom at low tide if the direction of a building wind opposes the currents and waves start kicking up.   

     A two mile wide channel between islands may run three hundred or more feet deep at its’ center.

     All of these factors combine to make New England anchoring an adventure, both educating and humbling at the same time.

     But, before you even have the opportunity to attempt setting anchor, you must first successfully navigate your way through never ending minefields of lobster pot buoys which seem to blanket Maine’s waterways, whose lines lurking just below the surface patiently await the chance to snag the prop of any inattentive captain’s vessel.

     In spite of its’ formidable and sometimes apparently inhospitable challenges, Maine is a truly gorgeous and  breathtaking wonder to behold, especially from aboard a sailboat, proving the whole experience to be well worth the effort it demanded.

August 28, 2018 

    We departed P-Town, MA with the plan to detour slightly out of the way of our intended one hundred fifteen mile plotted course to Seguin Island, ME to pass over Stellwagen Bank.  Just north of Cape Cod Bay and east of Boston, this twenty mile long plateau, surrounded by depths of two to three hundred feet, rises to within less than a hundred feet of the surface. 

     Apparently, it a a prime location to see whales during this time of year, as evidenced by the fleet of whale watching boats that depart P-Town every day, brimming with tourists who have paid $60 each to be taken to Stellwagen Bank for that very purpose.

     What better situation than to have your own boat to do just such a thing?

     We chalked up $120 to our “credit fund” (we have a running semi-joke that every time we do something aboard Exit ourselves rather than paying someone else to do it for us, that money goes into a theoretical “credit fund” which we feel much less guilty about spending later), and headed for P-Town via the Stellwagen Bank, on what we hoped would be a whale sail.

     Of course, one very important lesson we have learned over years of diving is that absolutely the best way to maximize your chances of NOT seeing something is to go out with the intention of seeing it.

     Consequently, we saw not a single whale that day.  

     However, any disappointment was diluted over the course of the twenty four hour passage, during which we spent over twenty of those hours under sail power alone… most relaxing and rewarding.

     As we came within about ten miles of reaching Seguin island, I spotted a shark at the surface that seemed to be feeding on something.  

     When we turned Exit around under sail, it immediately seemed like an impromptu man overboard exercise, only we were trying to get back to what we thought was already a carcass.  

     After a couple of tacks and gybes it became very clearly evident that, unless we intended to make this a rather drawn out exercise, we had best fire up the Perkins and douse the genoa. 

    Moments later, as the relative silence of our environment was replaced by the rumbling of the diesel engine, supplemented with the intermittent splashes of raw cooling water sputtering from the engine’s exhaust port, we approached what we thought were the remains of something.

     The shark was no where to be seen…

     The object was pinkish… it was roundish (like a big piece of ham)… it definitely had a gaping hole on one side…

     …it was not dead.

     But, then again, it had never been alive… because it was only a faded red boat fender… cue: game show “you just lost” sound effect here.

     It looked like a huge, floating hunk of meat.  Even the shark had taken a bite.  In actuality, it was just floating garbage lost or abandoned by another boater.

    On behalf of a species that had polluted far too much of the ocean, we now felt obligated to at least retrieve it from the water.  

     Though it was someone else’s litter, it would now become our garbage to deal with.  A small attempt at reconciliation with the planet.  We need to get a swimming pool cleaning net to help us snatch up rubbish that we see afloat.  

     At last, after numerous attempts, we managed to snag the fender with a boat hook and get it out of the water, where we unceremoniously threw it in the dinghy to await eventual disposal into a dumpster where it becomes someone else’s problem.

     A less noble adventure that occupied the remainder of our time as we approached Seguin Island was a battle we found ourselves waging against the dark forces of biting black flies that had suddenly invaded our vessel.  Possibly residents of the local lobster boats, temporarily stationed as sentinels on the lobster pot floats that surrounded us, dozens and dozens now flew about inside the cockpit, endlessly annoying, attacking, and biting us.

    Armed with our trusty fly swatter Fly-calibur, the cockpit became a killing field.  By the time we reached Seguin Island, dozens of fly corpses, smashed and broken, littered the floor of the cockpit underneath the teak grate.

     All the while, we were also having to constantly change course, dodging left and right to avoid the infinite number of lobster pot floats scattered in every direction.  Oftentimes they couldn’t be seen until we were nearly on top of them.  

     In the cockpit, it sounded something like, “Lobster pot to the left… ouch!  Fucking fly…. Oh shit… back to the right now… ouch!  Where’s Fly-calabur?  Do you see that pot just ahead?  Ouch!  Ha… got you fucker…”

      …cue Benny Hill theme song here.

    However, while managing to successfully navigate without running over a single lobster pot, ultimately, we were unable to fully repel the invading flies.  We subsequently  found ourselves involved in repeated skirmishes that occasionally broke out aboard.

     Still, we had finally made it to Maine!

August 27, 2018

     I have heard of Boston, MA being referred to as Bean Town.  So upon hearing the nickname for Provincetown, MA (located at the very tip of Cape Cod, just opposite Boston on the mainland), I naturally assumed it was either a tip of the hat or a slam towards Bean Town… or Pea Town.

     Wrong.  In actuality it is apparently simply P-Town… just a shortening of the name.

     And, though we only spent a few days in P-Town, we had an incredibly enjoyable time.

     Plenty of partying and socializing with James and Dena, both ashore and aboard our boats; exploring the beaches and the town; and planning our next steps occupied most of the time.

     P-Town certainly has a conspicuously visible LGBTQ population and visitor base to it.  I say this as an observation only, without any judgement or implications intended.

     Pairs of men and women walking hand in hand… gay pride messages and slogans on t-shirts hanging prominently on the walls of souvenir shops… even a huge banner displayed overhead across the main street advertising performances of the musical  Broke-la-homo.

     I actually consider it quite refreshing to see that a community, in the heart of historically colonial and Puritan America, can be so open-minded and open-armed in this time of Trump-endorsed (and oftentimes Trump-initiated) overt narrow minded prejudice and paranoid bigotry.  At least not everyone is crazy.

At the same time, I should consider how ridiculous it is that open-mindedness and acceptance within a community could be considered a refreshing and noteworthy distinction, as opposed to just being the norm… maybe most people are crazy.

    Since moving aboard Exit, we have seen dolphins in the water around us fairly regularly… always a welcome sight that brings smiles to our faces as well as an immediate time-out from whatever we are doing to more fully appreciate and revel in the moment.

     One morning, sitting in the cockpit while at anchor, we were flabbergasted to see what had to be a pod of well over a hundred dolphins meandering through the bay.

     We immediately hopped in the dinghy, motored to a location a few hundred yards in front of their path, shut off the engine and waited.  

     As they approached and eventually passed by on all sides of us, we watched with the giddy enthusiasm of children on Christmas morning.

     For well over an hour, we repeated this process again and again.

     Eventually, as the pod worked its way towards the far side of the bay and appeared to be slowly headed back in the direction of the open ocean, we began to have more difficulty getting ahead of them.  

     Opting not to motor straight into the pod, as some other boats which had begun to congregate were doing, we decided to return to Exit, content to have had the opportunity for such a magical experience.

     After a few days of exploring, re-provisioning, and relaxing, it was time to once again lift anchor and move on farther into the heart of beautiful New England.

August 25, 2018

    To get to Cape Cod, we decided to motor through the Cape Cod Canal rather than sail back in the direction from which we had just come and navigate all the way around the outside of the Cape.  

     A minimum of one or two hours of engine use during the thirty miles between Buzzards Bay and Provincetown, via the canal, made far more sense than the nearly two hundred mile sail all the way around the outside (still one hundred thirty miles if you were daring enough to thread the needle behind Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket Island, and Nantucket Shoals).

     From Onset, the key was to time our departure to coincide with favorable currents.  The ninety minute trip through the canal was only possible for us if we were traveling with the current, which exceeded a staggering four knots in the most constricted spaces of the canal.  

     There was a two hour time limit to complete the passage, turning around was not allowed, and sailing was prohibited… rules established and enforced by the patrolling Canal Control authorities.

      Dena and James were already underway (as was always the case – I am not known as an early riser by any stretch of the imagination) by the time we started to pull up anchor.

     Aside from the hard left hand turn we had to make into four knot currents from a very narrow channel to get into the main channel leading to the canal, and a large barge coming from the opposite direction once we were inside the canal which through up a wake that still had us bouncing around on confused waves for many minutes after it had passed, the journey through the canal was without drama.

     The most exhilarating part was the speed we were traveling at.  Though we were forced to motor through the canal, the favorable current we were riding on had us zipping along at between nine and ten knots of speed in places. 

    When we reached the other side of the canal we had officially made it to Cape Cod Bay.

     We could see Dena and James not too far ahead.  Nomad’s sails were already up.  They hate using their engine even more than we do (Dena would not so affectionately refer to it as the infernal combustion engine).

     Our own wind speed display indicated less than five knots of breeze to work with, but we had plenty of time to cross the bay to reach Provincetown by sunset.  We were already tired of listening to the drone of the engine so we turned into the wind, got up the main, unfurled the genoa, and shut off the engine.

      As is so often the case, just as we finished getting the sails up, the wind died off even further.  It was now less than two knots and our forward movement had all but ceased.

     In an absolutely classic moment, the radio crackled to life with James’ voice.

     “Exit…Exit…Exit…this is sailing vessel Nomad.  You appear to be dead in the water.  Can we offer any assistance?”

     With a smile I replied, “Nomad…Nomad…Nomad…this is sailing vessel Exit.  This is how fast we go when there is no wind.”

     After a brief silence, James voice came back over the speaker with a chuckle, “Oh… we’re running our engine.  You guys are our heroes.”   

     Hmmmm…

     Needless to say, within about five minutes we had the engine running and ended up motorsailing for half an hour before the winds creeped above five knots, allowing us a quiet five hours of sail time and a brief deck to deck conversation as we eventually caught up to Nomad.

     We crossed Cape Cod Bay in about six hours, reaching Provincetown, which is tucked just under the curl at the very tip of Cape Cod, by mid-afternoon.

     They have converted the entire area around the main docks to mooring balls, which are either private or have to be paid for to use; but we were able to find a spot on the west side of the bay with fifteen feet of depth, good holding, and plenty of space.  

     It made for about a ten minute dinghy ride each way… oh well.

    As we were setting the anchor, we realized the boat next to us was aluminum.  Though we don’t purposely seek out other metal boats, we find a disproportionate amount of time that we are in the same anchorage, we end up near each other… a strange coincidence.

     Even more strange was a third aluminum boat and a steel trawler which anchored next to us over the next couple of days… metal heads unite!

August 24, 2018

     Buzzards Bay, not the most marketable name.

We arrived at Onset, MA on the 18th and planned to pass through the Cape Cod Canal at the next opportunity, which would give us access to Cape Cod.  We were just awaiting a more favorable schedule of currents, which would allow us to get through a rather tight chokepoint from our anchorage and into the channel that would take us to the canal.

Plenty of time to chill out and plenty of time to catch up with friends.

 

     One evening’s shore excursion with James and Dena, which found us caught in a torrential downpour, led us to Marc Anthony’s Pizzeria.  Though the pizza itself was the ultimate highlight, the true entertainment came when someone named David failed to appear at the counter to pick up his pizza, despite his name being called out repeatedly.  Finally, after some time, with the entire restaurant chanting his name loudly in unison, a very embarrassed David sheepishly slinked up to the counter to claim his dinner.  Some people are just idiots.

     Onset also showed us the generous hospitality we found in Cuttyhunk.  After a local fisherman passing by Exit stopped and had a brief conversation with us, we were amazed to see him return later with a gift of a dozen or so quahogs (a type of hard clam native to the eastern shores of North America) he had collected.  Though Kris (who is  vegetarian) opted out, James, Dena (also both vegetarians who still eat seafood), and I enjoyed deliciously fresh quahogs on the half-shell upon Exit’s transom later that evening.

     Less hospitable was the very large Osprey (magnificent birds of prey that can be seen all along the eastern coast) who decided the top of our mast offered the best vantage point in the area to occupy.  It resulted in our wind indicator once again lying on its’ side.   This is a phenomenon we seem to experience every few months.  At least in this case it was a really cool bird that was the culprit instead of a lowly seagull… or a buzzard.

     Regardless, it meant that once again I had to go sixty two feet up in the air to the top of the mast and reset the position of the wind indicator.  On the plus side, every time I go up the mast it seems to become a less daunting and intimidating task.  I don’t think I’ll ever relish the duty, but it is encouraging to know it can be done with a low fear factor.  Still, I won’t be following Benjamin’s lead by utilizing free-climbing tactics to shimmy up without being attached to any lines.  Call me me chicken… call me old… I’m happy just to not be called a corpse.

August 17, 2018

    After departing Block Island on August 15, we headed for Cuttyhunk, our first destination in Massachusetts.  It was the one year anniversary since we had splashed Exit in Maryland, a day comprised of seven hours of sailing without any engine noise… nice.

    We arrived already aware of the fact that nearly the entire inner bay of Cuttyhunk was occupied by mooring balls.  So we anchored just outside the breakwater, where we found very few boats and plenty of space.

     For the first time this year, our Rocna didn’t grab the bottom on the first try.  A thick bed of long sea grass just below us prevented the anchor from digging in.  We found ourselves drifting backwards within close proximity to a mega-yacht. Though it was never that close a call, it was amusing to to see the very concerned expressions on the faces of two crew standing behind the window of the bridge… certainly a turning of the tables.  

     We moved to a completely different area and had no trouble on the second try… anchor beers well deserved.

     Without the tourist traffic of Block Island, Cuttyhunk provided a quieter stop to explore.  Oysters on the half shell and clam chowder on the docks made for a proper New England experience.

     We found the residents to be very boater friendly.  

     While wandering ashore, we happened across an unoccupied golf cart with a large crate of fresh corn.  Above the box was a sign indicating one dollar per ear… honor system payment into a box.  Though we subsequently found corn for less money at grocery stores in other locations, we thought it was money well spent at the time.

     At Block Island we had seen tables set up outside some of the residences, where free fresh vegetables from private gardens were offered to those passing by, but our timing had always been poor and any vegetables were already long gone. 

     The day before we left Cuttyhunk, while we were heading back to Exit in our dinghy, we were approached by a man in a small power boat.  Initially, I thought he was trying to get around us so I slowed down and steered out of the way.  

     We were a bit confused when he slowed down, pulled up alongside us and asked if we needed any maple syrup.  We thought he was trying to sell it to us until he handed us a bottle, said it was homemade by his family, and told us it was a gift… awesome!

     Again and again, we find these random acts of kindness (free syrup in Cuttyhunk, free rides offered in Charleston, our guardian angel Ray in Nassau) to be among some of the most rewarding exchanges we have while cruising.

    It was at Cuttyhunk that we finally met up once again with our cruising friends and soulmates Dena and James (aboard S/V Nomad), who we hadn’t seen since they dropped us off at the dock in Carolina Beach after our road trip to NYC which was over eight months ago.

     Now, we were in the same place at the same time again.  In fact, it was James who had suggested we jump the Gulf Stream from Georgia and head straight for Long Island.  

     At the time, it had seemed overly ambitious and beyond our capabilities.  

     In the end, we had taken the plunge and done just that… and were ecstatic that we had.  Now, they rolled into Cuttyhunk a day behind us.

     James and Dena have been both an inspiration for us, as examples of two committed individuals living on a very limited budget who have proven for over twenty years that living aboard a sailboat was an attainable goal, as well as being a wellspring of knowledge regarding how to actually do it.

     They were the first full-time liveaboard sailors we met after arriving at Back Creek just outside Annapolis right after we purchased Exit.  It also became immediately evident that they were of the very same mindset as us.

     Being able to re-connect with them was energizing, to say the least.  We could once again enjoy each others’ company swapping stories, as well as get lots of advice.  They have always shown real interest and been exceptionally patient and helpful, especially considering how inexperienced we are.

     They continually express how impressed they are with Exit’s construction, and have repeatedly assisted us in better understanding her.  In addition, they offer endless moral support and help us to gain confidence.  Having two people with their experience tell us that we display good judgement, decision making skills, and resourcefulness regarding sailing carries a great deal of weight and is quite reassuring.

     After so many years living aboard a sailboat, they have an unfathomable number of stories.  We were thoroughly amused to be told that, for them, it is unique to know two people who have an equal number of interesting stories to tell as well.

     Now, after nearly eight months, it was invigorating and exciting to have finally caught up with our likeminded liveaboard friends.

      Fortunately, East Coast liquor stores were well stocked with Kraken rum, James and Dena’s drink of choice to which we have become converted connoisseurs of.

August 14, 2018

    Block Island walks a tightrope, maintaining its small island identity with a permanent population of only one thousand people while hosting a remarkable ten to twenty thousand visitors every day (mostly day trippers arriving via high speed ferries).

     Our first impression was not favorable, though it was based entirely upon a unanticipated introduction involving hundreds and hundreds of boats occupying the bay in which we were trying to find a spot to anchor – far too much sensory overload for two people who had just spent nearly a week alone on the ocean.

     Ultimately, we came to a very different conclusion.

     As we were wandering around on our first day ashore, we stumbled across a music festival that was underway near the waterfront.  It was called Conservefest, and was dedicated to raising money and awareness regarding Block Island’s sincere efforts towards conservation.

      We learned that the anchoring restrictions of some areas of the bay were aimed at preserving the sea grass beds imperative for local marine life.  

     The island also carefully monitors water quality in the bay, an especially important task considering the number of visiting boats.  

     One could make the argument that the extensive field of the mooring balls is largely a strategic source of revenue for the community.  However, it also helps to prevent potential damage caused by irresponsible or poorly executed anchoring practices.

     Our arrival at Conservefest was perfectly timed to coincide with the performance of a band called Z Boys.  Though we had never heard of them before, they absolutely blew the other acts off the stage.  For nearly an hour, the guitarist, bass player, and drummer put on a stellar and smoking performance of original instrumental material.  It was reassuring to see that the power trio is still alive and kicking in rock music.

    However, our primary focus initially was to get our depth gauge sorted out.  After troubleshooting multiple possibilities, we had concluded that it was almost certainly the transducer itself, mounted to the underside of the boat via a through hull, that had to be the problem.

     As it seems is always the case, we had to wait through the weekend before being able to locate replacement parts.   After endless phone calls on Monday, we located a supplier who could ship us a new transducer immediately.  It shipped out on Tuesday and we received it on Friday.

     After a quick switchover, there was an oh shit moment when the depth gauge still showed nothing but dashes.  But after further checking, we discovered it was merely an adjustment in the systems setup menu that needed to be configured for the new transducer.

     Our depth gauge was back in business… and it read forty five feet… holy crap!

     We also had the bonus of meeting one of James and Dena’s friends Benjamin, single-handing aboard his sailboat S/V Crackertale.  Not only was he a great character, but also an exceptional rigger.  We were able to get a clean bill of health after he thoroughly inspected Exit’s rigging, which included him scrambling up the built-in mast steps in fifteen knot winds without even the assistance of the Bosun’s chair or any safety lines… another holy crap moment.

     We spent nearly two weeks at Block Island, and had the opportunity to wander around other parts of the island, including a great hike out to one of the lighthouses at the end of a sandy peninsula occupied by a family of relaxing seals.