Category: Down East Circle 2019

Despite the anticipated 7 hours of unpleasantness, off we went this morning towards Lockeport.  Or Davy Jones’ locker.  Whichever came first.  The first mile or two wasn’t too bad.  The water got worse, but fortunately four hours of unpleasantness is way better than what we’d anticipated.

Lockeport wasn’t actually our first choice, of course.  Our first choice was Shelburne.  Shelburne is where years ago Hester Prynne slept with that dirty preacher Dimmesdale and had a baby named after our boat and then was branded for life.  Okay actually that all happened in Massachusetts, not Nova Scotia.  Even more actually it was fiction so never happened at all.  But the movie starring Demi Moore was filmed in Shelburne so we figured it was worth a visit.  Shelburne isn’t as protected as Lockeport, however, and staying alive seemed more important than seeing an old movie set.

Since generally we cruised a few miles off the Nova Scotia coast, there wasn’t much scenery.  Just more water.  When we turned up towards Lockeport we started to see what we’d been missing.

We followed about an hour behind No Drama, past the Lockeport lighthouse.   Because every town on the water in Canada has a lighthouse.

Anyway, the talk on the dock was all about the weather.

We’ve now deployed six lines and five fenders and are as cinched in as possible.  But the dock-master is concerned about whether the dock anchors will hold in the wind, so us staying connected to the dock may prove to be somewhat irrelevant.

We’re not exactly sure how this all is going to work out, but Tropical Depression 6 indeed has become Tropical Storm Erin, is gathering intensity, and is barreling straight towards us on the southern end of Nova Scotia.  Are we lucky or what?  Tomorrow night 8-foot waves on top of 8-foot swells will be pounding out where we traveled today, with winds that may reach 70 mph.  So there’s that.

The border guards checked on us again.  We passed inspection, leaving Erin as what we hope is the last hurdle to getting out of here by boat rather than body bag.

Senior Bingo doesn’t start until next week, there’s not much else to do in Lockeport even when it’s dry and warm, and it’s going to be neither until at least Saturday.   Mostly thunder and lightening and wind and rain.   Looks like we’ll just sit on the boat for a few days, without shore power or WiFi, wishing we had rosary beads and knew how to use them.

First things first.  We survived Erin.  The dock-master had us move to a more secure spot and tie off to the fixed wharf, but we probably were fine where we were.

It rained, but not like it did for a week in Pensacola.  The wind blew, but not like it did for two months in Marathon.  Yesterday and today were clear and warm and glorious.  Except huge waves still were pounding out in the ocean, so we sucked it up in Lockeport.

When we decided to stop here, Google Maps showed three restaurants, two of which had decent reviews.  When we got here, we discovered that both of those two are out of business.  The one by the dock is the only one left.

In fact, all of Lockeport feels a bit like a ghost town.

The folks we met were quite nice, of course, and Dana enjoyed the WiFi—between 2:30 and 5:00 and on Thursdays between 6:00 and 7:30—during the moments when the regional library was open.

Lockeport at one point was quite the tourist draw, and from 400 feet or so above town we could see why.

Very cool location.  But then, from a distance most every town looks happy.  Except maybe Gila Bend.  Now Lockeport mostly is all about lobstering and fishing, which is a very noble thing especially seeing as how we love lobster and fish.

There just isn’t much for tourists anymore.  Even in desolation, of course, we managed to find some cool stuff, like the path around the island and Floyd’s Little Harbour.

We don’t know who Floyd is, but ironically his tiny boats just might be the biggest attraction around.

Tomorrow we’re leaving well before dawn in order to ride the tidal current up to Yarmouth.  No Drama is hanging back.  Hopefully they’ll catch up, but if not we’ll see Jeff and Ann and Zak and Sheila back in Phoenix.  Fred is heading home to the land of Cheeseheads.

Yarmouth—with its 16-foot tide swings—is our last intended stop in Canada this go-round.

Not that we’re anxious to leave, of course, because we love Canada.  Over the last four summers we’ve spent a good deal of time in five of the thirteen provinces.  We’re qualified to opine that the people are great and the scenery is awesome, and we’re gracious enough to overlook the abomination that is poutine.*  But Hurricane Dorian now is tracking towards Nova Scotia.  At best we can get to Maine and avoid the storm entirely.  At worst processing a property or life insurance claim from Maine will be much easier.  But first we have to get to Maine.  But even more first we had to get to Yarmouth.

As of last night, our plan was to get up at 4:00 to catch the tidal current.  No Drama planned to leave later and anchor, so we said our farewells.  At 4:00, however, we found her lit up like Christmas with Jeff and Fred and Ann and Zak and Sheila all buzzing around preparing to leave.  Turns out their evening cocktails yielded the realization that they just couldn’t bear to fall behind goobers with far less boating experience, so both boats took off in the dark.  And by dark, we mean pitch-black dark.  No moon and no-other-light-source kind of dark.  Thankfully after a while it got just light enough to see, which conveniently—and perhaps not coincidentally—allowed us to watch an awesome sunrise across the Atlantic horizon.

After that, not too much going on, but at least the water was calmer than predicted.  Apparently despite the lighthouse, Cape Sable—the actual Southernmost Point in Nova Scotia—enjoys a disproportionally large number of shipwrecks.  We’re not sure why, as we—the aforementioned goobers—saw the light and not much reason to sink.

That’s right baby, we successfully navigated eastern side of The Shipwreck Shoreline!  The coolest part of the trip was dodging the islands through Schooner Passage.

The islands weren’t necessarily majestic, but still photo-worthy.

As we approached Yarmouth, we passed The Cat, a super-fast ferry providing service between here and Bar Harbor, Maine.

Except when we looked into sending Shannon over on The Cat so she could catch a plane in Portland, it wasn’t running.  And when Fred looked into taking it over so he could catch a plane in Portland, it wasn’t running.  In fact, the ferry hasn’t actually ferried anyone all year.  The locals are blaming Bar Harbor infrastructure and the lack of a customs station on the other side, but all we know for sure is that The Cat is a nice big boat just wasting away in Nova Scotia.

Unlike The Cat, the waterfront webcam was in fact operating.  We took a screen-shot selfie as we lined up to dock at Killam Brothers Marina.

Around these parts, the Killam name is a big deal.   A mess o’ Killams started a shipping and chandlery business circa 1838, and Killams continued to run the business until the last one gave it up in 1999, although there’s still some tenuous connection to the wharf and marina and a museum and other stuff.

We generally accept only the “early to bed” part of Ben Franklin’s proverb, so were fairly uninspired when we landed this afternoon.  But we still mustered the oomph to walk around town.  The park was nice.

The shops were cute.

But that’s about the sum of our exploration.  Tomorrow we face thirteen hours across the Gulf of Maine on a day that’s supposed to be crappy but less crappy than the following bunch of days.  To a near certainty the blog report on re-entry will be untimely.

____________

* Deep in the Amazonian rain forest, indigenous cave-dwellers, untouched by civilization and uneducated even by third-world standards, intuitively know that ketchup is the only sauce belonging on a french fry.  Okay maybe sometimes cheese.  ABSOLUTELY NO GRAVY.

Finally time to catch up on our notes, this time from the good old U.S. of A.  Monday morning as we headed west we watched our last sunrise over a Canadian shoreline for a while.

There’s a lot we’ll miss about Canada.  Way too many things to list.  One thing we won’t miss?  Tim Horton’s.  They don’t grill the burgers, they don’t have fountain drinks, and they don’t have regular delicious french fries on which to put ketchup.  They claim that everything is “Always Fresh,” but based on our experience “Always Fresh” to Tim Horton’s means “so very not fresh that it goes straight in the trash and then you just eat snacks from the gas station because now there isn’t time to go someplace else.”   If that isn’t enough, Tim Horton wasn’t even named Tim.  His real name was Miles.  He recently was put on the list of the 100 Greatest NHL Players in history, however, which is dang impressive.  In 1974 he killed himself by driving drunk, which is the opposite of impressive.  Just like the food at the restaurant chain he started.

Anyway, the first three hours crossing the Gulf of Maine was more mellow than predicted.  We cranked up Sam Outlaw in the pilothouse.  Dana did some chores.  We had a nice breakfast.

The waves rolled up on us midday, but although unpleasant they were less unpleasant than expected.  At exactly the blue dot we popped back into waters of the motherland.

About 15 NM from Maine, we started hitting lobster pots.   More precisely, we started seeing lobster pot floats.  We actually only hit one float line.  Quick, go to neutral!  Now let’s bob around in beam seas to assess the situation.  The water is 54° with rolling swells.  None of those women lifeguards from Baywatch are around so Doug ain’t jumping in to try to unwind a line.  Fortunately it only snagged on a stabilizer fin and we managed to back off it after a surprisingly short period of wailing and swearing while we talked ourselves into concluding that it probably wasn’t also wrapped around the prop shaft.  During that period we were too busy wailing and swearing to think of taking a picture of the float actually appended to the fin, of course, but we did get one the bastard after we backed out to safety.

A sunfish drifted by during the ordeal, either obliviously or to laugh at us.  These things are weird that way.

As we approached the entrance to Southwest Harbor, the number of floats increased exponentially.  And fog set in.  To the point that we had to pick our way around them slowly, which exponentially sucked because we’d already been underway for more than eleven hours.  But hey, we made it across, so we’re not complaining more than a little.

Now here we are at Dysart’s Great Harbor Marina, which we hope is “always safe and warm.  Come in, she said, I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”**  We need it, because Hurricane Dorian is barreling north.

Southwest Harbor is on the Quietside—one word, capitalized, without even a hyphen—of Acadia National Park.  We know that, because there’re signs.

That’s okay with us, of course, because we’re Quietpeople.  The town is just busy enough to have a couple of good restaurants, but not so busy you can’t get a table.

Here’s the harbor and marina from the hilltop joint where we’ve eaten a couple of times.

The significance isn’t the harbor.  Or the marina.  It’s Jeff and Ann climbing into the photo just like that time Dana photobombed the special moment Brent and Karen were sharing when they skipped the hike up the enormous sand dune in Michigan.   (It’s hard to tell for certain, but it appears that Jeff may’ve said or done something to justify getting an earful.)  Regardless, we were quite glad No Drama—now Fredless—made it over safely.  Nova Scotia is gonna get way more of Dorian than is this part of Maine.

When we visited Maine a few years back we stayed for a few days in both Bar Harbor and Camden.  No need to stop at either place by boat, but we did zip up to Bar Harbor for groceries and lunch.  The shops and restaurants were crawling with passengers from that cruise ship in the harbor.  Bar Harbor is not on the Quietside.

We also dropped into Camden, mostly so Dana could revisit the bookstore and the store that sells all the lavender stuff that smells really good but we really don’t need.  We do love Camden.

The other must-do thing on Mt. Desert Island is hiking in the park.  So we did.  What Dana identified as a “moderate” hike in actuality required scaling a 25,000 foot peak, but at least it was pretty.

The huge Fleming behind us hauled out in advance of Dorian.  We’re staying snuggled up in Southwest Harbor to ride out whatever’s left whenever he or she shows up.  After one last night of frivolity, Jeff and Ann decided to head down to Camden and end their cruising season now, putting No Drama in storage for the winter.  Sad day for Misty Pearl.  We haven’t exactly traveled with them, but we’ve been in constant contact and have docked with them a fair bit since Quebec City.  Now they’re like old friends.  And no, we don’t mean “old” in the context of Jeff having played football at Northwestern in a leather helmet.

Hopefully we can start down the coast on Sunday.  Our goal is to be back at the Statute of Liberty by October 12.  Ish.

On a final note, we found a place for lobster trap floats that’s much preferable to being in front of us, or even worse wrapped up under our hull.

But wait!  There’s more!  The moment between that final note and hitting the “publish” button was extended by a sunset, which was perfect but for the Nordhavn 47 that partially blocked our view.

____________

* We agree, John Denver.

** Yes please, Bob Dylan.

Dorian came close, but although the wind and rain kept us inside all Saturday, we had no troubles to report.

At least we had time to do some research.  Southwest Harbor is on the Southwest—duh—corner of Mt. Desert Island.  “MDI” to the locals.  The island got its name when that same Sam de Champlain of whom we’ve previously written grounded his boat nearby and remarked (somewhat inexplicably) that the mountains made it look like a desert.  But of course the French pronunciation sounds like “dessert,” setting the stage for confusion and a debate that’ll not be resolved in our lifetimes.

The majority of MDI is filled with Acadia National Park, which used to be owned by the Rockefellers.  The park is loaded with excellent hiking trails and other stuff.  Like ticks.

Another Maine debate relates to the point where sunlight first hits the United States each day.  Some claim it’s the top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia.  We side with the side that believes it’s the West Quoddy Lighthouse in Lubec, not because we’ve done a scientific analysis with prisms and mirrors and Foucault’s Pendulum but because we watched the sunrise from the lighthouse a few years ago and told everybody it was first.

Southwest Harbor is where Hinckley Yachts has been building boats since 1928, which explains the huge number of Hinckleys in the marina.  We also encountered batches of them in Spring Cove, Michigan and Palm Beach, Florida.  Go figure.  Anyway, they’re pretty impressive—and absurdly expensive—boats.  Not for us.  We wouldn’t mind going a bit faster from time to time but we also love our stand-up shower.

We wasted a bunch of time trying to find info on Fort Prentice, solely because of a small plaque mounted on a wooden retaining wall.  The plaque looks legit, but finally we gave up in defeat.  Not a hint of explanation or confirmation to be found.

If it’s an April Fool’s joke, we don’t find it funny.

Despite the weather, we exercised regularly by climbing up and down a 45° slope every low tide.  Oscar hated it.  Especially in the dark.

Tomorrow morning we’re heading down to Rockland.  October 10 is our target date to close the Down East Circle Loop back at the Statute of Liberty.  Since periodically we seem to be stuck somewhere for a week, we gotta move when we can.

____________

* We’ve previously quoted Jeff’s pearl of boating wisdom but Hurricane Dorian makes this a great place to use it again.