Cousin Elizabeth, a 18-foot putt-putt, had been moored quite safely below the house on Sutton, in a southwest-facing cove, 100 feet or so below the ridge of the island. Although heavy winds had been forecast for Sunday night (30 to 40 knots, with gusts in excess of 50), they would have been from the northeast as the storm passed through, coming from behind ridge. But Ted, the boat’s owner, called up on Saturday and urged us to take the boat to its snug mooring inside Southwest Harbor. He called at two in the afternoon, though, which meant we wouldn't be able to return to the island by ferry, since there would be large minus tide by four pm and the ferry wouldn't be able to clear the shoal to land us at the island’s common dock.
So we grabbed Ernie, packed in his travel pod, a pair of underwear each and headed out into a very thick fog in fairly quiet seas. We took off from the mooring on a heading of 290 degrees, theoretically dead-on for Southwest Harbor, saw a seal or two close by on the way, and hit right on buoy #6, then bell #8, theoretically 200 yards or so from the coast guard station and the harbor entrance within 30 minutes. Just where we should have been. The last time we had been in the harbor, however, had been the Wednesday before, when there had been maybe 150 or so fancy-pants boats at mooring in the outer harbor, and a 120-foot three-masted white monstrosity anchored just off the coast guard station.
Easy on, throttle way down. We’ll be in the harbor in minutes now. What terrific navigation.
Meanwhile, the fog thickened and Somes Sound was quietly but thoroughly emptying out its 300 foot depths, flowing north to south at right angles to our supposed track. Because of the fog, however, there were no visual clues to remind us of the falling tide or to tell us of our sideways drift.
Somes Sound Works Its Sneaky Magic But what’s this? Where is everybody? No boats, no mooring balls, no hulking white three-master, and no intimation of any land mass behind the fog. What do you think about that, Ernie?
Moments pass. More moments pass. Where is the coast guard station? Where is the sky, the shoreline, where is anything? Quis me locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?
The boat continues at a crawl, giving an occasional hack from deep in its diesel insides. Phantom buildings seem almost to loom out of the darkening fog then fade. Nothing is familiar. A trio of dolphins play so close to the boat you can hear them exhale.
-Come this way, follow us, they may be saying.
But where are we heading? We pass a mooring ball or two, a field of lobster buoys. Which is good. It means we are, at least, still inshore. But then, suddenly...no buoys. Now what?
The fog thickens even more. We have a cell phone, luckily. And it is still partially charged. We call Ted who calls the Southwest Harbor Coast Guard. The dispatcher calls us and asks,
-Sir, do you have GPS, radar, sonar, etc, etc?
-No, no, no. A chart and a compass is what we have.
-Sir, can you describe your progress?
We do so. There is a thoughtful silence.
-Sir, can you describe your boat?
-Well, it’s red, about 18 feet long, beam of about 6 feet, with a canvas dodger. And we’re towing a dinghy.
-You say you’re towing a dinghy.
-Yes, we’re towing a dinghy.
Silence. Clearly, he has no idea where we might be. And what would the dinghy have to do with it?
"Yes, we are towing a dinghy." -Sir, we'll honk a horn on the big boat…Can you hear it?
-No.
-Hmmm. We'll honk it for 10 seconds. Can you hear it now?
-No.
Idea: we call 911, get a GPS fix on the cell phone signal (this is good to remember) from the State Police, who will be able to relay it to the Coast Guard.
OK. Now they can fix our position: 2-3 miles off-target to the southwest, between Manset and Great Cranberry, according to the coordinates he relays to us. We are apparently heading for New Jersey at a speed of approximately half-a-knot. You can swim that fast on your back. Larger swells are beginning to roll in.
-Sir, can you deploy your anchor? he asks.
Only if there's an anchor, we mutter. Ahah, there is an anchor, buried in a locker under an incredible accumulation of boat junk which has not been disturbed for many years. (Remember the prime directive of summer camp and anything having to do with it: Don’t Change Anything. Ever.)
But can I deploy the anchor? The anchor, when I finally unearth it, looks like something you would buy for a garden ornament, missing only the gnome. The anchor rode is maybe 60 feet long, tangled in an abominable, yellow nylon rat's nest. The bottom of the channel looks to be about 45 feet, by the chart. After much swearing, the rode is finally untangled, and deployed. It doesn’t hold, but we tell him it does so he won’t think we aren’t cooperating.
I pull up the anchor to try again, grabbing a lobster trap in the process. This is not a good way to make new friends.
I deploy the anchor again and this time it holds, sort of. And fifteen minutes or so later, a 40-foot coast guard cutter looms up in the fog, about forty yards off our stern, carefully picking its way through what seems to be a featureless channel. Jude is meanwhile blowing on a plastic "fog horn" she found in the engine box, which sounds like a flatulent duck (she has been doing this regularly for some now.) We note later the reason for the Coast Guard’s caution -- there is apparently a nasty ledge stretching much of the way across the channel, submerged at this stage of the tide only a couple of feet.
-Hello, boys, nice day for a boat ride, eh?
We follow them slowly back to Southwest, back past bell #8 and, the fog being slightly less opaque than an hour before, the coast guard station is right there where it should be, 200 yards off the bell. There is no monstrous white 120-footer at anchor, though, as it pulled out earlier in the day to a more protected inlet somewhere. There are no mooring balls anywhere in the outer harbor, and no fancy-pants Hinkleys or wooden boats, either. They were pulled out, all of them, within the last 36 hours. Rich people all over the world calling on the telephone: You must take my boat out of the water at once, there is a big storm coming. That travel-lift must have been smoking.
It is about 4:30 pm and it has been misting for the last two hours or so. Now it starts to rain for real. Ernie is still asleep. Petty Officer Sand comes aboard to make a regulation safety inspection as part of our daring rescue at sea. Our flares prove to be a year out-of-date, and there is no type-4 flotation device aboard. Jude apologizes for state of the boat.
-If this were our boat, she says, it would look a lot more shipshape.
-Yes, ma’am.
-You should have heard my husband swearing when he was trying to untangle the anchor rode.
-Yes, ma’am.
Finally, we make our way to the inner harbor mooring, tie up, and row to the town dock in the dinghy. We meet the harbormaster there, securing his boat.
-Nice day to go for a row, he says.
-Yes it is. We're going fishing. Like to come?
He says he has to get home.
The monster storm never did pan out. The NOAA automated broadcast continued to intone dire, monotone warnings, concluding each with the slightly smug refrain, “Smart sailors will remain ashore.” Local radio stations seemed to ignored it except to note there might be some rain in the evening. The end of the world was elsewhere. Ernie was still asleep.
After the fog.
-No.
-Hmmm. We'll honk it for 10 seconds. Can you hear it now?
-No.
Idea: we call 911, get a GPS fix on the cell phone signal (this is good to remember) from the State Police, who will be able to relay it to the Coast Guard.
OK. Now they can fix our position: 2-3 miles off-target to the southwest, between Manset and Great Cranberry, according to the coordinates he relays to us. We are apparently heading for New Jersey at a speed of approximately half-a-knot. You can swim that fast on your back. Larger swells are beginning to roll in.
-Sir, can you deploy your anchor? he asks.
Only if there's an anchor, we mutter. Ahah, there is an anchor, buried in a locker under an incredible accumulation of boat junk which has not been disturbed for many years. (Remember the prime directive of summer camp and anything having to do with it: Don’t Change Anything. Ever.)
But can I deploy the anchor? The anchor, when I finally unearth it, looks like something you would buy for a garden ornament, missing only the gnome. The anchor rode is maybe 60 feet long, tangled in an abominable, yellow nylon rat's nest. The bottom of the channel looks to be about 45 feet, by the chart. After much swearing, the rode is finally untangled, and deployed. It doesn’t hold, but we tell him it does so he won’t think we aren’t cooperating.
I pull up the anchor to try again, grabbing a lobster trap in the process. This is not a good way to make new friends.
I deploy the anchor again and this time it holds, sort of. And fifteen minutes or so later, a 40-foot coast guard cutter looms up in the fog, about forty yards off our stern, carefully picking its way through what seems to be a featureless channel. Jude is meanwhile blowing on a plastic "fog horn" she found in the engine box, which sounds like a flatulent duck (she has been doing this regularly for some now.) We note later the reason for the Coast Guard’s caution -- there is apparently a nasty ledge stretching much of the way across the channel, submerged at this stage of the tide only a couple of feet.
-Hello, boys, nice day for a boat ride, eh?
We follow them slowly back to Southwest, back past bell #8 and, the fog being slightly less opaque than an hour before, the coast guard station is right there where it should be, 200 yards off the bell. There is no monstrous white 120-footer at anchor, though, as it pulled out earlier in the day to a more protected inlet somewhere. There are no mooring balls anywhere in the outer harbor, and no fancy-pants Hinkleys or wooden boats, either. They were pulled out, all of them, within the last 36 hours. Rich people all over the world calling on the telephone: You must take my boat out of the water at once, there is a big storm coming. That travel-lift must have been smoking.
It is about 4:30 pm and it has been misting for the last two hours or so. Now it starts to rain for real. Ernie is still asleep. Petty Officer Sand comes aboard to make a regulation safety inspection as part of our daring rescue at sea. Our flares prove to be a year out-of-date, and there is no type-4 flotation device aboard. Jude apologizes for state of the boat.
-If this were our boat, she says, it would look a lot more shipshape.
-Yes, ma’am.
-You should have heard my husband swearing when he was trying to untangle the anchor rode.
-Yes, ma’am.
Finally, we make our way to the inner harbor mooring, tie up, and row to the town dock in the dinghy. We meet the harbormaster there, securing his boat.
-Nice day to go for a row, he says.
-Yes it is. We're going fishing. Like to come?
He says he has to get home.
The monster storm never did pan out. The NOAA automated broadcast continued to intone dire, monotone warnings, concluding each with the slightly smug refrain, “Smart sailors will remain ashore.” Local radio stations seemed to ignored it except to note there might be some rain in the evening. The end of the world was elsewhere. Ernie was still asleep.
After the fog.
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