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Monday, September 20, 2010

Two things have happened since we returned from Maine.
Dodge Morgan, whom John and I visited on August 15 and who told us of his planned surgery in early September, never recovered from that operation. He died in the hospital on September 14.
I am talking with Dodge's friends and have been asked by Soundings Magazine to write a remembrance of him. That is a privilege, albeit a very sad one. Dodge was one of a handful of individulas I've met over the years that I wanted to get to know better, and never really did. He was a unique human being.
The second event is minor. Bluebird, the Mariner, was launched last Thursday and I got to sail her on Friday. She sailed exquisitely.
It was still dark when we arrived at the entrance to the Cape May Inlet. There was a commercial fishing boat waiting outside the inlet, and we slowed and waited to to see how the seas were breaking on the Inlet. That would give us some idea of how conditions might be if we rounded Cape May Point.
Another fishing boat arrived, and we listened to their radio conversation. The first boat had a steering problem, and the skipper asked the captain of the second boat for some advice.
Meanwhile, dawn was breaking and I was edging Robin slowly toward the point.
There appeared to be a couple of safe routes between the Inlet and the point. The one closer to shore seemed quite narrow when viewed on the chartplotter, and quite shallow. So I chose the one that started a bit farther from the beach and zig-zagged in toward the point.
There was no sunrise on this morning, the sky overcast as we edged closer to the surf line. At about 6:30, we were travelling parallel to the sand in about 15 feet of water, with no problems, when we reached the outer end of the point. If there had been bathers on the beach, we would have needed a bullhorn to talk with them, because it was a few hundred feet away.
I punched in a waypoint well up the Delaware Bay and we turned Robin toward that goal, some wind coming now from the south, and we motorsailed north.
I decided that I'd never go through the Cape May Canal again if the seas were calm. The experience had been bland and without problems.
We motor-sailed up the bay, running with the current until we were past Ship John Light.

A catamaran that had apparently come through the canal slanted toward us from starboard, slipped across our transom and finally edged ahead of us when we neared the Salem Nuclear plant. The boat entered the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal just ahead of us and it was tied to the town dock in Chesapeake City when we arrived. For the first time in our collected experience, John and I were able to moor at that dock behind the catamaran.
The crummy weather that had threatened us all day coming up the bay cleared to the north, and Engineers' Cove was lit at dinner time with billowing cumulus catching the late afternoon sunlight.

We showered, dined, and after a good night's sleep, we motored and sailed down the Chesapeake Bay to Robin's slip in Cambridge on the Choptank River, arriving in daylight, restored from a fine nine days on board.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Robin left Newport Harbor just behind Puma, the Volvo Ocean Race 70-footer. By the time her crew had her mainsail up, we were just beginning to raise Robin's.
But there was little wind, and what wind there was was on our nose. So we began motoring on a southwesterly slant out of Narraganset Bay, aiming toward Point Judith and the western side of Block Island ten miles beyond.
We had delayed our departure until 11 o'clock because we knew the favorable wind were not forecast to arrive until later in the day. If they did not arrive, we could always bail out and head down Long Island Sound, to the west.
Some place past Block Island and, to the west, Montauk Point, Robin's mainsail did begin to flutter, and soon, we were enjoying a westerly breeze.
The wind built and came around to the northwest, and we began sailing without the engine.
Then the wind veered to the north, as predicted, and we were on a broad reach. As the wind speed built, so did the weather helm -- the tendancy of the boat to steer up into the wind.
In fact, the weather helm became so strong -- despite our trimming of the sails to counter the effect -- that we were no longer able to steer the boat with the autopilot.
Being thoroughly modern sailors -- which translates into "too lazy to steer the dang boat ourselves" -- we doused the sails and returned to motoring. It was, by now, well into the dark of night.
I was on watch in the early morning hours as we crossed the shipping lanes from Europe to New York. I saw several ships before the one that, on the radar, seemed to be heading our way.
I saw it first at ten miles. Then I saw it (on the radar screen) at six miles. It was about two miles west of another ship, but I physically saw that ship and saw that it was not headed for us.
(You tell the direciton that a ship is traveling by two white lights on masts. The shorter mast is on the front of the ship, the taller one at the rear. If the shorter one is to the left, the ship is traveling from right to left. If the two lights are one directly above the other, it is headed for you.)
When the second ship was two miles away, its lights were one over the other. I radioed our position and asked the ship what it wanted us to do. The master called back and said he saw us and was turning to go to our rear.
The next photo is of that ship, whose lights can be seen if you really strain.

You can see the first light of day seeping into the picture to the right, which, of course, was the east.
It was some time later in the morning that we first began to discuss in honest terms my desire to sail outside of Cape May. I'd heard a couple of professional captains tell of doing this -- of ducking inside the shoals that sit offshore of Cape May Point and taking a narrow channel that leads very close to the beach. One captain told of talking to the bathers on the beach as he passed.
The alternative is going through the Cape May Inlet into Cape May Harbor, then running the four or five miles of the Cape May Canal with its shoal banks to get out to the Delaware Bay.
I thought that if we could take the outside route, we'd save ourselves the stress that the inlet, harbor and canal involve.
John wasn't too sure of my sanity.
"It's your boat," he said, suggesting that if I wrecked my boat, he would be happy to swim ashore.
So John got out the Eldridge tide charts in an effort, I think, to dissuade me.

Later, when John was taking another nap and I was on watch, Robin hooked a bluefish. I discovered this fact when I looked aft and saw a gaping jaw dragging behind us. When I began to reel, the fish fought. But it must have been on the line for a while, because its strength was low.
I finally hauled the 31-incher aboard, thanked it for its meat (acknowldging that we, too, would be meat for some species in time) and then butchered it on deck. I took the picture to prove to John the nature of the meat that I would serve him that night.
We sailed along the Rhode Island Coast to the mouth of Narraganset Bay and then sailed part way in toward Newport before turning on the engine and furling the sails. Opting not to contend with the difficulties of anchoring in a crowded harbor, we called ahead and were assigned a mooring by the Oldport Launch service.
It was about five o'clock when we called the launch for a ride into town. We had our shower bags packed with toiletries and a change of clothes, and we anticipated warm showers at The Seamen's Church Institute, a favorite stop near the waterfront.
But the church was closed except for the nightly AA meeting, so I devised Plan B.
We walked a quarter mile around the harbor to Long Wharf and the Newport Yacht Club, which hosts the Bermuda 1-2 race. I've taken several showers there before and after the race, and I guessed that we might talk our way into two more.
It did take some talking, but we got clean and clothed and then I phoned Capt. Mr. Louie Lagace, my friend who owns a commercial clam boat. He and I had talked about getting together for dinner when we were in town.
Louie met us at Yesterdays Restaurant, where we enjoyed a good meal and some fine conversation.

John, left, and Louie bonded as old sailors will. Then John and I caught a launch back to Robin. The forecast was still good for a departure at noon tomorrow and a straight sail toward Cape May.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Provincetown, even at five in the morning, shed enough light to make slipping our mooring easy. Quietly, we motored out of the harbor and headed for the entrance to the Cape Cod Canal, twenty-one miles to the southwest.
The air was still and the temperature a bit less chilly than we had experienced farther north. When we were half way across Cape Cod Bay, the sky began to brighten with the new day.

The water was flat calm. Only our wake disturbed the reflected image of the sky above.



We were on time arriving at the fuel dock in Sandwich and were heading south on the canal at 8:30 a.m. At one point, Robin hit 9.9 knots, not quite as fast as on the way north.
Out on Buzzards Bay, there still was no wind. Motoring was better than battering against seas kicked up by a Buzzards Bay southwesterly.
By early afternoon, we had turned the corner south of Cutty Hunk, and now the wind had arrived -- eight to ten knots on the port bow. We began sailing.
It was about now that Captain John struck a commanding pose.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010


The decision where to go next was complicated by the timing of the current change in the Cape Cod Canal. We could make it to several ports along the way during daylight. But none of the ones we considered was very close to the canal entrance.
The distance from York Harbor to Scituate, MA, was not bad. But we would still have 40 miles to go to make it to the canal. The fact that the current turned in our favor at 6:30 in the morning meant we'd have to leave Scituate at about 2 o'clock in the morning.
Plymouth, MA, is about 20 miles closer to the canal. But to get into the Plymouth harbor requires an hour-long detour in some pretty swift currents passing through treacherous shoals.
Then we thought about Provincetown, MA, on the tip of Cape Cod, about 20 miles from the canal. We would arrive there after dark. I'd sailed from Provincetown once before with Tom Gilmore, but my recollection of the layout was hazy.
So we studied the charts and, as best we could see, entering the well-protected harbor posed no serious problems, even after dark. I phoned the owner of the mooring field in Provincetown and learned that we could arrive any time and would be met by a launch, directing us to a mooring.
This became the plan, and we aimed Robin's bow for Race Point.
It was a long day of motoring. We passed outside Isle of Shoals off of Portsmouth, NH, and then steamed at a leisurely pace, seeing the shoreline fade away in the western distance before returning toward us at Cape Ann and Gloucester, MA. We saw the Boston skyline in the hazy distance as we crossed Stellwagen Bank, an area known for whale sightings.
We saw no whales nor much else of interest, but before dark we could see the hazy shape of the Provincetown lighthouse. And then we saw the sun setting, molten, across Massachusetts Bay.
It was ten o'clock in the evening when we rounded the last buoy outside of Provincetown Harbor. With the help of the chartplotter, we lined up the correct red lights and called in for the mooring launch.
Before 10:30, we were on a mooring and bunked down for a five o'clock departure.
During the day, we had received a promising weather forecast for the next few days. It appeared that in two days, the wind would turn around to the northwest and then the east. If that forecast held, we would be able to sail straight from Newport or Block Island to Cape May, NJ. Taking the offshore route, we could avoid an extra day on Long Island Sound, as well as the traffic that that route -- going down the East River by Manhattan -- would include.
We crossed our fingers and hoped.

Monday, September 13, 2010



It was raining at five o'clock in the morning when I awoke. Rain was tapping on the cabintop, and there was fog when I finally looked outside -- fog so thick you couldn't see land in any direction.
I wasn't sure if we'd be sailing this day. I wanted the trip to be easy, not stressful, and wouldn't think of heading out in bad weather.
But by seven o'clock, the fog had lifted a bit and the rain had stopped and within an hour, we were under way.
Lobster boats were heading out with us. Some times you knew because you saw them. Other times, you only heard their diesel engines. The radar was on and we limited our speed, both because of the poor visiblity and also so we could hear other boats.
But by the time we reached the mouth of Quahog Bay, we had enough visibility to see a few hundred feet, so we could motor with some speed.
Quahog Bay is on the eastern end of Casco Bay, which is a serrated coastline of narrow peninsulas and ragged islands that extends east northeast of Portland, Maine, the biggest port on the Maine coast.
We set our first waypoint so as to evade a congestion of buoys that mark the outer reaches of the Portland harbor. And we set the radar for about three miles, since the foge came and went with varying degrees of severity.
Our destination was York Harbor, where I hoped we would arrive in time to have dinner with old (and I mean old ) college friends. If we could arrive in York Harbor by late afternoon, we'd be in time for the meal.
Due to the thickness of the fog off of Portland, we were making constant checks with the radar as well as standing steady watch -- John to port and I to starboard.
I came up from checking the radar screen above the chart table and, ducking out from under the dodger and letting my gaze sweep forward, I was stunned.
There, off the port bow, was a huge yellow steel crane above the fog bank!
I immediately turned Robin to starboard, to John's surprise, I think.
The ship was anchored, making no sound, and it had not appeared on the radar screen, at least in a form I recognized. But as we passed, the fog lifted enough near its stern that we could see its massive shape and know we had nearly rammed its side.
I sey "nearly" although perhaps we had several hundred feet between it and was when we saw it. I still don't know.
In time, the fog cleared and we were able to see Nubble lighthouse on Cape Neddick in York (see photo) and to motor into York Harbor with no problem.
The dinner that night was fun. I was happy that John got to meet my friends. (In the photo, from left, John, Guy Hollingworth, Ann Hollingworth, Nina Hollingworth -- Guy's mom -- Kathy Flagler -- hidden -- Barbara Michael, Curt Michael and Charlie Flagler.)
We weren't rushing home, but we were not dawdling. So in the morning, we slipped out of Boothbay Harbor in a drizzle with an ominous overcast and a sail-snapping southerly wind. Heading into the wind with the mainsail raised, we motored until we got well clear of land and then turned west.
At first, we were protected from whatever was out to sea by some small islands. But once clear, we found steep, black waves advancing on our port bow.
Robin turned around one red buoy and bore off, enough to use the wind. Ahead on the charts and chartplotter were more rocky obstacles. And then we had to choose whether to go through a narrow pass between a point of land at the eastern end of Casco Bay and the pile of rocks offshore or to steer a more southerly, offshore coast to evade the rocks entirely. That would add miles to our travel toward our next destination -- Quahog Bay and Snow Island.
We decided to go for the short route. I don't know about John, but I was almost holding my breath when we entered the shoal passage.
Then, on the far side, we noticed a universal Maine navigational aid -- a steel rod or pipe, bent either on purpose or by rough seas and ice, poking up above the four to five-foot waves. It marked a rock that may or may not have been exposed at low tide but certainly was very close to the surface.
We gave the bent steel a wide clearance before turning north into the mouth of New Meadows River and then striking a course slanting to the northwest, toward the narrow fairway of Quahog Bay. The boundary between New Meadows and Quahog is marked by small islands and rocks on which the waves were crashing.
Robin rode well in the following sea, and the chartplotter helped us find the deep course. Soon, we were motoring between the steep evergreen walls of islands on either side, with Snow Island coming into view ahead.
My plan was to visit Dodge Morgan free of the crush of a picnic for 140. I had emailed in advance and Dodge said he and Mary Beth would be home.
So we anchored off the southern point of Snow Island, launched the dinghy and went ashore.
We spent an hour talking with the Morgans. But they had come home around midnight from the airport and we assumed they had had little sleep. So we cut the visit short and hiked around the island before returning to Robin ahead of the coming rain.
For the first time in sevral days, I prepared dinner -- chicken breasts, potatoes and a vegetable -- and we settled in for the night. The long, rainy night.

Thursday, September 9, 2010


John Morrison and I drove the rental car back to Rockland, where we stopped at a supermarket and provisioned for the trip back to the Chesapeake. It was Saturday evening, and when we had the stuff stowed aboard, we went out for dinner.
Sunday morning, Robin slipped her mooring line and returned to Penobscot Bay, motoring into a moderate headwind. Our destination was Boothbay Harbor.
The route took us south to the mouth of the bay and then west along the coast. Once we'd made that turn, the wind came off the port bow and in time, we were sailing with no engine.
From time to time, we would see a megayacht ketch closer to shore. It had tucked behind some islands south of Rockland when we chose to go out on the bay. It appeared to be huge.
We were taking a direct, offshore route, but there were islands inshore, the first of them Burnt and Allen Islands. John and I had visited these islands on our first trip from Maine, when we helped Tom Gilmore bring his 46-foot cutter home to New Jersey.
The mega-ketch squeezed behind the islands and we lost sight of it for a while, but it reappeared on the other side, still paralleling our course.
The charts and the chart plotter told us of several rocks that we must avoid, but in time we were sailing a straight line on a beam reach.
After the two weeks Monica and I had spent cruising, I was feeling much better about sailing. And because John and I had no mandatory schedule for our return trip, this first day at least was relaxing.
Neither of us had entered Boothbay before and when we turned a corner to do that, the layout was confusing. We called ahead (using the cruising guide as a reference)and reserved a mooring, having learned there was not much of an anchorage. The wind was fresh. So we lowered the sails rather than taking the more heroic path of sailing up to the mooring. We called ahead (using the cruising guide as a reference) and reserved a mooring. The guide said there was not much of an anchorage.
Ashore, we got showers, paid for the mooring and then walked into town for dinner, passing a large Catholic church with a heavenly sky for a backdrop. I capped off the evening at the local ice cream store, where I found my favorite flavor -- orange pineapple.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010


We departed Belfast on another sunny, windless morning and headed south toward Rockland. Monica's time with me in Maine was drawing to a close.
With the throttle level only partially depressed, we motored slowly between the western shore of Penobscot Bay and the western shore of Islesboro island.
The autopilot was doing all the work of steering. There were scant lobster pot buoys in this reach and few boats to dodge.
We did not have time to make any long stops, but I wanted to enter the harbor at Camden, just so we knew what it looked like from the water. So we took a back-door entrance, marked by several red and green day markers and buoys, and, followed by a windjammer schooner, nudged in close to the inner harbor.
Camden is a tourist town if there ever was one. The inner harbor is filled with floating docks, where you can moor your boat (for a fee) and then dinghy to shore or get a water taxi.
We did not venture into that crammed harbor but turned and steamed back out to the bay. I don't foresee a time when I woul want to return to Camden by boat. There are many more places where you can spend a pleasant night, without the traffic jam.
We arrived in Rockland at mid-afternoon and, after showering on shore, had an exotic dinner at a fine restaurant.
The following night, Friday, we were invited to dinner at the home in nearby Thomaston of Peggy and Peter McCrea, fellow Bermuda One-Two veterans. Peggy, a professional water colorist, gave me some pointers and some magazines and served us one of the best meals we had all our time in Maine. Peter and I caught up on each others' sailing adventures.
Then the vacation was over, and I delivered Monica (by rental car) to the Manchester, New Hampshire, airport, were John Morrison arrived in the terminal just as the wheels of Monica's flight left the ground.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

It seems the best harbors in Maine are so popular that the available anchorage space fills with moorings -- private some times, rentals other times.
So it was in Castine and so it was across the Penobscot Bay to the west in Belfast.
We phoned ahead to the town harbormaster -- or mistress, as was the case -- and were assigned a mooring even before we arrived some time in early afternoon. Our mooring was on the far side of the harbor from the town. But with the engine on the dinghy it was little trouble to get ashore.
I had visited Belfast alone once before. Indeed, I came here from Castine that day three years ago and was met out on the water by another Westsail 32, Heron, skippered on that day by her owner, Don La Coste, who like I was singlehanding.
It so happened that Soundings Magazine had hired pro photographer Billy Black to get some shots of Robin that day, and, on a rented power boat, he met Robin out on the bay at about the time Don arrived on Heron.
Once Don had his sails up, Heron and Robin sailed together, all three sails up on both boats, and Billy took photos of the two, looking like dance partners. They are the best pictures we have of Robin by far. And that sail, with Heron and Robin absolutely synchronized, was a dream.
Once I had Robin on a mooring, Don and I went ashore and shared a good burger meal and a couple of hours of excellent conversation.
This time in Belfast, the time was winding down on our cruise together, so Monica and I went to town but returned to Robin for much of the afternoon, for reading and water color painting.
Then we had one more meal ashore. Monica had already had enough lobster, so this time she chose shrimp. It was excellent, she reports.
It should be noted that the harbormaster was the most accomodating of any we encountered in our cruise. She was friendly on the radio and in person, prompt and efficient.
And the town of Belfast was ideal of a "cute"-starved sailor like Monica.
If we'd had time, I would have liked to poke my nose into French and Webb's boatbuilding operation to see what was going on there. They create exquisite boats in wood, some traditional and some modern. We can try that next time.
There had been no wind on the trip over from Castine, our second day without sailing. But we always had tomorrow.

Monday, September 6, 2010





Leaving Northwest Harbor in a sunny dead calm, we headed for Castine. We motored slowly -- no rush here -- and in about an hour or so, we completed a loop that we had begun ten days before when we left Pulpit Harbor.
What had seemed in the months before we reached Maine to be a challenging and perhaps treacherous collection of islands and rocks had turned out, in reality, to be, if not simple, at least pleasant.
We watched a number of sailboats with their sails raised edging along Eggamoggin Reach to the north as we slanted northwest toward the main body of Penobscot Bay. Ahead lay Islesboro, a long, slender island that bisects the bay between Camden, to the south, and Belfast to the north.
In Castine, there was a good anchorage. But it was well away from the town, and we hadn't been ashore in three days. So when we got close to mouth of the Bagaduce River, we phoned the Castine Yacht Club and got instructions for tying up to their dock.
The price was right: A required donation of $20 for the night, plus $3 each for showers. We walked ashore -- no dinghy necessary -- just after noon and walked a block to a place that made great sandwiches.
A young man eating his sandwich on the rooftop deck at the shop had a yellow lab puppy on a leash and the pooch was sound asleep, the picture of contentment. He wasn't roused when a woman diner crouched with her camera to take his picture. He wasn't roused by the aroma of the food. He didn't open his eyes when his belly was rubbed, just sighed.
The local ice cream counter had run out of all but five flavors, none among my top ten, but was expecting a shipment tomorrow. I couldn't wait and bought a pint of coffee ice cream at the small grocery store across the street.
Then we did some reconnaisance for our dinner meal and decided on a waterfront restaurant. We went back to Robin and rested for the exertion of another meal ashore.
At about six o'clock, we arrived at the restaurant and were seated on the deck under a canopy. I'd heard someone mention approaching electrical storms. They arrived with our entrees, and we got to watch people scrambling in from the uncovered part of the deck.
The meal was great and the rain stopped by the time we were ready to head back to Robin in the dark. It was certainly nice to not be faced with a long dinghy ride.
Normally back in Cambridge, if we were tied to the dock, we would have plugged in to shore power to use the air conditioning. That wasn't necessary because, although it had been a warm day, the night once again was cool.

Friday, September 3, 2010


The next morning, retracing our path, we left Seal Bay and headed north on East Penobscot Bay. One boat left just behind us and turned west, heading for the Fox Islands Thoroughfare. We skirted North Haven and soon were sailing at about 4 knots in fog that shifted from very limited visibility to a half mile.
It was one of those mornings when the fog was shallow and you could see the sun's glow just overhead. That lighted our spirits as well.
At one point, a gray shape appeared off our port bow and crossed our path ahead. It was a schooner, and it tacked toward us and then sailed down our port beam.
It was the Lewis R. French, launched in 1871. Soon, its form disolved in the fog off our port quarter.
After perhaps a couple of hours, the fog lifted and we began to see the islands we were passing, some bald rocks and some forested, few developed. They made you want to paint a picture.
Our leisurely sail -- it was our ninth in ten days -- brought us to Northwest Harbor on Deer Isle. Like Seal Bay, it was a well-protected anchorage with gorgeous scenery and very little reason to go ashore. There was a village with a church steeple to the south, but at low tide, you would have had to leave your dinghy far from the high-tide bank and wade ashore probably through mud.
We took a dinghy ride around the end of the harbor and past some moored boats. But then we returned to Robin for dinner, reading and another cool night of sleeping.
The sun set over the purple mountains to the west as we thought about the next day's journey -- to Castine, home of the Maine Maritime Academy, a place with facilities and restaurants.

Thursday, September 2, 2010



Stonington was a nice stop and had we had more time, we might have lingered a bit to explore the area. But when a clear morning dawned, we headed out onto East Penobscot Bay and the north end of Vinalhaven, one of the most southerly islands that, like Isle au Haut, fronts on the Atlantic Ocean.
We had studied the cruising guide and found that the major harbor on the island's south, while intersting, offered less than ideal anchoring or moorings. In this our first extended cruise in Maine, we chose to aim for the north side of the island and two anchorages that appeared to be closer to ideal. But we still hadn't selected in which of these we would drop anchor.
We were following a couple of sailboats when we left Stonington and headed west. The path to Seal Bay and Winter Harbor, the two destinations we'd chosen, is the same route from Stonington as the passage to Fox Islands Thoroughfare, a fairway between Vinalhaven and its neighbor to the north -- North Haven. The thoroughfare is the quick way to get from Stonington to Rockland.
So these boats ahead of us might have been going to Rockland. We didn't know. But iwth their white sails raised, they made a pretty man-made detail on the dark evergreen forests of the rocky islands ahead and on either side.
Once we passed the lighthouse at Mark Island a mile or two west of Stongington, the wind came up for our sailing comanions and us. We were able to beat into this southwesterly breeze and, as it built, turn off the engine.
Before long, the wind direction had turned more to the south, and we were flying. Robin was knocking over the growing waves at seven knots and well before noon, we were close to the shore of Vinalhaven. At this rate, our sailing would be over for the day, so we came about and sailed back, toward Isle au Haut. Half way there, we doused the genoa. The wind was now really piping! Then we came about and shot across East Penobscot Bay.
By now, mulling our options -- Seal Bay and Winter Harbor -- we had come to a conclusion.
To enter either harbor, we would first sail into a cut along Vinalhaven's edge. Winter Harbor would be straight ahead, a long, thin piece of water that went from the northeast to the southwest. The forecast was for stronger southwesterly winds, and the cruising guide said in that situation, you could be in for a rough night anchored in Winter Harbor.
Getting to Seal Bay involved sailing into the same notch in the edge of Vinalhaven but then making an immediate left, avoiding the rocks to starboard while dealing at times with a cross current. That seemed dodgey.
But Seal Bay promised a more tranquil night once we'd made it past the entrance, and we had the chartplotter to guide us, so we went for it.
By now, the puffy white clouds of morning had joined hands overhead and the sky had become overcast with gray. We motored in to a place where we could anchor in about 15 feet of water at mid tide. There were a half dozen boats there before us, but when the hook was down, the nearest boat was 200 feet away or more.
This would have been an ideal place to go ashore and explore. There were no homes along the rocky banks, and there was an unhinabited island to the east, where some boaters with their dogs were playing.
Instead, Monica read a book and I fished and read and we both ate more than we should have.
Undisturbed, we watched the clouds lower on our anchorage, felt Robin swing on her anchor in the wind and settled in for a good night's sleep with no worries at all.