That was it. The engine was gone. The alternator has a pulley at one end over which a belt runs. The same belt that turns the alternator also turns the water pump. We knew of no way to take the alternator out of commission to run the engine without also eliminating the pump that brings the water to cool the engine.
The issue was settled. We had to sail.
But at 5 a.m, there was no wind. The sun was about to rise when we both decided just to nap for a while to see what would happen.
Some time later -- perhaps nine o'clock -- there was a faint breeze on my cheek, just a kiss. I went below and hauled the big red spinnaker bag on deck and began the arduous process of sorting out the tangled lines. Robin has a cruisng spinaker which has four permanently attached lines -- two sheets, one downhaul at the tack and one line to control the snuffer or chute scoop, a long skinny bag or tube that holds the sail together until you want to use it. Then you pull its control line and the bag rises to the top of the mast and the sail billows in the wind.
It was this snuffer line that I got tangled on the first try. But once I had that line where it should be, the sail went up and began pulling Robin ahead.
We weren't heading where we needed to go to get to Rockland, but we were going in the general direction of Maine, which was acceptable.


We were underway. On a trip that I had planned would be all sailing, no motoring, I was finally forced to live by that edict, and it was beautiful.
Slowly at first, Robin made way. Then she gained speed and strained at her lines. John frankly didn't think much of the lashings that held a block to the stern pulpit and which the spinnaker was now straining. To appease him, I added a few strands of thin line.
But soon enough, the spinnaker needed help from larger sails. The mainsail went up, and then the Genoa replaced the spinnaker and then the staysail joined its larger partner and in time we were pointing toward the mouth of Penobscot Bay, home to Rockland.
It was Monday, and we'd told folks at home that we were aiming to be in port this evening. But now there was no way. When the engine quit, we'd been 90 miles from Rockland. Now we were about 70 miles, and it would be well after dark when we approached the Penobscot. I wouldn't enter that rocky bay at night, so it would be at least Tuesday morning before we were ashore.
My concern was that someone -- Monica or John's wife, Fran, or our friend Tom Gilmore, who already was in Rockland -- would report to the Coast Guard that we were overdue.
I picked up the VHF radio microphone -- we were too far offshore for a cell phone connection -- and called:
"US Coast Guard, US Coast Guard, US Coast Guard, this is the sailing vessel Robin calling the US Coast guard, over."
At first, there was no reply. Then the Coast Guard came on the radio to the "vessel calling the US Coast Guard."
I explained our situation -- engine quit and we're under sail. Then I explained that I was concerned someone would report us overdue and asked if they could call Monica at work and let her know we were okay but would be in port when the wind got us there.
That's precisely what the Coast Guard did, and we sailed on.
To the south, the sky became overcast and we anticipated rain at least. But the easterly wind was steady and we were making four to five knots regularly.
As the sky darkened, we noticed to the east an unusual movement in the water. Then we saw the whale, larger than your average school bus, with a blow hole the size of a serving platter through which at intervals of perhaps 20 or 30 seconds we could hear his powerful breath, escaping in long blasts.
He was headed toward us, about 100 yards away, and we could look directly into the blowhole.
I reached for the camera, and we saw him turn to run parallel to our course, about 100 feet to the east.

I say he, although it certainly may have been a female and definitely was a humpback whale.
John, being older and wiser than I, knew what the whale was doing -- preparing to dive or sound. So I wasn't ready with the camera when he rolled forward and his huge tail came up in the air.
Then the sea was still and once again we sailed alone toward the north, with the light growing ever dimmer
It was about three o'clock in the morning and we could see various nautical lights -- buoys, lighthouses and so forth -- that indicated we were approaching the mouth of Penobscot Bay. I knew these waters in a passing way from three prior voyages to Maine, and I knew I didn't want to challenge any of the rocks that guarded the Bay's entrance, so I decided we should heave to. The current was running out of the bay, the wind now was from the east. And when we turned to let the staysail backwind against the mast, we were slowed to a drift of less than one mile an hour to the south. In the next three hours, until dawn, we would travel about 2.5 miles generally in a direction away from trouble. I went below and slept.
John, not entirely comfortable with my decision, stayed in the cockpit and kept watch on the various blinking and sweepling lights.