The weekend is over and a great one it was. We visited Snow Island in Maine's Casco Bay for Dodge Morgan's annual Bang-and-Go-Back "Regatta", a spoof of sailboat racing by one of the all-time greatest singlehanded sailors. Dodge invites a few score of people whom, apprently, he thinks are sufficiently off-the-wall to appreciate his skewed sense of humor. Then he watches as you mingle with assorted fellow oddballs. To keep you fueled, Dodge feeds you. Lobster for those who like to be present for the killing of their meat. Hot dogs for those who are chicken.
Snow Island is a big chunk of real estate -- I have forgotten whether it is 30 or 60 acres. It is in the middle of Quahog Bay, has a swamp in the middle of it, a good anchorage on its east side and, at times, bald eagles.
It is coolest to arrive by boat -- I should say, your own boat. Actually, the only way to arrive is by boat, except for marathon swimmers. We arrived at his mainland dock by car and were transported with others to the island by Dodge's great friend, Don Friend, on the powerboat Wingnut. Aboard when we arrived were a couple of guests, one of them Bruce Schwab, the first American to complete a circumnavigation in the Vendee Globe race. We'd never before met Bruce, although one time I was aboard his Open 60 yacht Ocean Planet for a delivery that never left the dock, so it was interesting to put a personality with the name (and the accomplishment).
Among other guests were Dodge's first and second wives, Lael and Manny, and his son and daughter with Manny, along with at least one former and one current female partner, all of whom had what appeared to be a great time, as did we.
We were enjoying a long walk around the island when the assembled boats, from a kayak and a sailing dinghy to a couple of 50-foot yachts, cast off for the regatta. The rules are these: When the first cannon shot is heard, begin sialing out toward the ocean. When the second one goes off, sail back toward where you started.
There is less mayhem than would be expected, perhaps because at least those of Dodge's guests who bring and enter their craft are substantially less mentally disturbed or challenged than you expect.
I am lousy with small talk, and a picnic such as this is no place for me, especially when I really would like to spend time talking with Dodge. He is a fascinating individual with whom I have so far spent many hours talking, and party talk with him seems pretty trite. So it was almost sunset before I tackled him -- he had constantly been the center of small clutches of guests -- and explained my predicament. I didn't want him to think I didn't appreciate being invited. Monica and my sister, Janet, with whom I attended, were having a great time as was I.
But with this little opening, Dodge managed to keep a pleasant little conversation going, during which I learned something about fiberglass construction and something else about his future in boats. (He sold his 52-foot Little Harbor Wings of Time to the incoming commodore of the Annapolis Yacht Club and is looking for a simpler vessel. I didn't, due to the shortness of time and my desire to not monopolize Dodge, learn in what directions his search for the replacement might take.)
Nor did I engage him in the most pressing question I had for him. Three years ago, he told me that one of his current goals was to find an interesting way to die. Since then, he has fought off what, apparently, he found an unintersting way to die -- cancer. But his current lady friend, Mary Beth Teas, instructed me shortly after I arrived that that subject of interesting deaths was forbidden conversation at the party. It will have to wait until I get Dodge alone, perhaps on a deserted island.
Tomorrow, John Morrison and I take the NJ Transit and Amtrak trains to Connecticut and on Tuesday morning, with Curt Michael, we begin Robin's next voyage, toward the Chesapeake. I hope to blog from along the way, but it will happen only if the wireless gods are kind.