It is always difficult to bear the end of anything. This weekened, we saw evidence that the sailing season on the Chesapeake Bay is waning. More boats left the marina in Cambridge, Md. and more slips were empty on Sunday afternoon.
A neighbor told me he was leaving his boat in the water for the winter, but he went to the fuel dock to have his holding tank pumped dry. He said he won't be sailing again.
Friends on another dock emptied their boat. Next weekend, they will take their boat to another marina to have it hauled for the winter.
On Saturday, we finished a job I had started earlier in the week, putting new hinges on the dozen storage bin doors that were freshly painted. But then we cast off Robin's dock lines and in 12 to 15 knots of wind had a small sail downstream on the Choptank River.
Just before we left, a fellow passing along the dock mentioned the fragrance in the air. The wind was from the south, an unusual direction in Cambridge, and it was carrying the aroma of a crab plant a half mile upwind.
The dock lines on the starboard side were straining, the wind blowing Robin away from the finger pier. To port, there is only one piling anywhere near Robin's beam, so in order to escape our slip without being blown into the adjacent one, we had to keep the starboard bow and stern lines taut until the final second.
I decided that Monica, on the bow, should toss her line into the water because the piling to which it is tied would be too far for her to reach safely. This was a dumb decision, as I noticed immediately when, in the cockpit, I steered Robin past that piling.
Upon our return, there was a significant danger that, as we backed into the slip, the tossed line would catch in our propeller.
The solution, I decided, would be to steer the bow into the empty slip upwind of our slip. Then Monica could pick up the floating line and put it in place on the piling. That would make it possible for us to back into our slip safely.
With the mainsail up and the genoa rolled out, we sailed out the Choptank to a point where it widens to about two miles. This took us about ninety minutes, enough time for Monica to prepare our sandwiches.
I had hoped to sail a bit farther out into the broader river, but there was a fleet of boats drifting or anchored across the navigable portion of the river, apparently fishing, and they were so densely packed that I decided sailing through them wasn't worth the bother. We came about and began beating upstream against the wind.
The air was cool -- in the high 50s or low 60s -- and the wind chill was significant. If you sat in the protection of the dodger but exposed to the sun, you could stay warm.
It was about three o'clock when we returned to our slip. The discarded dockline had sunk in the water, posing no real threat, and we were able to back into our slip without incident.
Monica thinks our sailing season should have ended then, and it mayhave. I just have a hard time giving up the hope of leaving the dock one more time.