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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.