A Quiet Inlet

We won’t live on a sailboat forever. Oh, there are many folks who continue to live on their sailboats that are much older than we are. But 4 ½ years ago when we moved aboard, we said that it would be for 2 to 10 years, “as long as we’re enjoying it."

Well, it is beginning to feel like we are on the backside of that mountain with regard to our live-aboard years. We talk about living on land again from time to time. We try to figure out what we will do next. How fortunate we are to have the luxury of thinking about it for a while.

Today we are alone, resting in the Winyah Bay, just off the Atlantic. We’ve seen a few fishing boats across the inlet, but other than that, it’s very quiet here. Just nature and us. Earlier today, we watched a pod of dolphins, through our binoculars, as they were some distance away.  


There were at least 6 of them that we could see based upon the number of fins that broke the surface in various locations. They were swimming slowly round and round in a long loop. Gathering their dinner we figured. Occasionally, we saw one big splash and sometimes a small bit of some thing come flying out of the water and land back in again.  Part of a fish, no doubt. The rest of the fish would have been in a dolphin’s mouth, I’m sure.

It made me wonder about the things that I might miss the most when we no longer live on the water. I think it will be things like those dolphins over there, catching their dinner. They weren’t put there for our entertainment. We didn’t pay anything to see them. The dolphins couldn't care less that there were two people watching them. There are lots of other things just like that, too, that I think I will miss the most.

It probably won’t be the many islands we’ve visited or the U.S. cities we’ve visited, like St. Augustine, Florida and Savannah, Georgia or Charleston, South Carolina. It won’t be sailing through New York City, although that was very cool. I don’t think it’ll be going to Plymouth, Massachusetts or Newport, Rhode Island or Bar Harbor, Maine.  

I guess the reason that I think it won’t be those things is that a person could get on an airplane, or drive a car to go see those places.  When we arrived there, we and every other tourist was interested in seeing the same things—historical sites and local foods and art. And we enjoyed them thoroughly.

But the part that only we will see, we and about a few thousand other cruisers that travel by boat, is all the wonderful stuff that wasn’t planned or expected.  After we live on land again, we will most likely never see dolphins in a quiet inlet, corralling their dinner together. Why? Because at this time, we are living on a boat at anchor in that inlet and we have all day to sit here for whatever happens next.

We will never have the good fortune to be escorted across the Bahama Bank by a group of dolphins that take turns at our bow. When the lead dolphin peels off another immediately takes his place as the lead. As if they are playing with us and saying, “come this way.” Oh, and the hundreds of dolphins that we met one day, all day on the Atlantic—we were sailing south off the New Jersey coast and the dolphins were all headed north to the fall hunting grounds.

There are incredibly beautiful places along the waterways: the rivers and ICW, bays, and oceans, as well as in natural harbors that only people on boats will ever see. We will likely never see these kinds of places again.  When we live on land, we will never see phosphorescence on the ocean in the night. Thousands of little sparkles on the water alongside the hull as it moves through the water.  Fireflies of the ocean. Carl has explained to me that they are actually plankton emitting light when the water is disturbed. An amazing phenomenon, I think.

We will never hear snapping shrimp on the other side of the hull, sounding for all the world like popcorn popping. We will probably never go out in a dinghy in the nighttime and see little flying fish jump out of the water across our path by the light of our headlamps.  

I am quite certain we will never again be surrounded by thousands and thousands of flying fish all going in the same direction that we were, off the island of St. Lucia.  Northern Star flying along under full sail, and the flying fish flying with us, probably being hunted by bigger fish.

We will never again watch a circus while sitting in our dinghy being performed across a stage of three connected sailboats, using the rigging for aerial acrobatics, as we did on the island of Martinique. Never again be rocked asleep to the sound of island music in the distance.  Nor are we likely to ever wander over to an uninhabited island and go exploring by ourselves.

It is unlikely that we will spend days and evenings anchored in quiet places like this one, miles from any other person, surrounded by marshland, open water and birds of all kinds. Terns that dive headfirst into the water from great heights. 

Pelicans who do the same, but without as much grace. Herons and egrets that can stand in the marsh and yet still be above it on their pencil-thin legs.  Flamingoes that look like pink flying sticks. Sea birds that fly in synchronous patterns evenly spaced—when their backs are to us, they make a herringbone pattern; when as one, they turn their chests to us, the pattern is like black and white lace.  

And of course, the Magnificent Frigate birds whose mating ritual is a soaring and swooping dance so beautiful that it took my breath away.  Oh, to see love expressed in such elegance! Or lust. It’s possible to see Frigate Birds on land, too but rather unlikely to see the dance in the sky.

And oh my, I have fallen in love with snorkeling. I guess I could go on snorkeling vacations again when I live on land, but it won’t be anything like jumping off the back of the boat and seeing incredible creatures right there, beside our home.  There are so many things that live in the water that I had no idea existed.

Seventy one percent of the earth is covered with water, and we have seen only a tiny bit of it.  I guess it will have to do, won’t it.

The Day We Became French

Sunrise at anchor

We accidentally became French the other day. 

It all started like any regular day (for us) in Guadeloupe.  Well, maybe not just any day because the day before, we had learned about the “Breakfast Boat.”  So, on that day in question, we would be receiving fresh croissants and pain chocolate (chocolate bread) delivered to us on our boat. To have them delivered right to us…….is as they say, priceless! So you can see the day was actually getting off to a better than usual start. 

The Breakfast Boat Lady handing us
croissants

In that particular harbor, the Breakfast Boat lady also does laundry for cruisers.  She had picked ours up the day before, while her husband drove the boat and the both of them were corralling two toddlers in diapers at the same time as they were coming alongside.  I was impressed by how far their arms reached, although neither of the little tikes were wearing life jackets which frankly made me cringe, but hey, this is not my country.  At least it wasn't yet. 

Washing clothes on deck

But I digress..….so, the Breakfast Boat lady had taken our laundry!  And we were going to be getting it back from her that afternoon.  Now, before you get to thinking that we are just lying around living a life of leisure on our boat, having people wait on us hand and foot, allow me to disabuse you of that notion.  

My Clothes Washing Plunger

First off, having someone else do our laundry for us is a new thing, but we have discovered that there are a few anchorages in the Caribbean where there are no laundry facilities.  In those cases, the only option is to pay someone to do it for us. Secondly, when there are no laundry facilities available and we really need some things laundered, I do it by hand. 

Not exactly like a plunger on the bottom

I go up on deck with a pile of laundry that I figure will dry fairly well on our lifelines.  (Lifelines = built in clotheslines on a sailboat).  On my second trip up on deck I carry up several things—a big blue bucket which will be my washing bin, a large orange bucket from Home Depot which also happens to be our “look bucket”.*  That will be my rinse bucket.  And my “clothes washing plunger.” 

Room for lots of items hanging on lifelines

On my third and fourth trips up on deck, I will schlep along pails of hot water that I heated on the stove, along with the laundry detergent, bleach, etc. The advantage of the plunger thingy is that I don’t have to pound the clothes on a rock or scrub them up and down over a washboard to get them clean.  Plus, I can wash several items at the same time.  

Sometimes clothes get rained on a
few times before they get dry.

Now if I only had some way to wring out the wet clothes; some method that works better than squeezing them with my hands, which is really hard work.  I am not pointing out this last fact in order to engender pity.  I expect none.  We have been told frequently that we are “living the life.”

Overlooking harbor in Deshaies

Okay, so what I really want to explain is how we inadvertently became French which is the only reason anyone is reading this post, am I right?

Deshaies

So, on that particular day, another flat-bottom motorboat with four official-looking people in it was also circulating in the harbor.  In fact, we’d overheard a brief conversation on the VHF radio about this boat before we even noticed it.  One cruiser was telling another cruiser about how this French boat wanted him to fill out some paperwork; to tell them who was onboard and all kinds of other personal information.  He said to the other guy,  “I just told them I was leaving in the morning and they went away.” “Oh, that’s what I’ll do, too” said the other guy. 

Garbage burning day?

How odd we thought.  Why was the French boat visiting all the boats in the harbor? We would find out soon enough. The French motorboat pulled alongside—three men and a woman.  One of them put a line onto our midship cleat.  They were friendly looking people.  One was driving the boat, two of them were clutching sheafs of papers and the woman, who appeared to be running the show was writing on a clipboard.  A clipboard. Clearly a serious matter.

Four census takers

All four of them spoke French.  Well, duh. But have no fear, we were armed with our trusty Google Translate app on both phones.  The youngest man knew a little English.  Clearly they wanted us to take these papers and fill them out and when someone hands you a paper, it’s an automatic reflex to take it.  (Except in shopping malls where I never take a paper that’s shoved at me).  

Using Google Translate to complete census

So, now Carl had assumed ownership of the papers and he slid his phone with the Google Translate app over the words on the form.  We each had a set to complete. French words magically became English. Our full names, citizenship, mailing address, place of abode, whether we worked or were on any government assistance, square footage of our domicile (love that question—there are not many square feet of walkable space on a sailboat.) Pfft…they’re just census takers, for goodness sakes.  

Census question- "How many iguanas do you have?" 
Just kidding. No iguana questions on census.

We mumbled a little to each other — should we be filling out a census form in a French country?  While Carl was using his phone for the form, I tried the tactic of the gentleman we’d heard on the radio.  I texted, “We are leaving in the morning.”  The young guy knit his brows together and read my Google translate screen .  He straightened up and smiled,  “Oh, no, is okay, is okay.”  And we figured, it really was okay.  

The driver was shy

The purpose of a census is to have a snapshot in time of who is in the country, right?  No reason NOT to fill it out.  Good grief.  By that time, Carl was filling out a second set of papers.  Hmmm…  When we were all done with the papers, I google translated, “May I take your photograph?”  They cheerfully obliged and cast off from our boat. 

"Can I take your photo?"  sounds like -
Poozhah prah footah footah

I mean, it’s not like we were giving up our U.S. citizenship, right?  As we were waving and saying “Au revoir” I wondered, Wait….what was that last question again?  Carl looked hard at me.  “I think we’re French now.”

*For non-cruisers, a look bucket is one that has had a large hole cut out of the bottom which is then replaced with a plexiglass disk, set in with an amazingly sturdy adhesive.  A look bucket allows one to see into the water by holding the bucket onto the water’s surface.  Good for looking at the bottom from a dinghy.

A Lobster in Every Pot?

Old Lighthouse outside Portsmouth Harbor

To those who think that my husband and I are “living the life” every day on our sailboat, I’d like to disabuse you of that notion.  Last week we were on a mooring ball in the harbor between Portsmouth, New Hampshire and Kittery, Maine. We hung out there a little longer than our usual stops have been as we travel up the East Coast because we were meeting friends.  

Lobsters with friends in Kittery, Maine

Our Annapolis friends on S/V Narwhal, were also on a mooring ball in that harbor. It was a lovely stop.  Portsmouth is charming little historic city; Kittery follows the undulating waterfront with an 18th century fort and not one but three lighthouses.  And of course, time with friends is rejuvenating.

Shoreline of Cape Porpoise, Maine

But, we needed to keep moving.  Our larger plan is to spend the month of August exploring the coast of Maine. Maine has thousands of islands and and we have a lot to see.  So…when to leave.  Saturday would have been the perfect traveling day.  It was also however, the perfect day for touring historic Portsmouth with friends.  So we toured.  Sunday was to be rainy; and the following few days didn’t look too great either.  Should we go now or stay there even longer?  

Carl at helm

When our votes were cast, we determined to deal with the rain and just go.  In circumstances such as this, I rely on a standard that I have used as comparison since childhood, namely ’does it exceed the misery of looking for the “missing Cow and Calf in the rain?*  If not, I can do it.  (If you are interested in the “missing Cow and Calf” standard, you may read about that at the end of this post.)

How many lobster pot buoys can you see?

So, yes, I voted that we would leave in the rain from Portsmouth.  Minimal wind, right on the nose.  We put on our rain gear—Carl at the helm and me up on the bow looking out for lobster pots.  Lobster pots!  Oh my!  Did you know that Maine has somewhere around three million lobster pots in the water?  We have located the first few thousand already.  

Close calls, time and again

There are lobster pots in the harbors where we anchor, in the inlets to the harbors and even far out on the ocean.  In July and August, the lobsters move to deeper water, so even 3 miles offshore, even with water depth of 240 feet, we find lobster pots.  Sigh.  

Wire lobster traps

Lobster pots are identified by pairs of matching buoys and between them, resting on the bottom are the lines of traps, sometimes hundreds of feet long. Each lobsterman chooses different colors for his buoys, at least that is the idea.  And each has his ID number, the same as his boat.  Often there is a toggle, a separate float, near one of the buoys.  

"Turn to starboard"

Under sail, running over a buoy isn’t a big deal, but the risk of wrapping the trapline around the props under power is scary.  Of course, we were under power.  That could ruin an otherwise only moderately miserable day on the water.

A huge lobster

Lobsters have been caught off the coast of Maine since 1605. In those days, lobsters were so plentiful that a person could throw a net out or lean over the boat, club one and grab it.  The Native Americans used to wade along the shore and catch them with their bare hands.  Without human predators, there were even four-foot lobsters back then.  Nowadays every lobsterman carries a brass gauge called a “measure” to check the size for “keepers.”  They cannot be too large nor too small.  Females with eggs must be marked and tossed back in the water.

 

Two lobstermen

Lobster pots really aren’t pots anymore.  Once upon a time, they were wooden pots but when they went to using wire baskets as traps, the term “pots” hung around.  These lobstermen work hard!  I do not envy them going out in all kinds of weather just after dawn to check and set traps.  When they haul their catch back at the end of the day, they unload on what’s called a “lobster car”, a platform floating on the water which kind of reminds me of a tiny ice fishing house. 

Unloading at a lobster "car"

Alternatively they unload at a float owned by a co-op where the catch is weighed and they are given credit at the going rate.  The lobsters get sorted into floating compartments filled with seawater, and are then ready to be picked up by wholesalers or retail customers. 

Unloading at the co-op dock

While at the dock, lobster boats can pick up huge barrels filled with fish for bait.  The fish are packed in ordinary road salt and then allowed to rot for a while.  Apparently, the stinkier the bait, the more appealing to the lobsters.   Then the lobstermen pack some of the dead fish into little mesh bags that hang inside the wire trap in a section called the “kitchen.” The lobster figures out how to get into the trap through a net tunnel or other one way opening. When the lobster exits the kitchen into the other part of the trap, the “parlor” he can’t escape. Very effective lobster trap.

Salting bait fish

I am enjoying the opportunities to watch these lobstermen work.  (There are lobster women, too, but I have’t seen any yet).  Their boats are large and entirely functional for what they need.  They have radar and GPS to keep track of their traps. Many lobster boats are moored out here with us in the harbor where we currently are anchored at a place called Cape Porpoise, a “suburb” of Kennebunkport.  All the lobster boats are named, usually with two women’s names.  ie. “Anne Marie”, “Sarah Jane”, etc.  

"The Clam" skiff

Each working boat has a simple little wooden skiff for a tender.  This is their transportation out to the fishing boat.  Some of them do not have motors!  People row here, and they do it well! Our hypilon rubber dinghy looks out of place here—all fancied up with the engine and dinghy chaps— a retired person’s leisure tender.

A lone lobsterman

I chatted with a young guy on the dock today, asking questions about salting the fish bait.  He volunteered that the other guys had just made him bite the head off a dead fish!  He asked me if I wanted to help them.  I declined for fear that I would be required to go through that same initiation. That would definitely exceed my ‘Missing Cow and Calf’ standard.

Dock used by lobstermen, Cape Porpoise, ME

*The Missing Cow and Calf in the rain” standard goes as follows: — One of the cows comes up missing at milking time.  This means she has dropped her calf out in the pasture somewhere.  The next morning, two or more of us need to go out and find them. In my memory, it is always raining and cold when we go out to look; I can’t explain why. Our pastures were ringed by dense hardwood forest choked with blackberry bushes, thistles and bramble, which then marched on down the sides of the bluffs to the creeks in the narrow little valleys below. There were lots of good hiding places for a bashful cow and her calf.

A dreary, wet day on the water

So, in the morning, off we go, walking in different directions; whoever finds the hidden bovines whistles to alert the others.  We are soaked through of course, before the cow and calf are found.  I don’t complain because what would be the point of that? Once the cow is found, we have to return her and the calf back to the barn.  The calf can’t walk yet.  So, while I (or we) distract (piss off) the cow so that she leaves her calf alone for a minute, my father manhandles the gangly, uncoordinated calf onto the back of a little wooden trailer.  Then he hops onto the tractor and I sit on the back of the open trailer holding onto the calf while we go bumping along toward home. The distraught mother follows closely behind, lowing and swinging her huge head over her calf, alternately trying to rescue the calf from the trailer and/or bunt me with her head.  During that ride, the cold rain takes a back seat to the discomfort and fear of being slammed by that huge head. In my mind, however, I’m in a warm kitchen having hot chocolate.