If Captain Brenda Thomas were a public figure she’d have gotten a lot of ink during the past year; checkout aisles from coast to coast would be littered with tabloids bearing her beaming image, and her publicist would log long hours on the telephone confirming or denying scurrilous details of the whirlwind romance with her new beau.
But Captain Brenda is not a celebrity; she toils in relative anonymity aboard the Isaac H.
The Isaac H. Evans is ghosting across West Penobscot Bay in light airs under a silvery haze. Off our starboard quarter, we see the Heritage gaining slowly on our position. As the Heritage looms nearer, she blankets our wind and our speed drops; the blurred figures standing on her deck soon come into sharp focus and we see her captain, Doug Lee, strut coolly toward his portside cannon and dump black powder down its shiny brass barrel. They’re
It is a cold, wet day. We woke this morning to cloudy skies over Holbrook Harbor, and after an hour-long shore trip to the colonial village of Castine, those skies let loose. The sideways rain that now falls upon West Penobscot Bay has cleared the Angelique’s decks of everyone but crew.
The Angelique has two things going for it on a day like this. First, the deckhouse salon offers a warm, dry refuge for passengers
Last night, while hanging out on the foredeck with Shelly and the cook, Chad Pelletier, I expressed an interest in going aloft. In this mad, season-long quest to experience firsthand the knockabout lives of schooner bums, I’d logged — at least to my mind — some notable achievements: I’d tacked headsails in a gale; demystified the myriad lines of standing and running rigging; climbed the head rig to furl canvas while underway; practiced all manner
The weather forecast for the next few days is “unsettled”—a polite euphemism for wet and dreary. For the time being, however, it’s merely cloudy, so it’s a good time for a midday lobster bake. Captain Mike motors his Angelique out of Mt. Desert Island’s Southwest Harbor and heads for nearby Placentia Island. As we putter along the calm channel waters, we pass Great Cranberry Island, the lobstering community portrayed in
An hour before breakfast, Captain Mike motored the Angelique out of Swans Island’s Burnt Coat Harbor and into the Gulf of Maine. We’re heading toward Mt. Desert Rock, a tiny island roughly 15 miles offshore.
Today is our whale watch, but Captain Mike is already downplaying our chances.
Every year, Captain Mike schedules a whale watching trip, but for the past two years, Mike’s
The Angelique is quietly bobbing in a dead calm off the northern tip of North Haven. The Lewis R. French drifts slowly to starboard; the Mary Day drifts to port.
The weather all around us is unsettled: to the west, scattered showers wash over the Camden Hills; to the north, anvil-shaped storm clouds rake eastward over the mainland. Here, in our tiny pocket of sky-blue stillness, we swelter under unfettered
As the joke goes, Maine has two seasons: winter and the Fourth of July. Today is Independence Day and the old adage proves true. It’s a beautiful summer day: last night’s high winds and storms are long gone; Mackerel Cove is flat as a fritter; the air is hot and still.
Captain Garth takes passengers on shore trips to the Public Landing near the Swans Island ferry terminal. I tag along.
Last night after the lobster bake, we motored through drizzly darkness and dropped the hook in Allen Cove near the town of North Brooklin. Yesterday’s weather had alternated between rainy, foggy, and overcast, so when I woke this morning to bright blue skies and warm temperatures, it was as much a shock as a relief.
After breakfast, Captain Garth tunes to the weather band and gets today’s forecast. The barky, computerized
Today, we’ll be having a lobster bake.
Often, windjammer crews will load lobsters aboard their vessels before they leave homeport: The bugs will sit on deck in a covered aluminum basin until its time to cook them. It’s crucial to keep the lobsters alive during transport — a dead lobster quickly develops toxins that ruin the meat — so a hose is employed to disgorge a continuous stream of oxygenated saltwater into