On this, my fourth windjammer trip of the season, I consider myself a bit of an expert at packing.
Of high importance to me is the messenger bag containing a digital camera, minicassette recorder, red wine, and other important tools of the journalist trade.
In my duffle, I pack two pairs of Carhartts, a hoodie, socks, underwear, t-shirts, a wool sweater, winter cap, down parka, and gloves.
I walked this morning to our little beach in SoRo. Sandy Beach it’s called; a name that sounds like Watery Lake or Woodsy Forest. I suppose, though, a sandy stretch of beach in Maine is a rarity that bears repetition.
The beach has grown in popularity. Not long ago, a wet-weather sewer outfall dumped its foamy contents into the delicate surf during each rainfall, and swimmers were warned to cool themselves elsewhere. Recently, however, the sewers have been updated, fecal contamination
In the wee hours of the morning, I had a peculiar dream. I dreamt I drove the Stephen Taber down the middle of a hilly street in Rockport. When I noticed a narrow bridge lying ahead, I panicked and woke up.
After breakfast, I tell Captain Noah about my dream. He seems surprised, but only because I’m a passenger.
Dreams like this are typical among captains. Captain Noah, for instance, has
You have no choice but to admire a good shitstorm. If your tire goes flat on the highway, you have every right to kick the wheel and curse the fates. But if you accidentally lock your keys in your car when you go out to inspect the flat, you have no choice but to take a seat on the hood, slap your knee, and guffaw at the sheer absurdity of chance.
Relaxation is a mysterious thing. At a glance, it seems rather simple: combine a peaceful setting with a span of unencumbered time, and relaxation should theoretically ensue. But relaxation isn't formulaic; the mixed ingredients don't always catalyze.
I am especially bad at relaxing.
It's a bluebird day over Penobscot Bay: sunny, warm, not a cloud in the sky. I started the day in a rowboat with a fellow passenger named Richard. We'd both hoped for a solo excursion, but when a deckhand
And so it was that I parked my car on a sunny Saturday, slung my dry bag over my shoulder, and sauntered coolly across Camden's Harbor Park toward the Mary Day. A
I wake up to the sound of the yawlboat's motor; the Mercantile is already in motion. I get dressed and go topsides for a cup of coffee. The sails are still furled, there's little wind, and Penobscot Bay is flat calm. The air is warm and sunny with a touch of humidity. It's going to be a hot day back on land.
Matt rings the breakfast bell and Alison carries quiche out of the galley and onto the deck. When I'm done eating, I walk back to
My hands are blistered, raw, and splintered from handling the rough manila lines over the past two days. As I slowly awaken in my bunk, and my mind shifts from dreams to reality, my hands are my first point of conscious awareness. The sharp pain in my shoulder is a close second. My body feels abused; I feel like a tired old man. I get dressed and go directly for a cup of strong Mercantile coffee, blueberry pancakes, and sausage.