I didn’t sail much in July. When I disembarked the Lewis R. French on July 5th, I wouldn’t sail again until boarding the Angelique in early August. During that long month ashore, I spent most of my time writing; getting caught up on the six trips I’d already taken.

In the morning, there is sunshine. The crisp autumn air is trumped by a blast of warm sun, and the American Eagle’s guests stroll the two-lane blacktop toward South Brooksville.

South Brooksville is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hamlet at the head of Bucks Harbor. There is a yacht club, an outboard motor salesroom, a general store, and not much else.

I have one objective on this

When I boarded the American Eagle yesterday morning, I was nagged by two questions.

The first question was general: Why would anyone choose a Maine sailing vacation in early October? Sure, the fall foliage is nice, but we’re still a week or two away from peak color. Second, the temperature this time of year can be uncomfortable, to put it mildly: average highs are a brisk 60 degrees; and the average lows are a bone-chilling

It is a cold, rainy October morning at North End Shipyard in Rockland. The Heritage crew has just emerged from their bunks to continue downrigging their vessel for the winter; the Mercantile—the first schooner to board passengers this season—is blocked up on the railway for end-of-season maintenance. The sailing season is over for many of the vessels in the Maine windjammer association, but, today, the American Eagle will depart for one

My first order of business this foggy morning is to apologize to Paul Dorr, the captain’s brother and cook. I want him to know that although I personally feel that each member of the Heritage crew is thoroughly awesome, I readily admit their language last night in the Bowdich’s galley was beyond the pale. I’m planning some variation on the Philadelphia Address: “I can no more disown the Heritage crew than I can disown the windjammer

Captain Owen Dorr has a lot on his mind. As his Nathaniel Bowditch sails into foggy West Penobscot Bay, the VHF is buzzing with radio traffic—its volume set perhaps a tad louder than usual. A named storm, Hanna, is working its way up the Atlantic coast, and it’s still uncertain when or where it will make landfall, or whether it will carry hurricane force. Captain Owen listens intently to the VHF for two reasons.

First,

It is a sunny, windless morning in Merchants Row, and the children aboard the Isaac H. Evans begin the day with a swim in the cold waters off Russ Island.

I remember this age. I remember coming to Maine with my parents when I was in middle school and boogie boarding atop the tight, foamy waves along York Beach. I remember asking my parents to join me in the water, but they said it was too cold; they preferred instead to lounge

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.