The Old Harbor

I stood in the back of the Express looking for a path through the jumble of boulders. Above us a gaggle of families snapping pictures watched intently, trying to catch that special moment when we run the dinghy aground on rocks. They were disappointed. The current from the old harbor pushed against the inflatable hull, and we pumped up the jam. “Faster Dad!” Eleanor yelled as I goosed the throttle and we slid into the quiet confines of the old harbor.

There is a Reason Why They Call it Beating to Windward

In Rockland before departure, we watched heavy fog hang across the harbor. Visibility was just under a mile with the occasional encroachment to a few hundred feet. We hauled in 160 feet of chain and our number 1 anchor, hoisted sail and cruised out of the harbor. The fog enveloped us, and we watched pensively as a large cursing catamaran a few boat lengths off of our bow then the land to starboard vanished.