Cruising as a couple: a retreat of sorts.
It was 3 a.m. I was on watch alone, my wife, Mary, asleep below. We were cruising in Maine.
The shark cut calmly through Maine’s cold waters. Cloaked in darkness, he was in no rush. I could hear him swishing the water, tufts of white foam following his every move. Simply circling our sailboat, just waiting for us to make a mistake. He was in charge, and he knew it.
If the shark got his way, Mary would wake in the morning, and I’d be gone. Panic would overtake her. But she would reason, as desperate people do, that I probably just fell off and swam to shore. No one would ever know the gruesome end I would have.
The companionway hatch jolted open, shaking me out of my stupor.
“Get some rest. You’re exhausted,” Mary commanded.
“But there’s a shark,” I warned.
“Those are waves. You’re hallucinating; get to bed.”
Mary didn’t have much experience sailing in those days, but money couldn’t buy a better first mate.
We had dreams of far-off lands. Palm trees, warm sand, and rum. But first, we needed to get some experience, our sea legs. So, off to Maine we ventured. With its rocky shores and lobster pots enshrouded in fog, “vacationland” can be unforgiving. We approached it with the spirit of youth, meaning stupidly and without considering all the risks. Talk about baptism by fire. Maine’s fog is like being deep in a coal mine without a headlamp.
Somehow, we survived, though radar and AIS are the real heroes here. Without them as crew there’s a very good chance Mary and I would have ended up dashed upon a rocky shore or snarled in an unending train of lobster lines and pots. In complete contrast, we also had days of warm sun, crisp air, and stoic pine trees calmly keeping watch. We pursued puffins off Egg Island, anchored on the back side of Mount Desert Island, and spied bald eagles towering over Tenant’s harbor. We even scored a couple of two-and-a-half-pound lobsters for a grand total of 15 bucks right off a family-owned lobster boat.
Money couldn't buy a better first mate.
Our days followed the rhythm of the sun. Up with the light, cocktails in the bow at sunset with hiking, swimming, and exploring in between. And then, we’d raise anchor and sail to yet another of Maine’s endless enchantments. It was fantastic, what I had dreamed of, until it wasn’t.
On a beautiful beam reach headed for Vinalhaven, the aft end of our outhaul track on our in-mast furling system decided to pop free from its boom bolts. Once again, I was startled out of my stupor. It was a fresh day, southwest winds blowing 15 to 20 knots, and we were getting rolled under by gentle yet large swells. Of course the full main, yankee, and staysail were set at the time. At first, we froze. Our brains didn’t process the image our eyes were presenting. As if glancing at a mangled car wreck, I thought, “What am I looking at exactly?” After a moment, without exchanging a word, we both knew what needed to be done.
Mary pointed Glory’s bow into the wind to release massive strain on the sails. We didn’t have a lot of time. The wind and waves would soon conspire to knock the bow off the wind, hit us broadside, fill the sails, and make it nearly impossible to reef the main. With the sails flapping like thunder, Mary quickly handled the outhaul line while I winched in the main until the car was over a secure section of track. Just like that, we were on our way again, albeit with a reefed main and a looming yard repair bill.
A couple of days later we dropped the anchor into the deep, dark waters of Boothbay Harbor. We awoke the following morning to find ourselves drenched in a thick fog. While Mary made coffee, I toured the decks, wet and slick, looking for anything awry—chafed lines, an unfastened clevis pin, or tangled anchor tackle.
Handing me a fresh cup, Mary looked up and said, “That doesn’t look good.” The topping lift to our spinnaker pole was old and fraying. Mary has an eagle eye. She doesn’t miss a thing.
“Get the chair. I’ll go up,” Mary volunteered.
It was just to the first set of spreaders, but still. She’s petite, and cute, but don’t let that fool you; this woman is fearless. And badass.
Treasures that pleasure alone lacks the power to access.
We made more anchorages, soaked in more sunsets, and consumed more cocktails, but we were making our way home now, back to the sandy shores of Buzzard’s Bay, MA. Back to the world. Back to bills. Back to obligations and commitments.
On the final night, we sat in silence, savoring a pink streaked sky in the gloaming. I reflected on our trip. We were often mesmerized by Maine’s striking coastline, blue waves constantly crashing against majestic rock formations, surrounded by an endless army of deep green pine trees. Our days were filled with breathtaking hikes, casual bike rides, and many candlelit dinners in our cozy cockpit. We listened to live music on street corners, strolled through charming towns, relaxed on rocky beaches, jumped off the boat, and laughed a lot. On that basis alone, it was a fantastic trip. But I believe there was something greater afoot that made this so special.
Because to do all these things, Mary and I had to navigate through fog several times, sail at night, battle fatigue, find secure anchorages, manage boat repairs, and tend to the unique day-to-day requirements of life on a boat. We had to be a team. We had to trust and be patient with one another, think ahead, and consider one another’s situation and efforts when verbal communication was difficult or simply wasn’t feasible.
By this measure, this wasn’t simply a vacation. It was a retreat of sorts, an outward-bound journey that ministered to inward yearnings. These are the deep treasures of the sea that pleasure alone lacks the power to access. It was the adversity that led to quiet connections. The trials that supplied substance. This is where the marrow was.
We were three weeks out. Mary stared off into the afterglow and flatly declared, “I could keep going.” My heart was full.
by Tom Mitri
