Maine
Whales, more whales, and lots of fishing gear...
July 8, Gloucester, MA: Ah, a glamorous morning of sailboat living. I spent it taking the head (toilet) apart to track down a noxious sewage leak that was greatly disturbing the wa and functionality of the good ship Laughing Gull. Dismembering the toilet to find the leak of course led to more foulness pulsing out onto the floor, which then trickled its way into the shower pan, and then deep into the bowels of the bilges, where it could maximize its stench safely hidden from me and any cleaning agents.
Leaking heads and holding tanks are an inevitability aboard a boat, in my experience. Your friends imagine blue skies, champagne sailing, and mind-blowing sunsets. And, yes, there is plenty of that (thankfully). What they don’t imagine is the simple reality that every once in a while, due to random mechanical demons, you will be elbow deep in reeking effluent. It’s a way that the universe tests your commitment to the liveaboard lifestyle, and I have experienced more than a few sewage disasters in my time. (Once a holding tank cracked due to the strong vacuum created during a pumpout, and I had gallons of sewage running through the bilges. Gallons.)
Once you accept that rogue sewage is just one of the indignities that you will need to endure to enjoy a sailboat life, you just pay the tax when it is levied and move on. I found a crack in the discharge hose, ordered a replacement to be sent to Rockland (where I will be in a few days), and swabbed out the shower pan and bilge as best I could. I don’t know whether the odor dissipated, or I just got used to it, but I have resumed normal boat living operations.
Thankfully, there is a second toilet aboard LG—awkwardly crammed into the forepeak where sails and spare lines are stored. Equally thankfully it worked fine when I fired it back to life after it had been more or less dormant for two years. So I was spared the classic “bucket and chuck it” scenario.
July 8. Gulf Of Maine: I’m on an overnight hop, headed to Casco Bay, and my morning messing around with messiness has been redeemed. It is a perfect and peaceful evening. Seas are calm and the ocean air is cooler than the intense blaze inshore. Ten knots of wind from the south-southwest is gently pushing LG along. I’m in no rush, as I don’t want to arrive on the Maine coast, with all its lobster pots, until daylight. The only blemish on the experience is the wanton prevalence of fishing gear in these waters, which requires a constant watch and frequent adjustments to my course. Even after the bottom has dropped away to more than 200 feet there is gear.
I crack open a beer and play some Miles Davis, and the sun is dipping toward the horizon, suffusing the sky in orange. It’s one of those moments that just happens. But the universe is not done providing. I hear an explosive exhalation behind me. A chorus of blows follows, and I count at least 5 whales nearby. A tail gracefully lifts out of the water, and then slips under, suggesting they are humpbacks. These moments of are why I am out here. Nothing makes me feel more at peace, more connected to the natural world, and more committed to living gently.
The next morning, just after sunrise, a group of minke whales puts on an even better show. The swim right past, LG, one surfacing and diving so close that the footprint it leaves is within spitting distance. So close that I brace for a potential bump, but the whale knows its business. After enjoying their company for a few minutes I just manage to catch a little video as they pass behind me.
I worry though. There is fishing gear all around these Gulf Of Maine whales, all the time. I find it hard to imagine that they can freely go about their lives and migrations, without swimming into it. I have lots of respect for fishermen, who are working hard to feed their families through all the adversities the ocean throws at them. But whales have enormous inherent value and as a society we need to figure out how to balance that against fishing revenue.
The current status quo is simply too dismissive of the value, and moral valence, of a whale life. I’ve followed this conflict between fishing gear and whales for a long time, but being out here makes me fully realize how bad the problem is.
July 9, Snow Island, Casco Bay: Anchor is down in a spectacular spot. Quogue Bay is pristine, and I am tucked into a well-protected nook to the east of Snow Island, with some unsettled weather on the way. The Maine seascape is distinctive—rocky islands cloaked in pine and fir, seaweed covered ledges, and abundant bird life. Every time I look up I see a blue heron, or an osprey. Or an osprey chasing a heron (they are very territorial).
The arrival on the Maine coast was uneventful, though it is indeed the land of rampant lobster pots (more on that in the future). On the way into the anchorage I passed this interesting cruiser, which has some elements similar to Laughing Gull but not (I think) her beautiful proportions and lines.
I’m glad to finally be in Maine, and I can tell this will be a good hideout for a few days. I celebrate with a swim (not as icy as expected) and a hot shower. And then settle into remote life on anchor with a good view.
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As my father would have said (with glee) when confronted with a situation like your malfunctioning head, "Aw shit!"
Tim
There seem to be an awful lot of ropes on your boat. How do you make sure they are all in good shape?
Robin