I had been anxiously anticipating the departure date all spring as I readied my Cape Dory 25D for my first official "business trip," a solo cruise from Newburyport, Mass., along the coast of New Hampshire to Bailey Island, Maine.

I call it a business trip because I am both a professional artist and a sailor. All winter long I happily create paintings in my studio, but come summer I have a dilemma: On a beautiful summer day when I'm in my studio painting I feel like I should be sailing; and when I'm out sailing I feel that I should be painting. So last year when I had the opportunity to attend a weeklong watercolor workshop (I usually work in oils) in Maine and combine the two, I jumped at the chance.

Artist Robert Brun aboard his cape Dory 25D

Photo courtesy Robert Brun

All throughout the spring, as I prepared my boat, Francis B (named after my late father), I dreamed of resting quietly at anchor, my easel before me, paint flowing freely from my brush as I worked to capture the beauty of coastal Maine. Then, not one week before my scheduled departure, a letter arrived, canceling the workshop.

I was crushed, all my plans dashed against the rocky coast I had so hoped to paint. Later, though, I decided I would go anyway, and with renewed enthusiasm I completed the final pre-cruise preparations.

I left Newburyport at 8:30 a.m. on a late-July day and motored out the Merrimac River with the last of the ebbing tide. The winds were light and from the southeast, so I motor-sailed until beyond the Isles of Shoals. The breeze freshened that afternoon and for the rest of the day I enjoyed a steady 5-knot run to Cape Porpoise, Maine and my first stop of the trip.  

The next day, NOAA was forecasting small-craft advisories so at 8 a.m., after securing everything aboard, I set out on a rolling sea for a downwind run to the northeast. The wind was directly astern so I elected to set the sails for a dead run, rigging the preventer and poling out the 135 jib wing on wing.

Sailing singlehanded has the advantage of complete control of one's destiny and endless time for contemplation, but it also makes every aspect of sailing the boat a major production, especially without the help of an automatic pilot. Making from 4.9 to 7.4 knots on a run in a 25-foot boat can be very exciting, but with big following seas it also makes for lots of exhaustive tiller work. The shock cord I stretch across the cockpit to tie off the tiller is some help, but not much. In a following sea it generally buys me only enough time to get myself into BIG trouble ­ even going to the head becomes a major exercise in speed and dexterity.

The advantage of heavy air, however, is you can get somewhere fast, and that's exactly what I did. I'd made Bailey Island in record time and by early afternoon I was happily motoring into Mackerel Cove. The wind was still howling, and even with all sails down and the prop barely turning above idle speed, I blew in at 4.5 knots.  

At the mooring, I turned into the wind, motored up and, with tiller tied off, scrambled forward to retrieve the pick-up, only to have the bow blown aside by the sheer force of the gusts. It took three more attempts before I was finally able to secure the pennant to the forward cleat with a quick loop. Out of breath, I watched in amazement as the force of the wind against my boat pulled the mooring ball almost 2 feet under water.

I straightened the boat and stowed my gear, thinking I would row the dinghy ashore to stretch my legs. But I quickly realized that with the dinghy dock behind me and a 30-plus-knot wind ahead I could certainly row ashore, but I'd never get back. So I opted instead for a short nap followed by a luke-warm sun shower.

Later, I sketched for awhile, fixed myself dinner and bedded down for my second night aboard. The wind had eased somewhat by then, but the seas, whipped up by the wind, persisted. Since Mackerel Cove opens to the south, the resulting rollers that entered made for a very restless night. In the morning, I sleepily prepared for my day of painting ashore.  

Though the workshop had been canceled, the instructor had offered a single seminar that day, so after breakfast I rowed ashore and hiked, painting supplies in hand, to the end of the cove where the class was scheduled to meet. I spent that day under the close guidance of the instructor, taking in as much as I could about the methods and techniques of watercolor. By late afternoon I was exhausted but inspired.

The next day I awoke to rain and 60-degree temperatures. The radio forecast clearing by midday, so I settled in for a leisurely morning. I made a second pot of coffee and enjoyed an unhurried breakfast while I listened to the continuous tapping of the rain on the cabin top. Standing just inside the companionway gave me an excellent view of the cove while sheltered from the rain, and there I stood sketching my surroundings.

The techniques I'd been shown the day before came in handy as I quickly dashed off several simple color studies of the rain-soaked island. I was pleased with the result and inspired to do more, so when the wind stopped around 1 p.m. I prepared to move to my next anchorage at Quahog Bay.  

I motored out of Mackerel Cove as the skies continued to clear and rounded Jaquish Island. The light winds made sailing impractical, so I continued to motor the 6 miles up and into Quahog Bay, dropping anchor off Snow Island. It had turned into a beautiful afternoon and the sky, filled with white clouds, made me anxious to start painting again.  I set up my paints in the cockpit and worked into the early evening, quickly sketching the pine-covered islands around me as the planes from nearby Brunswick Naval Air Station circled overhead. The sky quickly changed from blue to pink to a deep orange as the light faded and the mosquitoes ventured out for their evening meal ... me!

It has never ceased to amaze me how these vampires of the insect world are able to detect a single warm-blooded body in a small boat anchored so far from shore, but they certainly do, and soon their sheer numbers proved overwhelming. Below, I secured the companionway screens and reviewed my paintings of that day. Excited by the work I'd done so far, I was pleased to find that this combination of painting and sailing was proving harmonious.

In the past, my cruising had always been destination oriented ­ Portland one day, Boothbay Harbor the next etc. ­ pushing myself farther and farther east to get somewhere only to discover that once there it was time to turn around and head back. This time it was different ­ I was there with a purpose, but unlike other trips there was no itinerary, and the painting afforded the perfect excuse to stay put for awhile. With that in mind and the day's sketches in hand, I dined, relaxed, read, and finally drifted off to sleep, anxious for the next dawn.

In the morning I glanced out the companionway to discover, much to my surprise, the stern of my dinghy to be no more than 6 feet from a rather sizable ledge. Winds had clocked 180 degrees during the night and the tide had ebbed. The ledge, exactly where the chart said it was, protruded 3 feet above the water just off my starboard side. But my anchor had held, so rather than berate myself (after all, I hadn't actually hit it) I took the opportunity to do yet another painting.

Now you might think that there is something very romantic about the idea of painting on location, out of doors, communing with nature or plein air as the French like to say, but the reality, as is so often the case with these kinds of things, is a very different matter altogether.

For example, watercolor paper is white ... very white ... white as snow, and as a result the human eye responds to gazing upon it the same way it does on sunny snow ­ you get snow-blind. The pupils contract to the size of pinheads, and contrast greatly increases until everything you see is reduced to blotchy shapes. This also affects color perception, making it appear that all of the paints in the palette had turned black.  

In addition to the visual problems, I was also dealing with the laws of physics. It was a beautiful, dry day, with a light breeze, and would have been ideal for almost any other activity. For the plein air watercolorist, however, it meant only one thing: rapid drying.  Wetting down the paper for a wash now required constant and repeated soaking just to keep it wet.

Try to flow on a wash and it would dry half way through. Although I would literally mix up an entire pan full of color for a given area, by the time I returned to dip my brush the paint had completely dried. All of this ultimately resulted in spotty, uneven washes and overworked detail areas. Full-sheet, beautifully rendered landscapes were (at least until a solution could be found) out of the question.

I sat dejected for a few moments, frustrated by the logistics of my task. Pining quietly for the controlled environment of my cozy studio and my oil paints, I mustered up my resolve and made a decision: I would waste no more time attempting the impossible (or, at least, the unlikely) but rather would make the best of the situation by capturing the color, impression and feel of the scene in a series of small watercolor sketches. Taking careful notes, I would use this information, once comfortably back in my studio, to complete finished, larger paintings.

Inspired once again, I dashed off several of these quick "impressions" free of the self-imposed pressure of having to create an actual finished painting. At this accelerated rate, I was able to collect all the information I required. I painted for the rest of the morning and after lunch made plans to move on to The Basin off the New Meadows River. I hauled the anchor, feeling good about my work of the morning and my new plan. I would collect as many different locations in sketch form as possible in the time that remained.

The day was sunny and cloudless, with the temperatures in the 70s. I motored out of the bay and passed Duck Rock before raising sail and ghosting my way toward the New Meadows River.

That afternoon, being a Friday, The Basin was already crowded with several other cruising boats of various description. I circled the spread of anchored boats and found myself a spot in the northwest, corner where I set the anchor. I'd been out for five days so far, had completed plenty of sketches and was getting anxious to get back to my studio and start painting in earnest. After working for the rest of the afternoon, I made up my mind it was time to start for home. So the next day I motored slowly out of The Basin and down the river toward Casco Bay to begin the return leg of the trip.

The wind that day was out of the south, which put me on a close reach. Once I got clear of the channel buoy and on course, I set the sails and lashed the tiller. On a close reach, in consistent wind, Francis B tracks very well, never varying more than 5 degrees from her heading before settling back on course. These are the conditions I live for while sailing, and it gave me a chance to relax for awhile.

As the Maine coast moved slowly by, I settled against the rail with a good book. For the next two hours, we held our course, making 4 knots over the bottom back to Bailey Island. I arrived at Mackerel Cove at 2:30 p.m. and picked up the mooring for the night. After a fitful night's sleep, and a more hurried morning (for I once again had a destination and a time frame) I left Bailey Island, heading southwest and back to Newburyport.

I made it home the following day. As I write this it is midwinter, and I have been painting and reminiscing about the voyage. I am glad to have found a pleasurable solution to my summer sailing/painting dilemma, and I look forward to doing it again once the ice melts and the winds of Maine again blow warm from the south.

Robert Brun lives, paints and sails out of Newburyport, Mass. His paintings can be seen at the Walsingham Gallery in Newburyport, N.W. Barrets gallery in Portsmouth, N.H., and at Framemakers Gallery in Danvers, Mass.. The artist can be contacted by email at: airebrun@hotmail.com. or by regular mail: 76 State Street, Suite 206, Newburyport, Mass. 01950. Additional examples of his work can be seen at www.neart.net