Destination: Digby, Nova Scotia. Never got there. More about that later, but first one thing about sailing Downeast Ñ there are myriad destinations, so one need never be distracted by altering one's plan.

Or, as Kenneth Graham put it in "The Wind in the Willows:" "Whether you get away or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else or whether you never get anywhere at allÉthere's always something else to do".

My intention was to solo from Islesboro, Maine, my homeport, to Hull's Cove, then depart on Sept. 4 in Cimbria, a venerable Tartan 27, along with our sailing friends the Hatches aboard Cygnus, a Cape Dory 30. Cimbria and I made it to Hull's Cove without incident, but a particularly vicious storm and fog the morning of the 4th made a beat out of Frenchman's Bay well nigh ridiculous

Immediately we knew that a landfall at Digby was unlikely, as our timing and the tides would not mesh. That's what happens when one's schedule is unnecessarily tight. Nevermind — Downeast we were going, so the next day dawning clear we set off, crossing the bar at 'Tit Manan at 13:35.

Cygnus headed into the well-protected Cow's Yard for the night while we went next door to Mistake Island, one of my top 10 Maine destinations for beauty and protection. Besides, my crew, Ed, had never been there, and I wanted to show him the scenery and feed him a breakfast of pancakes with freshly picked blueberries and raspberries bathed in my own maple syrup.

The next day we headed to Roque Island to see the beautiful sand beach and then on to Cutler for the night.

As the morning sun rose over Grand Manan, we took the tide and breeze up to Quoddy Narrows and the FDR bridge. Well, I think my cruising guide misled me about timing for the bridge, so I missed it and we backed off and waited out the tide in Little Duck Bay on Campobello before making it comfortably into Eastport on the next tide.

Our welcome to Eastport was remarkable. It was the day of the annual salmon festival, and we had the pleasure of sailing into the harbor to the accompaniment of thumping drums of Native American players. Then, considering our Scottish heritage, Cimbria and I got a special treat, a solo piper performing "Scotland the Brave" from atop the quay.

I knew I was going to love this place.

The pleasures continued as we met some wonderful people, including Bob Peacock, a local entrepreneur and the most skilled motor boat handler I've ever met, and Jim Blankman an incredible craftsman who restores classic station wagons. He also builds the Woody, a small and elegant wooden trailer. Oh, and he is a connoisseur of fine Scotch.

Bob took us to a party that night at Annabelles in Lubec, the "easternmost bar in the USA," one result of which was that Ed took an unscheduled swim in Eastport Harbor at about midnight. That event immediately became known as the "easternmost soak in the USA."

Meanwhile, a 40-foot sloop had gone up on a rock just outside the harbor. That gave the Coast Guard, Bob Peacock and assorted others plenty to do that night. Miraculously, damage was slight to the "easternmost wreck in the USA." Three easternmosts in 24 hours — a hat trick!

Ed had to leave the next day, so Cygnus and Cimbria headed for St. Andrews. After a brief stay, I returned to Eastport to await relief crew while Cygnus headed off to Cobscook Bay. The return to Eastport provided an excuse for a sunset cruise and another evening of fun. Klaus, Ed's relief, arrived the next morning, and a lazy day was marked by the impoundment of a herring dragger and arrest of her crew, something about a 3-mile limit.

Oh yes, at Annabelles the previous evening there was some rare, salty chatter about the Burnt Creek Tribe and lobstering rights.

Friday the 12th brought fair weather, so we ran up to St. Andrews, where Harry Chamberlain, the indomitable wharfinger, made us welcome. Her Majesty's Customs, however, decided that Cimbria was suspicious and spent a pleasant sunny afternoon "inspecting" her. I figured they'd found a better way to spend their time than filling out bits of paper in their office at St. Stephen. Lucky break, as we ran into a local, Jan Burnham, who offered us a mooring for our stay and the use of his house for showers — what joy!

Saturday was spent cruising, but then came word of Hurricane Isabelle. Klaus was worried about his boat back in Connecticut, so we cut short our time in New Brunswick and returned to Eastport. I cruised around for a couple of days, visiting Campobello again, staying at the fine new wharf in Friar's Bay, and then picked up Rusty, my crew for the trip back. Another dinner at Annabelles was made memorable by a farmer from Iowa who, less than enchanted by the quality of steaks in the east, had had a case-full flown in from Iowa and proceeded to cook them for all and sundry.

Back in Cutler the next day, little memorable happened except the appearance of a mysterious blue glove in the water. As we'd seen one in the harbor at Eastport, we toyed with a short story: "The Riddle of the Blue Glove." I'd heard of the mystery of the "Blue Men" appearing in the Minch off the Hebrides, and wondered if a sequel were possible. But then, a lot of lobstermen wear blue gloves.

Jonesport was the next destination; but we ended up in Bucks Harbor, which was wonderful — a lot more than can be said about the weather, which was dreadful. As compensation, some kind soul left a fine, fresh zucchini on our deck, a typical act of Downeast hospitality.

Back to Mistake Island the next day in fine weather, and then my mistake: trying to find my way into Corea in a dungeon of fog without radar. Having missed the entrance, I found a mean ledge the hard way, but a kindly lobsterman set us aright.

A bigger problem was that the little store at the head of the harbor had shut down and the nearest beer was miles away. To make it worse, the fog was so bad we had to lay over there another day, which led to a monster backgammon tournament. From then on things improved and we carried on homewards, cruising Somes Sound and beyond after a couple of days at Buckle Harbor on Swans Island, another winner.

Finally, it was on to the great Eggemoggin Reach, stopping overnight at the WoodenBoat School and eating fabulously at the Brooklin Inn. And that was it, save for a memorable sail up the Reach and a fabulously fast crossing to Isleboro — 7.2kts with a short jib and reefed main.

It was a trip memorable for so much beauty, kindness, and sailing. Oh, and for "the easternmost hat-trick."