Points East Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 1077
Portsmouth, NH 03802-1077
1-888-778-5790
|
|
Ah, the boat show that changed our lives
By Mike Morrison
A little over 13 years ago, during what passes as spring here in Maine, we decided to go to the Portland Boat Show. My wife, Judy, and I were new to boating Ð it was our second season Ð and we were the proud owners of a 19-1Ú2-foot 1984 Winner cuddy cabin, we'd purchased from a man named Dodo. We were such greenhorns that we once crossed Penobscot Bay in lowering skies with a four- to six-foot sea.
Feeling like seasoned salts, we paid our boat-show admission fee and then met with Roger, a convivial gentleman who represented a large Portland boat dealership. Before long, he'd convinced us that we needed to have him (and his service department) take care of all the mechanical requirements of our little Winner. Down at the dealership, it seems there was quite a lot that needed attention Ð like about $2,500 worth. While listening to the laundry list of engine/outdrive woes, we met Kirk.
| |
 |
| | Photo courtesy Dave Martin |
| |
Mike and Judy Morrison onboard Isis, their Sea Ray 26. |
Kirk was a very friendly boat salesman. If there is a Boat Salesman Hall of Fame, then Kirk deserves a spot in it. He had a couple of boats he wanted to show us Ð no obligation, just looking. The first was a 23-foot Sea Ray that made the Winner look like one of those tiny fold-down travel trailers. It was a trade-in, and all the owner's gear was still aboard. It looked to us like a real live-aboard. The next offering, out on the side lot, was a 26'8" Sea Ray Weekender. It was a 1988 model that had remained unsold for four years Ð an obvious red flag that went right over my head.
When I sat behind the wheel and gazed down that long aircraft-carrier foredeck, Kirk knew he'd set the hook and now had to land the fish. The boat listed for $47,000, but Kirk said we could practically "steal" it for $29,000. Whoa . . . could we afford that? At the time, we lived in a tiny cabin in New Hampshire. Sure, we were both employed, but twenty-nine thousand dollars!?!
Long story short, Kirk talked to Roger, Roger talked to Kirk, and Kirk talked to us, saying that he would agree to replacing the weathered canvas. Then Roger agreed to install our electronics, Kirk agreed to paint the bottom, Roger agreed to "eat" the repair bill Ð and we agreed to buy the boat.
That was 1992, and we still own Isis and use her nearly every week in season. We've cruised from the Isles of Shoals to Northeast Harbor on Mount Desert. But since we keep Isis at Paul's Marina on Mere Point Bay, in the northeast corner of Casco Bay, and since our two days off are in the middle of the week (we work weekends), we spend many nights at Jewell Island, about 10 miles east of Portland. One of the outermost islands in the bay, Jewell has a fairly well protected anchorage at its north end that some call Cocktail Cove. From Mere Point, it takes us a leisurely hour to ply the 81Ú2 miles to Jewell, where we drop the hook and just enjoy.
We usually do a slow cruise past Upper and Lower Goose islands, southwest of Mere Point, and wave at "The Mayor of the Goslings," Burleigh Deemer, whose Casco Belle can be found most of the summer on her mooring in the islets just south of Lower Goose. Depending upon wind and waves, we either go east of Whaleboat Island or west, crossing Broad Sound to slip between Cliff and Jewell, missing any surge from seaward.
After July 4, Jewell can become crowded, but by midweek, we can usually find a spot up beyond the single remaining piling in the anchorage, which has good mud holding ground. Since our Sea Ray has a shallow draft, we can get pretty far up the cove where few others can. Spending the night, we often hear an owl hoot, watch deer cross the bar from Jewell to Little Jewell, and watch the Scotia Prince leave Portland bound for Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. We'll miss seeing her this year, because her 2005 season was cancelled this spring, reportedly because of toxic mold in her terminal.
During the day, there's adventure aplenty on Jewell, exploring the World War II bunkers, secret low-tide rubble beaches, interior mysteries, and learning how to avoid the poison ivy. In wet years, the mosquitoes can be a little fierce, so bring your bug netting. The last few seasons, a caretaker has been on the island, and this has cut down on vandalism and rowdiness. Lloyd Cushing's family owns the little house on Little Jewell, and Lloyd still fishes for lobster using a float moored in the cove. He's active in introducing lobster fishing to young people from the Portland area.
Our cruises are not always so idyllic. Picture this: You're anchored on the northeast side of Richmond Island, off Cape Elizabeth, on the crescent beach side of the jetty. It's a beautiful warm and sunny day, and eight or nine boats of all descriptions are riding peacefully at anchor. You've just returned to the boat after hiking the island's coastal trail or picking up sand dollars at low tide. Dinner preparation is beginning in the galley when, suddenly, the boat starts rocking wildly from side to side.
A plastic cup spills off the deck, the fridge door pops open. What's this, a sudden squall? Well, this happened to us. In this case, I rushed up on deck to discover a boatload of idiots repeatedly water-skiing right through the anchorage. Owning a powerboat myself, I know that a lot of ignorant yahoos are in powerboats, and this incident left me shaking my head and thinking: What a convincing argument for mandatory boat licensing!
But there's always some sort of excitement on every cruise. One day, while returning to our marina from a trip Down East, the big MerCruiser began hiccupping and coughing. We called Roger, our service person, over the Camden Marine Operator (remember that?). "Must be a fuel problem," he confidently advised. "Just remove the side port jet thermocouple and clean out the internal brass sliding rimrod next to the starve fuel fixator."
Right. I looked at the big four-barrel Holley carburetor, placed both hands on the spark arrestor, and yelled, "Heal!" This must have done something, for the beast started right up and seemed to be running normally.
We resumed our trip under rainy skies and a choppy, confused sea. We were passing Popham Beach at the mouth of the Kennebec when the engine returned to its earlier recalcitrance. We had nearly rounded Cape Small for the run home when, between Fuller Rock and the shore, the engine failed completely. With a southwesterly wind and four- to six-foot seas, we began to drift toward the rocks on the cape.
I raced forward to deploy our anchor while Judy called the Coast Guard. The bottom off Cape Small is quite sandy and somewhat resistant to anchoring. With 250 feet of rode out, our anchor would not grab and we drifted ever closer to the rocks. Judy (calm as a cucumber) could not reach Coast Guard South Portland Group, but a passing research vessel relayed our distress call.
Now, I was up on the bow trying to attach the auxiliary rode to the one already deployed when, unbeknownst to me, Judy got the motor started. Since I was bouncing up and down on the bow, trying to remember how to tie two lines together, I didn't notice the forward motion of the boat. By the time it dawned on me that we were making headway, the auxiliary rode had passed under the bow, and we had one of those husband/wife nautical exchanges that have been known to end marriages. Needless to say, the rode had fouled the prop.
At this point, the anchor decided that this was the time to set itself. With a nice solid grab, the hook now pivoted Isis 180 degrees, and we are now stern-to those same four-to six-foot seas. The research vessel was readying its inflatable when Coast Guard Group asked, "Is the situation life-threatening?"
My still-calm wife replied, "If we get pooped, we'll both be in the water."
To shorten a rather windy narrative, the Coast Guard arrived, I cut the anchor rode too soon, the line nicely unwrapped itself from the prop, and I got yelled at. The Coast Guard threw me a line, which I secured to our strongest cleat, and then our inflatable came loose. Somehow, while we were under tow, the Coast Guard vessel's skipper managed to grab the inflatable in a remarkable bit of seamanship that still has me in awe.
In the years since that debacle, we have navigated by Cape Small many times; however, now we refer to that bold promontory in slightly modified terms: the Dreaded Cape Small.
Beauty, serenity, romance, adventure Ð and, yes, the occasional disturbance and adrenaline flow: Isis has exposed us to all these and more since we bought her those many years ago. Ah, the boat show that changed our lives.
|
|
|
