A toast to Shoals people, stories and boats

Fall arrived at the Isles of Shoals one Sunday afternoon in mid-September, on the back of a blustery northwest wind that turned the misty air clear, and the water from gray/green to blue, in the matter of an hour. Weekend visitors that had arrived the previous day to escape the intense late summer heat quickly tossed mooring lines to begin the uphill thrash back to America, as the chop began to build across the seven-mile fetch.

The next morning dawned crisp and cool, and I dressed in long pants for the first time since sometime back in June. The reminder of a similar seasonal transition from a long time ago was inescapable – of the summer when I shed both long pants and shoes on the last day of school, neither to be seen again until the day after Labor Day.

1970 was a year that impacted my life more than any other. That summer showed me some things that matter most to me still, but it also marked the abrupt end of my childhood. I have an image in my head that sustains me to this day – of heading out across the bay on a typical calm and glassy summer morning, sitting on top of a humming outboard, my feet on the rails and the salty sweet smell of the ocean in my nose.

That summer, my little brother and I spent nearly all of our mornings in our salvaged skiff catching lobsters. The afternoons were spent fishing, and swimming off the side when we got too hot or too bored. We sold our lobsters to family, neighbors and local restaurants. We gave the best of the fish to our grandmother, who could make even a moonshell snail taste good. All the rest of the catch – mostly mackerel, cod and flounder – became lobster bait when allowed to ripen in the sun. The mackerel brought in the most lobsters by far, and we jigged for hours at sunset when we saw the big schools come in.

Our lobster skiff was about 14 feet long, smooth-planked, with a covered foredeck. She was a typical flat-bottomed New England skiff, built of oak and local softwood, dory style. She had two seats either side of the space for an outboard, but no thwarts. Sawn frames on floors on the usual stations mostly kept her intended shape intact.

We found her one morning in the fog, awash in a long groundswell off Little Harbor, in Marblehead. We towed her behind the Whaler, back to the beach in Salem Bay, where we stayed in a rented cottage. We notified police, harbormasters and the Coast Guard. But after a week no one had claimed her, and we soon began to think of her as ours.

My father had been in search of a way to keep us productively occupied and out of trouble through the long summer. He seized on this new opportunity, and lent us the money to set up a little fishing business. We set to work at once to fix up the skiff.

The worst gaps in the hull were soon filled with a product called Gluvit, an epoxy-type filler that looked like thick honey and promised to excuse a multitude of small boat sins. We painted the topsides with leftover house paint. The bottom received two generous coats of that thick, old aromatic red copper bottom paint from Gloucester.

We bought lobster trap kits at Rockport Twine and Rope, and hammered them together with galvanized nails through the tough oak. We painted our buoys green and white. Our grandmother, Rose, aforementioned connoisseur of fresh seafood and enthusiastic booster of all family initiatives, financed an outboard motor. And so we set out proudly with our new gear in the resurrected old skiff, newly christened The Rosie.

We learned to catch lobsters very quickly, and the established fishermen left us alone. We did our best to stay out of their way and fish among the rocks where they couldn’t go in their bigger boats. The old skiff leaked like a colander, despite our hard work, but we were out early every morning to pump her out before she had a chance to sink. We repaid the family loans by the end of July, and had money in our pockets the whole time.

That summer changed me forever, and cemented my deep connection to the ocean in a way that has endured and deepened over the years. But as summer turned to fall that year, my father was quietly dying from an undiagnosed melanoma that consumed him completely by Christmas. The boats were sold, and the seaside summers were over – at least for a while. But the seeds had been sown.

Meanwhile back at Star Island, the unofficial capital of the Isles of Shoals, a successful and relatively uneventful summer is coming to a close. It has been exceptionally hot and dry. The lack of rain put a strain on the Island cistern supply, but our ample solar power allowed for plenty of time to take advantage of the wonders of reverse osmosis in the long sunny afternoons to make fresh water from salt. (Mariners, do stop by for a tour of the unique Island infrastructure and sustainable systems next time you’re in Gosport.)

A big squall in July caused some groundings of rafted yachts and a pile-up on our shore that crushed a nice old Lowell’s skiff, a favorite of off-duty employees. Insurers called the loss an “Act of God,” with little hope for recovery from the offending mariners.

An anecdotal study of 2016 Harbor visitors reveals an uptick in stops by mega-yachts. One such vessel – sporting a helicopter on the afterdeck and saloon bulkheads festooned with oil paintings – measured over 175 feet.

Harlan Billings, of Billings Marine on Deer Isle, once told me that he could predict the stock market by careful observation of the timing and number of such vessels that made it to East Penobscot Bay over the course of a summer. High numbers, especially when seen early in the season, indicated a coming bull market on Wall Street. Low numbers and late visits meant that the titans of finance were staying home to work, and a defensive move to bonds might be in order. Gosport Harbor thus sends a buy signal for stocks in the coming year.

Whales were numerous offshore this year, but few were seen inside the Shoals. Not so porpoises, dolphins and seals, all of which were seen regularly on the inside run to Portsmouth. The gray seal population on Duck Island continues to amaze. Great Whites are said to be lurking about, but no sightings could be confirmed in 2016. A 16-foot basking shark did find his way under the floats and into the swimming area in mid July.

I started lobstering again this summer with a couple dozen traps set around the islands, mainly for tours that became especially popular with younger guests. I appreciate the tolerance of the established fishermen, and still do my best to stay out of their way in this hard-won and well-protected fishing territory. My buoys are still painted green and white, and it is still a thrill to watch the traps emerge from the depths.

This morning in mid-September our panorama stretched from Rockport quite nearly to Portland – the better part of what is known as Bigelow Bight, named for one of its earliest conservators. But to my mind, with respectful appreciation for the accomplishments of Dr. Bigelow, this will always be my father’s coast.

In addition to a Transcendentalist’s morality, his most enduring gifts to me include an introduction to the love of small boats, and to this coast. His coast ranged from Marblehead to Port Clyde, including the Isles of Shoals, which we first visited together in 1959. My father’s gift continues to delight, inspire and define me through all the years since that dreamy summer ended in sadness so long ago.

As yet another summer turns to fall along his coast some 46 years later, here’s a toast to its people, their stories, and their boats – and maybe just one more to my generous father who loved them all.