Moores Cove, Isle au Haut, Maine - Lunar Eclipse

Barred Islands, 44°13.94N, 068°48.54W

We’re back in the Barred Islands, one of our favorite spots. It’s morning, and I’m drinking a part of the 62 bags of coffee Greg gave us (it now fills every crevice the boat has). ‘Cept today is different: we’re up early and setting off to the outer islands, perhaps Isle Au Haut again, but not sure just yet, we’re just trying to get away from any lights. That’s because early tomorrow morning is the second total eclipse of the moon. It starts at 4.51am, with the moon entering the earth’s shadow, and the eclipse will occur in its totality at 5.52am with the moon just above the SW horizon. I suspect it’ll be fading by then in any case as the morning light breaks through, and as the moon disappears over the morning horizon.

Rockland, Maine 44°05.94N, 069°05.70W

Greg's sailing video, click HERE.

After five days of sailing, we arrived in Rockland, still small, but the largest city in Penobscot. We set out for dinner (oh how I crave some spicy food: I need not to see ‘Lobster cooked 20 ways’, ‘Fried fish’, ‘Chowder!’ ever again in my life) and walking up the street chatted with some peeps. We found out there was a gig on that night. On investigation it was Sierra Leone’s Refugee All Stars: musicians from Sierra Leone’s refugee camps (click on that blue stuff for a geek). There were eight of them, all but one men, almost shy, with sun weathered faces, and with a natural warmth and kindness and pride in the way they carried themselves, and an ease of movement and dance that perhaps implied a hot day: slow and graceful, delicate with short sharp movements woven in. Smooth and efficient. We bought one of the last remaining tickets ‘Standing Room Only’. The venue was a movie theater normally, and we were in that little section at the front where nobody would want to sit. There were signs up warning the people in the front rows: ‘Dancing is encouraged, take a seat further back if you want to sit’. And dancing there was! Maracas, eclectic guitars, wonderful chanting and harmonies, drums and syncopated reggae beats, sometimes mixed up with NYC style rap over the top. Who would want a seat! I turned around to see Max blowing through the place like a typhoon, dancing with little kids (and their mums) and raging up the local lasses, sweat streaming down his face. In one sing along bit, he managed to get in a rhythmic ‘South – Pa – Ci – Fic” with perfect timing and at full volume. It made everybody in the band smile and nod. Hilarious. A great, great night.

Green Island, Maine

Green Island is an old granite quarry. There are big slabs lying around, some piled up into a makeshift wharf, and other chunks and large scree scattered around in now overgrown piles. We’re not sure if we were supposed to go there or not, but Hunt told us that if we anchored off this little notch (making a quick pencil mark on the chart), and headed inland, we’d find an old quarry site surrounded by firs and spruce, and full of fresh water. And we did! Lots of diving and leaping into this beautiful, warm, soft fresh water. What a treat! Fresh water is a rationed commodity for us. A wonderful jungle pool!

We also met Gurund, a botanist with the Maine Heritage Trail, who it turns out manages the island (oops!). She was doing a transect, following her compass across the island, noting down the biodiversity. I wonder if her transect now includes two kiwis near the island’s north east corner.

Isle Au Haut, Maine

Oh beautiful Isle au Haut! This island’s remote, at least from the usual passage through Maine. Remote, not in the sense of being way down east, like Roque, but rather, more out in the Atlantic and away from the mainland population. It has a full-year population of about 60. They run a small ferry service. Getting cars out there is expensive, so they tend to live on: we came across this 1929 Ford dropping of some mail at the Isle Au Haut post office. It’s owner (cheerfully , and I suspect, of similar vintage) laughed: she told me it’s been on the island since the 40’s, giggled, and catapulted into a crisp, but very creaky, three-point turn before rattling off down the road (at which point I managed to snap this photo).

Max and I wandered around. We came across the town store, stocked with the most amazing produce (we’d had a heads-up on this from our mate Hunt, a cool sailor from Portland with a beautiful yawl whom we met in Northeast Harbor, and with whom we had a few Britney’s: he was right; clearly the owner had no profit motive, as the food was sophisticated and spendy and perhaps a bit too fancy for the lobstering locals). We bought some simple, but hermetically sealed, organic, grain fed, covered in seals of approval and all that, meat to make a Mexican feast. Only later did we read ‘use or freeze by 14 November 2006’; still, tasted fine). Outside we met two older ladies who greeted us with a croon across the carpark ‘Hello Boys!’.

There’s a little poem in our cruising guide that helps with the island’s name pronunciation. I like it:

“Says the summer man, when the fog hangs low, ‘There’s a bridal wreath on Isle au Haut’”.

(“But the fisherman says as he loads his boat, ‘it’s thick-a-fog on Isle au Haut’”).

Burnt Coat Harbor, Swans Island 44°08.3N, 68°26.7W

Today we beat to windward from Northeast Harbor in a strong breeze, dodging the rocks, and less successfully, the lobster pots.

You see, in this area the line from the pot comes to the surface where there is a float, like everywhere else. But here, attached to this float, is another line of about 20’ connected to the lobsterman’s distinctive colored float; this rig floats on the surface like a trip line. In currents these pick-up floats all lie like arrows telling you which way to steer around them, but occasionally you find yourself in a swirling current, or a dead end where there’s simply no way out, no matter how aggressively you swerve the boat.

We have a bulb keel and a long spade rudder - both almost designed to foul these things - so we catch a few. You don’t want to cut them (although many boats fit ‘spurs’ - spinning blades that connect onto your propeller shaft) as somebody’s livelihood is relying on them. So we’ve developed The Devils Back Zig-Zag (or DBZZ for short). The Devil’s Back Zig-Zag involves a crash tack to windward slowing the boat and pulling the lobster line tight around the keel. Then, as the boat stalls, we wiggle the rudder hard from stop to stop, just keeping enough steerage way on to start falling off into a gybe, and this when the boat is almost stationary. As we swing back round through the gybe and onto a beat, our original heading, more often than not the pot releases, popping to the surface in our wake, although on occasion you need to do it twice in quick succession. Now two tacks and two gybes in a big wind requires some pretty snappy crew work, but Max has mastered the high-pressure double 360, and I think these days almost looks forward to it. In nearly two months of sailing up here, we’ve only cut away one trap.

We’re now anchored in Burnt Coat Harbor on Swans Island (not Swan’s Island, I think Martha’s Vineyard is the only spot to have a recognized possessive apostrophe). Swans Island is more out in the Atlantic than most Maine islands, and it feels remote. It’s a lobstering village, and the lobstermen’s co-op is the main feature of the town. There’s a beautiful lighthouse as you enter (who doesn’t like a good lighthouse?) so Max and I went for a hike up to it, and had a good look around the island.

Later, after dark, we watched a movie that I had downloaded on my laptop, Letters from Iwo Jima. Part way through the movie, I stepped outside. The bay was absolutely still, the lighthouse flashing at the entrance, and the heavens filled with bright stars. A wonderfully tranquil scene…punctuated only by for the noise of machine gun fire, explosions, dive bombers and people getting blown apart coming from the cabin. I couldn’t help but laugh.

McGlathery Island, The Merchant’s Islands 44°07.71’N, 068°36.84’W

McGlathery is a granite outcrop covered in spruce, beech and fir trees. The water’s edge is rocky, almost smooth in places, which giant boulders scattered around. It’s nestled in an archipelago of small, but closely packed granite islands, known as the Merchant’s Islands. They’re simply beautiful. We snuck into a little notch on McGlathery, just inside of Round Island, and threw our hook, and ourselves, into the sea.

We still swim everyday. Here the water seems a little warmer, our temperature instrument, part of the boat’s electronic speedo, reads 17C, but I think it needs calibrating cause it just aint that warm. We’ve seen it down to about 14C, and that plunge was a very, very quick one.

Afterwards, to exercise the suspension, we took the dinghy onto the rock, and started off on the McGlathery Circumnavigation, a bouldering, leaping rock run. Hard work! It took about an hour and a half of leaping, scrambling, slithering and of course horsing around. We saw a bald eagle! Still, it was great fun and we were both pretty stuffed when had a rinse in the ocean, and settled down to a barbie and an icy-cold Dark & Stormy*.

Finally, a comment on the season: If you ever doubted how short the sailing season in Maine is, you need only sail here in August. It’s still beautiful by day, warm and nice, and mainly sunny, and there’s still swimming. But where we have been having cool nights, they’re now almost cold. Last night was down to 8C: I had to dig out my doona! It won’t be long before us softies without boat heaters head SW to warmer climes. The observant navigators among you may also have noticed that we have turned around. I’ve given up on getting my visa in time to get to Nova Scotia (Homeland Security has registered nil progress on visas in the last five weeks), and there’s a chance we can meet Henry in Portland or Camden for a week of sailing; a much better option than cursing.

Today we will motor – for there is no wind – to Isle Au Haut (pronounced ‘Ho’ which has us full of expectation).

[*although almost the national drink of Bermuda, Kady Tremaine insists that whenever we have one we acknowledge that it was her and nobody else that introduced it to us. So here it is:

“We had a Dark & Stormy, a drink introduced to us by Kady Tremaine.”

A D&S is made by squeezing lime into a glass, adding a few lobsters (like fingers) of Goslings Bermudan dark rum, and topping off with ice and ginger beer. It makes Max’s cheeks go red].

Bar Harbor 44°23.8N, 68°12.0W

Max put together a mackerel lure...and pulled out three on the first go! I even caught one (and that never, ever happens).

Great Beach, Roque Island 44°34.644’N, 067°31.100’W

If it had palm trees instead of firs and spruce, this mile long white-sand beach could be the Caribbean. And of course, that the water is freezing: about 14C. In fact, it’s notably cooler up here 44 degrees north of the equator. The days are warm and sunny, almost hot, shorts and shirtless weather, but the nights are chill, and in a month will be cold - I’m already sleeping with two blankets.

This is Roque Island, and Great Beach, a private, beautifully protected spot sheltered by the small archipelago formed by Halifax, Anguilla, Double-Shot and Great Spruce Islands. And when we saw this beach, we thought of one thing…

…Frisbee! For those who don’t know Max, he is a super-showman with a low center of gravity, so flying-dives and mid-air rolls are his specialty. We became master frisbee throwers at university (simply through dedication, focus and hard work) and this beach was simply begging for it! There’s simply nothing more fun than fully-extended Frisbee throws, with lots of yelling, jumping and horsing around, on a beautiful, white sand beach in Maine, with your boat just visible out of the corner of your eye.

We were just visited by the Coast Guard in a high-powered offshore RIB. I a got a fright looking up to see a big orange ship with uniformed officers closely circling us in this remote spot . They patrol around here for boats that have entered the country (from Canada) without clearing customs. Our Kiwi ensign on the stern, I suspect, attracted their attention, and they had a few questions for us about our registration (we’re registered in Newport, Rhode Island). Very polite and professional, and they called their base and got us the cell-phone number for clearing customs in Eastport when we get back from Nova Scotia (if my visa ever gets through, that is).

We’re also in hysterics listening to National Public Radio’s Car Talk…I especially like their lawyer’s name: Dewy, Cheetham & Howe.

Mud Hole, Great Wass Island 44°29.114’N, 067°35.070’W

There have not been that many cruising boats, a surprise: Maine is probably America’s most famous cruising ground, and we are in peak season. I expected many more. But today as we sail up the coast there are none. It feels like we have crossed a frontier; I know facilities for yachts from here are rare; and we have moved to a new chapter in The Cruising Guide to the Maine Coast. The introduction to the Down East section starts:

“As you pass Schoodic Point heading east, civilization falls behind, and you enter a more primitive world – one where fishing and lobstering are all important, and the affairs of Boston and New York seem far away and insignificant.”

We left Mount Desert Island early this morning, in sunshine, but with a gusty NW breeze of around 20 knts, with the occasional blast near 30, and started up the coast, two reefs in the main and a couple of rolls in the jib. The breeze was offshore, so waves had little chance to develop, and we tight-reached along quickly, hitting 9.3 knts at one point. Despite a fun hike in Acadia National Park yesterday, up Flying Mountain in pouring rain, it feels good to be sailing again.

Forty-two nautical miles later we reached Great Wass Island and very gingerly entered The Mud Hole, a wonderful, protected jungle pool that cuts deeply into the island. It’s hard to enter: there are two rocky ledges at the entrance (they’re hidden at high water), a rotting fishing weir to port, and the cruising guide warns the ‘kelp in the channel will fool your depthsounder and make your heart leap into your throat’. But once inside it’s the most spectacular place: absolutely calm, surrounded by trees (the island is a preserve owned by The Nature Conservancy) with lots of bird and sea-life. As we approached we were watched by floating seals gaping at us with big watery eyes.

We were joined by a small and lovely boat, skippered by Nick Brown and his family (including their seven month old) and an observant Oliver who seemed determined to take over the rowing. Nick manages the aquaculture facility at the University of Maine, and knew a lot about aquaculture in New Zealand, including colleagues in common with Max, so the two of them were soon enthusiastically chatting. Nick joined us for dinner (he’d eaten – who doesn’t like a double dinner!), and a couple of bottles of wine, and I think Max is keen to go and check out Nick’s facility when we are back down this way.

But the best thing about The Mud Hole came later: framed by this wonderful pond, the stars glittered across the horizon. Without the muting effect of city lights, the heavens have depth and layers and perspective, and deep clusters of light against holes of darkness. I woke in the very early morning, opened the hatch above my bed and gazed, dreaming, watching shooting stars and space hardware, with the boat rocking just perceptibly.

Southwest Harbor, ME 44°16.34’N, 068°18.9’W

It’s raining. There’s a constant thrum of small raindrops on the cabin top above me; a slightly higher note where the rain hits the two large Perspex hatches above my bed, and within this soothing natural rhythm – random yet perfect - the deeper, louder note of big drops that have first collected and strengthened in the rigging then fallen in big splashes on the deck. You can see it too: looking up through the Perspex, small pools of water grow and mutate, occasionally staggering and expanding as a big drop lands within them, before coagulating and amalgamating with nearby pools, then running off and disappearing, down the decks and finally into the sea.

What do you think? I’m not so happy with ‘coagulating’ - it seems to imply some kind of hardening – but I’m new to this writing game. Perhaps I’ll revise it later.

For now I’m propped up on pillows. The cabin is full of light; bright but soft, filtered by the grey low cloud and fog that envelopes us – we can just see the nearest boats anchored around us, and hear the occasional muted fog horn drifting in from boats out at sea. Max is listening to the radio through his phone in his cabin - yelling out to tell me about the heat in New York City - we’re both enjoying this grey, wet morning, drinking coffee; and it still seems kind of naughty to be to be having this much fun on a Wednesday. We can’t see the shore, but we’re warm, dry and comfortable: Max just described it as floating out in space, he calls his cabin ‘The Hubble’!.

We had a near miss yesterday. We were anchored at Bar Harbor, with nearly 200’ of chain out and our big 45lb Bruce anchor power set into the sea floor, awaiting a strong frontal system. When it came through with short, sharp gusts to 30 knots, we were tucked below and I was just telling Max (I guess I jinxed us – or perhaps it’s because we have bananas aboard) about the time my anchor pulled out in Hyannis in conditions like this, when another boat sounded its fog horn urgently, and I realized we had pulled loose. It’s a tight anchorage, and in the seconds it took to get on deck we had brushed up against a large power boat, its bow pulpit catching under our dodger, tearing the fabric with an awful noise. We were able to fend off, and hold ourselves there, so there was no immediate danger, but we had fouled the power boat’s mooring line. The old guy on the power boat was absolutely panicking: he was screaming for us to start our engine, his eyes on stalks, and running around in circles unable to make any decisions. I refused: if we spun our prop, we would have wrapped it in his mooring line, perhaps cutting it, but most likely fouling us there permanently.

I was very impressed with Max. We were both very calm, despite the howling gale and wind. I proposed he try winching us forwards using the anchor windlass. He was on the bow, and with simple gestures and signals we have worked out, we got the boat forward, engaged the transmission and motored out into the short sharp waves. No damage besides our torn dodger – we didn’t even touch the other boat – and I was very happy how calmly and skillfully Max handled it: he’s only been on the boat for a couple of weeks. And this in striking juxtaposition to guy on the other boat, almost paralyzed by stress. As always happens in situations like this – problems tend to quickly cascade on sailboats - we fouled a lobster pot and wrapped it around our prop. Max and I had a quick discussion on what we would do if the engine stalled (anchor, prepare the jib to beat offshore) but ultimately our 55HP diesel just ate up and spat the lobster float out, and we were able to grab a Coast Guard mooring and set a stern anchor without issue. We had a debrief , but overall I think we did the right things, methodically and without panic, but it’s unsettling to not have complete confidence in the holding power of your anchor.

Later we spoke with the Harbor Master (we hear “Bah Habah Habah Mastah” on the radio – haha!) and he said we were on the edge of a mud field that turns to rock. I suppose we had set the anchor in the mud (we had backed up on it – as we always do – to 2000rpm – which, in addition to setting the anchor, simulates a very strong storm - much stronger then the gusts we experienced) but when then anchor popped, perhaps it was trying to reset in rock. I always sleep lightly on the boat, just an inch below the surface, listening, but I didn’t sleep at all until the storm had passed.

We’re now in Southwest Harbor (anchored in glorious, thick, firm, perfect holding mud). Our plans are to put on our boots and foulies, zoom through the fog and rain in the dinghy, and go for a hike in Acadia National Park. I like walking in the rain, and my suspension needs a workout.

(and the dodger is in the Hinckley Yard getting a patch).

We’ve also been talking about our plans. You may have noted that our progress north and east has slowed. We’re only a day’s sail now from the Canadian border, and an overnight sail to Yarmouth, in Nova Scotia. Unfortunately, I have been waiting for 9 weeks for my US visa to change over from a working visa to a tourist. I can’t leave the country until it’s approved. It’s getting frustrating. Nova Scotia is a real frontier: not so many cruising boats make it up there, across the Fundy tide, and I’m really keen to do it before the season ends. How hard can it be to grant a tourist visa, especially to somebody whom you’ve previously approved to work for nearly 8 years?

Schoodic Peninsula, Acadia National Park 44°20.68’N, 068°04.25’W

My good mate from Sydney, Edmund Levine, hooked me up with a friend of his, whom he thought may be interested in coming sailing. Daniel and I exchanged emails, but it was always going to be tricky to meet up: he's working in New York, and we are always on the move, and our timing is very weather dependent. So it was a happy coincidence to call Dan on his cellphone and to find that he was out of town and driving to Bar Harbor, Maine; he was going kayaking with his brother Bob. Were we far off? Yes, about 100m out in the harbor!

So they paddled out in the morning, and we loaded their kayaks onto the boat and sailed off for that little cove on the Schoodic Peninsula that we liked so much. It's a tricky place to anchor, but then it has spectacular scenery, large granite rocks and trees almost to the tide line, big mussel beds, and all sorts of interesting stuff washed up on the beach. There was an angle here too: earlier Max had spotted a series of lobster pot floats attached by a high-quality piece of line - it was all washed up on the rocks. We just bought a dinghy anchor, and 70' of line would be quite useful. So we recovered that, went snorkling, Dan and Bob went kayaking then we all met back at the boat for a few 'Shipyard' beers (from Portland, that Dan and Bob had brought), told yarns and jokes, and had chicken kebabs on the barbie.

Super fun having Daniel and Bob on board: real enthusiasts and a good laugh. They're off paddling around the coast. Would be great to see them again sometime.

Northwest Harbor 44°17.8N, 68°17.04W

We took a floating slip ($25 – ha!) in Northwest Harbor overnight so we could hose the salt off the boat, refill our water tanks and load up with food, and be secure from a severe thunderstorm warning (which gave us lots of rain, and a good lightning show overnight, but no problems). From here we will head east to Roque Island, leaving the last marina behind.
While working on the boat we met a young family cruising, they’re tied up next to us. The husband got me fired up to replace my anchor and running lights with LEDs. Mine draw 2 amps per hour each, his one tenth of an amp each. I’ll do anything to be able to run the engine less. He also gave me the electronic navigation charts to Canada, the Bay of Fundy and Nova Scotia!

Later we met a tremendous guy called Keith Hutchinson, a psychologist in a kayak. He stopped to chat, and have a g & t with us, and we talked for over an hour: he in his kayak, me on deck and Max energetically gesticulating in the dinghy. Keith has lived in Maine since his twenties, abandoning the trajectory of his Harvard training for the beauty and values of Maine. He had just retired from his practice – thus has more time on his hands for boating - but keeps his teaching job at the University of Maine. Among many interesting yarns, it emerged that both he and Max had an interest in geodesic domes (!). Max had built a small one from bamboo as an, er, greenhouse, and Keith as a real house. In a hilarious example of Maine humour, Keith told us that he had mentioned to his neighbor that he was building a round house, and the neighbor said that he’d like to see that. A few days later, the neighbor showed up in his pickup truck. He got out, and walked slowly around the house a couple of times, and then looked at Keith and said, ‘I could do with a house like this’. Keith asked why, and they guy said, ‘with a house like that, my wife could never back me into a corner again!’. After delivering this line, which Keith reckons he’d been working on for some time, and had showed up specifically to deliver, he drove away without another word.

A local sign: ‘Lobsters fresh or boiled alive’.

Kady rang from London this morning to say that her sister CoCo had a baby overnight – Isabelle!

Flying Mountain 44°18.62N, 68°18.96W

Simply because I was jealous of Max’s wetsuit and his ability to explore the water world, we sailed back to Southwest Harbor so I could get one too. Turns out the marine store (they’re great up here: miles of lobster line, pots, net fixing tools and spindles, but no fancy Gore-Tex breathable foul weather gear: here they use Grundens – hard core plastic fishing gear that makes us look like sissies in our brightly coloured Mustos, then acres of blocks and hooks and nets).

Turns out they only had two wetsuits: a 7mm steamer (full arms and legs) that would be fantastic, but it was very expensive. I ultimately bought the other, a much cheaper 3mm wetsuit with long arms but that goes into shorts. Strikes me as kind of stupid – shorts! - and, strangely, I feel a bit embarrassed, more like an Italian porn star, when wearing it. Still, I took Max’s advice and bought a hood to go with it (now can you imagine the look? Oh dear!) and I think I’ll be able to stay in for a while at least. This wetsuit model is called ‘The Carribbean’, so perhaps not that long after all.

We stayed the night in the only fjord on the East Coast, Somes Sound, in a cool spot called Flying Mountain. Here St Saveur Mountain plunges 640’ down a cliff into the water, quite striking, but as Max comments ‘it’s impressive in these parts, but it ain’t Fiordland’. It’s deep and difficult to anchor, so we tied up to the CG (Coast Guard) mooring – not really done around here - in the confident knowledge that they would rather be home with their wives and sweethearts (may they never meet) than spinning in circles under Flying Mountain’s katabatic winds.

Max dived in as he does every morning, despite the chilly water...Flying Mountain, Diving Maxwell.

Schoodic Peninsula, Acadia National Park

These photos show a beautiful bay on the Schoodic Peninsula, part of Acadia National Park. We sailed up here from Southwest Harbor on Mount Desert Island (which you can see in the background of one photo) and very carefully worked our way into this little cove. We anchored in a tiny hole between the rocks, the ubiquitous lobster pots, and a small ledge that was visible under the surface, and set a second anchor to stop the boat from drifting around onto the ledge. The water is cold, but extremely clear, and from the bow you can see the anchor chain descending in a graceful arc to the seafloor.

Max dived in with his wetsuit on and started exploring the kelp. Without wetsuit I rowed the dinghy ashore – Pond Island - and wandered the beach looking at the flotsam; old lobster pots, bits of fishing line, torn gloves and lots of super dry driftwood bleached almost white by the sea and sun. Would be wonderful for a massive bonfire! Toasted marshmellows!…oh that’s right, it’s a National Park.

I went to the mainland and bumped into a lobsterman who had been for a run along the waterfront. Sure beats the Equinox Gym on 51^st and 7^th. He was in his mid-forties, affable, interesting and straightforward with a hilarious but very dry sense of humour; traits I am starting to recognize as distinctly Maine. We chatted for nearly an hour about lobstering and boats. I was happy when he said he had never seen a yacht in this cove (less happy when he said he once saw somebody surfing the break where we were anchored). I asked if his lobstering license allowed him to fish anywhere. He answered that technically it did, but that it was territorial. If you push to far outside your traditional fishing zone, first you find a knot in your lobster pot line. It’s the locals telling you to beat it. Next you may find the spindle broken off your pot’s float. After that, they may cut the float right off, leaving a few of your, in this case, seven hundred ($100 each) lobster pots on the seafloor… “but we all have knives…”

Ultimately we moved the boat: the tides here are around 20’, and it was a good thing we did: later in the afternoon water began to break over the ledge, and in the evening, it was fully exposed. A most beautiful spot. We had dinner and a bottle of sauvignon blanc as the sun set behind MDI, but as this little spot was so treacherous, and exposed to the SW breeze, we hoisted the anchor. We stayed around the corner and slept well and uneventfully (I’m fond of sleeping well and uneventfully, and I think you need to spend a few nights eventfully not sleeping to fully understand why) in Winter Harbor at 44°22.98N, 68°05.33W.