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?