Penobscot Bay and Rum
I currently have a full shot of rum in me and I'm waxing "I love you man!!" Although I haven't been above the legal limit in 4 decades, a warm glow at the holidays brings about feelings of comradery and bad spelling. That said, I sit here with a heavy heart, thinking of my beloved Island Time (Pearson-O'day 29 7 of 8), currently 8 inches deep in the white splendor, awaiting her spring rebirth. I can't tell you (though I'll try) just how much sailing has meant to me and my lovely bride over the past decade. I encourage any would-be-sailors, perusing these humble post, to man-up, girl-up, and take the plunge. The most freeing feelings of my life (aside from the Eric Clapton/Muddy Waters concert of '79, only 1/2 of which I recall) , is being 10 miles out, a stiff breeze, blowing my frosting hair, tiller in hand. Close hauled on a port tack, the afternoon southerlies kicking up a healthy froth. To sail into a quite cove with another few boats, drop anchor and open a bottle of Merlot. A lovely wine, playful yet demure, a warm and familiar woman, the love of my live for nearly four decades, tucked under my arm . . . for this there is no substitute.
We live in a most blessed country, where sailing means pleasure, not a ritual battle of man and sea, a struggle for survival against the odds, but a harmonic courtship of gentlemen and fickle yet lovely mistress. To that end, as gentlemen must boast of love and conquest, business and pleasure, and I need to crow about my sweetheart, Penobscot Bay. At the risk of selling her cheaply, gents (and ladies), if you get a chance, ever, you must avail yourselves of her ample pleasures, you must partake. The islands stretch mile, after mile, sound after sound, cove after cove. The pines, the rocky coast, osprey fishing between the boats. Miles and miles of molested coastline, accosted not by tourist and smog, but by the cry of gulls, a gentle evening breeze and the murmur of waves on a a granite coast. To whisper on a starboard tack through the Fox Islands Thoroughfare, to glide past the work boats in Stonington, dodge the reefs leading to Mt. Desert Isle, slide into Buckle Harbor and drop anchor in a herd of seals, or dingy your bride to a romantic dinner in Bar Harbor (we in Maine pronounce it "Bah Ha-bah"), it make life meaningful. Like an well adorned bride at wedding, she is breathtaking, a splendor to see, beauty beyond belief, and worth more than can be imagined.
Look her up and visit us this year. Amazing.