Expanded History – Chapter Three

Bermuda lies about 650 nautical miles southeast of Long Island. It usually takes about five days to sail there. In between lies the Gulf Stream, a swift moving, turbulent current of warm water that swirls and eddies about 150 miles south of Long Island. The region is notorious for rough seas and sudden, vicious squalls. During the night the weather got worse and worse, we had to reef for the first time in the dark as the boat pitched and rolled terribly. It must have taken us well over an hour, the motion made us all sea-sick. The best sources of weather information available at that time were the commercial radio stations. I was finally able to receive the weather forecast from the powerful CBS station broadcasting from New York City. To my horror I learned that Alma had done a one-eighty degree turn, it had moved back over the sea and was gaining in strength. We were sailing directly towards Alma and the Gulf Stream; a potentially fatal combination. To make matters worse, we were lying in the so-called ‘dangerous quadrant’, where the northeast winds were strongest. Tremendous seas were running, drawing on the experience of the first storm when I was aboard Arvin Court II I decided to lay a-hull. As before, the boat rolled horribly. We discovered the table in the cabin had not been bolted down securely, at the height of the storm it became detached and crashed down on the unlucky occupant of the bunk next to it, fortunately without serious injury. I was not making a success of my first ocean-going voyage as captain. But Iona was a very sea-worthy boat and she looked after her demoralized and sea-sick crew. Three days after leaving the inlet the storm had blown itself out. Where the hell were we? In the late afternoon a watery sun appeared and I managed to get a sight. Combined with a bearing on a coastal radio station I found we had been blown far to the west; we were only 50 miles off the Delaware coast. How lucky we were that the storm had ended when it did.

The crew had no stomach for a continuation of the trip to Bermuda and we slowly made our way back home. A week after leaving we again tied up the boat in the canal at the back of the house. I was very disappointed and even embarrassed by my failure to pull off the cruise as planned. We used the rest of the vacation to sail to Nantucket; nice, safe coastal cruising. I grew a beard, at least I looked nautical. When I picked up Edith at the airport on her return from England I gave her a kiss and Colin burst into tears. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ I asked. ‘He’s probably worried I’m being kissed by a strange man!’ she said, laughing.

Later that summer, after Labor Day, Edith, Colin and a young man as crew sailed with me to Cuttyhunk and the beautiful Elizabeth islands lying in Buzzards Bay. We enjoyed it so much that a fall cruise became a fixture while we owned Iona. The crowds were gone and the weather was usually pleasantly warm without being too hot. I can recall spending a couple of nights on a fall cruise tied up at Great Salt Pond, Block Island. We were the only sailboat there, something that would seem amazing today in view of the tremendous popularity of boating.

For the summer cruise of 1967 we decided on Nova Scotia, some friends we had made when we lived in Toronto now lived in Lunenburg, that seemed a good enough reason to go there. I sailed with two friends as crew, Edith planned to fly with Colin and meet us in Canada. I made my first transit of the Cape Cod Canal. The tidal current runs so strongly in the canal that it is impossible to stem it with the modest power available in a sailboat. To get through the eight-mile passage you must arrive at the entrance with the right tide. The Victorian engineers that built the canal thoughtfully provided anchorages at either end so you can wait for the opportune moment. From the Canal we sailed to Provincetown, which in those days prior to the sexual revolution was a complete surprise. The three of us survived the culture shock of an openly gay town and left for the two-day passage across the Gulf of Maine to Canada. On the second night we spotted hundreds of lights ahead. It looked like a town but a hurried check of my navigation confirmed we were still fifty miles from Cape Sable, the southern tip of Nova Scotia. As we got closer we found ourselves in a vast fleet of fishing boats, no wonder the region is now fished out. As we sailed down the coast we had strong winds behind us but, curiously, we were enveloped in a clammy fog. We rigged a whisker pole for the jib and ran down the coast, making such good time we arrived abeam of Lunenburg Bay before sunrise. I had no wish to make a landfall in the fog and darkness, here was a chance to practice the maneuver of heaving-to. To do this we set the jib to weather, that is, on the windy side, so the driving force counteracts that of the mainsail and the boat remains almost stationary. I remember as I stood watch suddenly smelling the resin of pine trees that thickly covered the shore, five miles to windward. I have found that after a few days at sea my sense of smell becomes very acute. In fact this is a problem when there are smokers on board. Although they always light up on deck I can smell the cigarette immediately, even when I am in the cabin.

In the morning we groped our way inshore under power, as we got near land the fog thinned and suddenly we could see green hills and the colorful houses of Lunenburg. In 1967 it was a fishing town. Large, rusty trawlers lay at the piers; the only space that we could find to tie up was next to the fish works, which smelt to high heaven. Our friends drove to Halifax to collect Edith and baby Colin and gave them a room in their house during our stay. We had a lobster bake-out in the back garden. Our host had a friend who worked at the Ruland and Smith ship-yard, which built many Grand Banks schooners, including the famous Blue Nose. He arranged a tour for us. We stayed for nearly a week before Edith flew home and we made our way down the coast. As we cleared Cape Sable, bound for Maine, a vicious northeast gale blew up. It was bitterly cold on the boat, we lit the oven in the galley and kept its door open for some heat. I later discovered that there is an upwelling of the Labrador Current at Cape Sable. The water is actually much colder than at Halifax further to the north. This is probably why we saw all the fishing boats near there earlier. We again lay a-hull for the night, which we survived without damage, in the morning we set sail for Rockland on Penobscot Bay. Here we found the storm had been one the worst in many years. The shore was littered with wrecked boats and wooden debris from jetties and piers. We were wet and cold, but we found a small, friendly hotel that let us have a hot bath for a dollar or two.

When we had dried out we sailed to Butter Island for lunch. We anchored in the lee and took the dinghy ashore. A walk through the pine trees brought us to the crest of a hill that gave us a magnificent view of the bay in all directions. What a beautiful region to cruise. I fell in love and I have been back to Maine many times, in summer, I might add. We decided to go to Stonington for the night. Sailing down the bay to a southwest wind I noticed a white wall ahead, within minutes we were enveloped in a clammy fog, the bane of summer cruising in Maine. After about an hour a red buoy emerged out of the gloom with a number ‘2’ painted on it. Although we did not have a firm idea of where we were I figured I just had to find that buoy on the chart and there we were. Unfortunately I found that the Coast Guard loved number ‘2’ for its buoys, there were a least three within a few miles of each other that that we could have sailed to during our time in the fog. Check the depth, I thought, the buoys were not all in the same depth of water. Slowly we navigated past the small islands that encumbered the approach to Stonington. We silently slipped past other buoys and when we came across an anchored fishing boat I said, ‘this is it,’ with a confident voice I did not wholly feel. Through the fog I could hear the sounds of civilization; a muffled shout, a car engine starting. We dropped the anchor, climbed in the dinghy and rowed towards the invisible shore. Peering ahead we finally discerned the dim outlines of piers and a dock. Captain Cook could not have been prouder of his navigation when he discovered Australia. From Stonington we cruised west to a small yacht club near Portland, from there we sailed back to the Cape Cod Canal and home.

In mid-September, 1967, I sailed with some friends together with Edith and Colin to watch the Americas Cup Race between Intrepid and Dame Patty. We anchored first in Great Salt Pond at Block Island and then picked up a mooring in Newport. It was great fun to experience the excitement of the race on the waterfront in Newport. In these days there were no security concerns and you could walk right up to the boats. As for the race itself we could only see two white triangles on the horizon and we had to listen to the radio to find out what was happening.

I felt the 1967 sailing season had been a great success. I had made an open sea passage as skipper, navigated in fog and dealt with some heavy weather. I had the confidence to sail to the Caribbean; we put the house on the market.