Stranded

Last Thursday I had it all figured out. Instead of going out in the morning with a crew of yartists and seeing where the wind and tide and weather led us, I sat down with the chart and scoped out the perfect vantage. The tide would be topping out around 10AM, and the wind, which had been hiding for a couple days, was expected to rise with the sun. I decided to motor up the Androscoggin on the tail of the flood, do our art thing at the site of the old bridge by Mustard Island, then waft down the Bay with the wind and tide. A new view and a tailwind home. Easy as pie.

Click to see bay

Morning mist

There was mist on the river and a chill in the air at 8AM, but once Susie and Carlo and Matthew were aboard, with the dogs, it all went like clockwork. Going downriver I had to silence the motor a couple times to blow grit out of the impeller. All this shallow water work does tend to clog the cooling system. But, so far, I can just give her a little mouth-to-outtake, and she burbles clear.

We idled past the Rensenbrinks, kayaking toward the Muddy. The only other boats we saw all day. Then we zigged up the Muddy ourselves, zagged out Bruce's old channel, and dragged our skeg a bit churning along the shallows off Pleasant Point. It's always surprising to coast along past the cottages on Pleasant Point, after skirting so much undeveloped shore. Once into the Androscoggin itself, however, the trees have reclaimed the scenery.

Pleasant Point

Abutments

Hard to believe there was a bridge across the mouth of the Androscoggin 70 years ago. Now all that remains is some piles of granite blocks, overgrown with cedar and pine, and a roadsign calling Charlie's driveway "Bay Bridge Road." We pitched the anchor, tied the TOAD off so we all had a good angle, and began eating. If these cruises ever get magazine coverage, it will probably be in CUISINE. Yartists may forget their pencils, but never their appetites.

The sun found us yarting by the old abutments, and we began to shed layers. Then the air lifted and ruffled the water around us. This is the long view of the Bay. Looking out the mouth of the Androscoggin all the way to the Brown's Point towers, where the Kennebec comes in. An idyllic backwater, protected by shifting shoals under turbid currents. Not the kind of place to risk your expensive out-drive. But just fine for a puddleglider, like TOAD.

Old Bridge

Yarting

Yartists

After we finished the pesto, and our yartings, I hauled up the sails, spun on the hook, and we slid downstream. The breeze was still light, with some eddies near the shore, so I plotted to follow the main channel across to North Bath, where there appeared to be more air, then cut back by Brick Island, a course I've taken often when the wind is west or southerly.

Snoozing

"Isn't it getting a little shallow?" Matthew asked. Over the side you could see sand ridges in 8 to 10 inches of water. But I waved him on, assuming we were skirting the grassy shallows, but still on the edge of the channel. "Aren't those gulls walking on the sand?" Matthew said, as we slid to a stop.

No problem, I figured. We've been aground before, we'll just push her over this little sand ridge, and get back into the deeper water. The only problem was that the sand rose up into an exposing bar ahead of us, and the wind in our sails was shoving us ever higher onto it. By the time I realized we had to about face, dropped sail, and convinced everyone to get out and push, it was too late. I'd rammed us high and dry. With two hours of tide to run.

Stranded

Beached

I was heartsick and embarrassed. Not that the TOAD was endangered, or us. Only my pride. My casual certainty that I had the shallow waters mastered was now exposed for what it was. Sailor's hubris. The crew was amused, and the dogs delighted. Isabella raced around and around in the sinking water, chasing gulls, and digging for morsels. My companions broke out the secondary comestibles and their art kits. I lay down in the bilge and covered my face with my hat. There was certain noise made about "swallowed by the mouth of the Androscoggin", and other levities. I attempted deafness.

But the absurd good fortune of being trapped on a beach on a warm September afternoon finally tickled me up. When I walked out onto the risen sand, the sight of a beached TOAD was simply hilarious. We had to record the scene. And we did.

Aground

Stuck

So, for all my talk about how timeless and apart these excursions have been, when circumstance (or your own foolishness) sets you hard aground, you realize the clock was running all the time. Yarting and sailing are a doing, not just a being, and our animation isn't totally suspended out on the bay. Simply waiting for the tide, for four hours, could undo your patience. Especially with a dandy breeze blowing. Fortunately none of us had promises to keep, and plenty of supplies to indulge in. Susy's coleslaw on cheese was especially nice.

We lolled, and illustrated, and laughed a lot. As long as the paint lasts, artists are never at a loss. And we cheered the waters back up the bar. And over. At the last minute I realized we'd want a stern anchor to haul us back off the ridge, and Matthew obliged, soaking his pants one more time.

Tackle

Evening grasses

Then we heave-hoed her back until she came off, cranked the mill, and churned into the deep. Despite the good air, I motored us home, because we knew there were spouses wondering. And mine was tapping her foot on the deck of a cottage near the mouth of the Cathance. Shaking her head at the dizzy yartists who didn't know enough to come in for supper. The setting sun blazoned the riverside trees between long cast shadows. A first tinge of autumn is just hinting in the hardwoods, and we were glad to put our layers back on.

After the crew had a last laugh and went ashore, I swept the sand off the decks, and laced TOAD to her moorings. I was welcomed home. Peggy had decided to forgive me for worrying her, and for being the same damned fool I've always been.

He knows

(Click for more Pictures)