At the Edge of the Sea

Cuttyhunk inner harbor from Lookout Hill

Rhode Island ranks worst among the fifty states for business in a recent CNBC poll. Perhaps the result of over eighty years of one party rule along with a touch of organized crime and more than a whiff of corruption. But in spite of the awful business climate, other surveys rank her relatively high in quality of life.

This disparity explains why residents hang in there and tourists continue to visit. Rhode Island is indeed the Ocean State, and that contributes to way-above-average livability. Her towns and cities, reaches and beaches, have a lot to offer.

Take Bristol, for instance, which we visited recently on an organized cruise of private craft exploring New England waters, which is our summer wont.

Founded in 1680, the town was originally part of the Plymouth colony, hence Massachusetts, until it was transferred by the  British crown to Rhode Island in 1747. Although over 12 miles north of the sea, Bristol was a deep water port and contributed mightily to the commerce of the colonies.

We docked at the Herreshoff Museum, staying several days, and explored the history and bounty of this historic town. The Herreshoffs were a family of remarkable marine designers and engineers, responsible for a series of huge, graceful racing yachts which defended, undefeated, the America’s Cup with five yachts between 1893 and 1920.

These boats, built for capitalists and bankers, may have seemed extravagant and wasteful at the time. But they employed many hundreds of Herreshoff craftsmen and supported their families and the town in which they lived. And brought some great measure of pride to many Americans thrilled to see the Americas Cup won year after year.

Later, the Herreshoffs retooled and built patrol torpedo boats and minesweepers for the U.S. Navy during World War II.  Their nautical engineering abilities were nearly endless, including all the above, sweet daysailers for children, and the hulls of flying boats. The museum is well worth a visit.

After enjoying the tree-lined streets, restaurants, and water views of historic Bristol for several days, we slipped into the top of the Sakonnet River and made our way, amongst angry, swirling tidal currents, into the broader, calmer waters below, headed for Sakonnet Point.

Technically in Little Compton, Sakonnet Point rests on the southeastern point of Rhode Island, where one may look north, reassuringly to land, or south to the open expanse of the North Atlantic. The small harbor there contains a mix of pleasure and working craft. Working boats bring back the bounty of the sea, their success witnessed by rows of seagulls in close ranks on the peaks of nearby buildings. And while the pretty sailing and motor craft of the leisure class adorn the docks, we are awakened by the deep throb of a heavy diesel engine, a working boat headed to sea at three a.m., her crew ready to labor as we drift back to sleep.

That morning, rain threatens, but we batten hatches and don foulies as we head out into the swells, turn east, destination Cuttyhunk, across nearly 20 miles of lumpy, windy, rainy seas.

Cuttyhunk is at the tail of the Elizabeth Islands, separating Buzzard’s Bay from Vineyard Sound. Part of the Massachusetts town of Gosnold, Cuttyhunk was originally occupied in 1602 for the purpose of harvesting sassafras. Today, she is a tourist mecca for boaters desiring a quiet sojourn. No bars. No liquor stores. No fancy restaurants.

One comes to Cuttyhunk to contemplate the views of the distant mainland and Martha’s Vineyard from Lookout Hill. To run on scimitar beaches and swim in friendly surf. To enjoy the fruits of the sea, delivered to moored craft by the “Raw Bar Boat.” To lie in the cockpit of their vessel and see the nighttime grandeur of the Milky Way, undimmed by city lights. The solitude, the beauty that is Cuttyhunk, reverently worshiped by the visiting boats who fill the inner harbor and overflow into the outer.

Grudgingly, the next day, we slip the mooring lines and turn west, sailing on a strong reach as the southerlies build. By midday, we are off the coast of Rhode island again. Past Newport, we turn up into the west passage of Narragansett Bay. Around the Beavertail light, we take shelter in Dutch Harbor. From here, we can hike the island of Jamestown or take the ferry to Newport. No shortage of bars or liquor stores here. And we are only a half day sail from our start, all protected, up the bay to our original departure point. A week well and truly spent.

But still, while glad to be home with all its familiarity and hustle and bustle, we do miss the limitless views of the sea. And that broad-stroke, bold, bright, beautiful Milky Way. Those are views your camera cannot properly capture.

Venture forth.

Cruising the Race

It was over 21,000 years ago that the global climate had plunged to icy nadirs and the Northeast was covered deeply by the Laurentide ice sheet, to depths of over a mile. And then the climate warmed, abruptly; the glaciers receded, and a treasury of riches for New England sailors emerged. Cape Cod. The Islands. Cuttyhunk. Block Island. And the jewel of Long Island.

No one knows precisely what happened. Perhaps volcanoes, or prehistoric SUVs. But in any case, we are grateful.

Departing upper Narragansett Bay in early August, one Saturday morning, a fleet of serious boaters heads south. The winds, as they typically are this time of year, are on our nose, causing the sailboats to tack and powerboats to buck the waves. But an easy half-day later we are happily moored at Dutch Island, on the west side of Jamestown. This is only day one, and we celebrate our happy beginning with a walk into town, dinner, and as sailors wont, a drink or two.

Next day, Sunday, an early departure, we parallel the Rhode Island coast south: Bonnet Shores, Narragansett,  Scarborough,  Point Judith. And then west, heading for Long Island Sound. Fifteen nautical miles later, a major landmark heaves into view – Taylor Swift’s seaside mansion in Watch Hill. But respectful as we are, no one storms the beach, only snapping a few photos as we glide by, headed for the safe harbor of Stonington, Connecticut.

Stonington was founded early, in 1649, as a trading outpost. After some confusion as to whether she might belong to Massachusetts, Stonington officially became part of Connecticut in 1662. But we were more interested in the Dog Watch Cafe, one of the world’s top-ten sailor bars, and the Water Street Cafe, where two dozen of us were served dinner promptly and sumptuously.

And on Tuesday morning, early, the thunderstorms and microbursts steamed through, rocking our boats at their docks and killing the power in the marina. And wreaking havoc to the north, which we would not learn of till much later.

But little mind. It passed quickly, the sky brightened, and we set off to the south, to Sag Harbor on the eastern end of Long Island. But this crossing wasn’t to be without event.

The glaciers, in their retreat, had left some oddities in the topology of Long Island Sound, resulting in the Race.

The Race is a challenging area, where the tidal currents can run five knots (6 mph), and the wind raises sharp choppy waves much like the inside of your washing machine. No comfort for relatively slow sailboats, whose top speed may allow them little more than break-even.

We meet the challenge, but our forward progress is slowed to just a few knots relative to the bottom. Huge currents in the Race flow through submerged glacial moraines, attracting fish and fisherman, but tossing our boats in choppy seas, sliding side to side and eventually emerging, surfing, into calm water. It was a transit we will never forget.

The remainder of the journey to Sag Harbor is uneventful, but calls for careful attention to charts, for the channel into the harbor is winding, with treacherous shallows to lure the inattentive.  We call out to each other, warning of dangers, and all make it safely to port.

Sag Harbor is in the Hamptons. A hundred years ago, this end of Long Island had 20,000 acres of potatoes under cultivation. Before that, the whale trade predominated. Today, all of that land has been “developed,” if that can be given a positive spin. It seems that New York City has moved to the Hamptons for summer. Luxurious beach houses and “mansion yachts” prevail. Roads are clogged. Restaurants are crowded. We appreciate the history of the place, the differentness, the unaffordable luxury. But most of all we enjoy the swirling schools of Menhaden minnows in tidal pools, an artistic touch of nature.

On Thursday, we are happy to depart, destination Block Island, a long 35 nautical mile leg. A lengthy day, a few swells, long vistas and faint horizons, but finally we are back in Rhode Island. Familiar waters.

The next few days are comfortable. A crossing of Block Island Sound back to Jamestown, and then to upper Narragansett Bay. It has been a long week, but with rewarding adventures. A major storm, unknown waters, racing tidal currents, shallows and reefs. But we navigated all successfully, and shared comradeship upon each landing.

Here’s to next year’s cruise. Perhaps east this time. Always something to dream of, to plan, while the snows of December lay deep.

Learning the ropes

Main-mast, Joseph Conrad, Mystic Seaport

Mystic Seaport Village is a living museum on the Mystic River in eastern Connecticut.  The museum memorializes our rich New England maritime history and several restored wooden sailing vessels show us how fishing and whaling and trade were accomplished in the age of sail. The town, famous for Mystic Pizza and its eponymous movie, is situated several miles north of Fisher’s Island Sound and is reached from the sea by navigating a circuitous channel and negotiating several ponderous bridges.

The first, a swing bridge, carries Amtrak trains across the river.  After contacting the bridge operator by radio, the bridge swings open when train schedules allow.  After waiting for one northbound and one southbound high speed Acela to pass, the bridge slowly swings open and we slip though. The next bridge carries busy US Route 1 through the middle of Mystic.  It opens at 40 minutes past each hour – if you arrive late, you must wait.

After negotiating both of the bridges and carefully staying within marked channels (the mud flats are treacherously shallow), we arrive at the Seaport.

The museum features a number of large sailing ships, notably the Charles W. Morgan (a whaling ship built in 1841 in New Bedford, MA), the L.A. Dunton (a fishing smack built in Essex, MA), and the Joseph Conrad (a 111 foot, square rigged training ship). All of these ships share the use of wind power, intricate sails strung from masts and yardarms, hoisted and canted by multitudinous lines.  Knowledgeable docents vividly describe life at sea, the jobs that the crew performed, and how they climbed through the ranks.

On a large capital ship of the late 18^th century, twenty or more sails hung on three masts provided power to the ship. Well over 300 lines were used to control and support the sails, and an able seaman must know all of their names and their functions. These were a combination of halyards (to haul the yards, i.e., raise the sail), sheets (to control sail angle and shape), and stays (to steady the masts). More, there were cunninghams, and vangs, and topping lifts, all used to control and refine sail shape, and hence deliver power to the ship.

In days of sail, the able seamen who mastered the complexity of their ships were the highly skilled workers of their time. They were the equivalent of today’s firemen and engineers who tend the engines of huge container ships and oil tankers.

Rising though the ranks, the sailing ship officers were educated and skilled in the arcane science of navigation.  Charts and sextants and trigonometry were used to ascertain the ship’s position and plot a course to the desired destination. Those mastering these skills were the technology wizards of their time, and handsomely paid.

After several days spent pleasantly reliving our maritime heritage, we fondly bid the Seaport adieu and head down the river.  Early, sun just risen, mist hangs on the water but begins to dissolve as we negotiate the two bridges. But upon reaching the base of the Mystic and entering Fisher’s Island Sound, we encounter a heavy fog, barely able to see the bow from the stern. Time to deploy our modern miracle, an iPhone with a marine GPS navigation app. We creep through the treacherous shoals and reefs, watching the navigational buoys loom from the fog, each on time and in position as predicted by the app. After some time, we emerge into the expanse of Block Island Sound, and the fog eases.

It becomes clear that what was of value then, and now, is knowledge. The able seamen and navigators of the sailing ships were the diesel engineers and Apple programmers of their day. Knowledge and skill must be learned, and earned, and applied to our common good. Anything we can do, collectively or individually, to motivate our children to learn, to enable their academic journey, is the highest good. We, and they, will benefit mightily.

A proper New England vacation

Gay Head, Martha's Vineyard, as seen from Cuttyhunk

People come from all over to visit New England in the summer time. Happy vacationers crowd the roads of Cape Cod and streets of Newport, their license plates proclaim the wonders of their home state: Sweet Home Alabama (AL), Land of Enchantment (NM), Sportsman’s Paradise (LA), Beautiful Ohio (OH). And yet, they are here.

We are wonderfully fortunate to inhabit such a desirable region, with brilliant leaves to peep in autumn, mountain slopes to ski in winter, and local maple syrup to savor in the spring. But summer on the seacoast is the main event. So when our yacht club offered the chance to participate in a cruise to the Elizabeth Islands and Martha’s Vineyard, we jumped at the chance. The plan was agreed having these overnight stays: Jamestown (Conanicut), Cuttyhunk, Oak Bluffs (Martha’s Vineyard), then returning via Cuttyhunk and Dutch Harbor, weather permitting.

Warned that, depending on weather and wind and waves, we might have to spend multiple nights at anchor without access to civilization, we plan and shop and stock the boat for any eventuality: ice cubes for the cooler, blocks for the reefer; canned tuna, mayonnaise, onion, and wheat bread for sandwiches; yogurt, fresh apples, bananas, cereal and milk for breakfast. Coffee. Bottled water. Two boxes of spaghetti, several jars of tomato sauce, and grated Parmesan cheese. Peanut butter. A bottle of wine or three. We are ready.

We pass the first very hot night at the club’s marina to facilitate an early departure. Nearly a hundred degrees, we retire to the air conditioned dining room for a light dinner. Later, when the sun has set, a very slight breeze feels cool. With a few trepidations, we review charts, then sleep and dream of calm seas.

Day 1 dawns cloudy, a bit cooler, but a chance of thunderstorms threatens. A parade of seven sailboats straggles from the marina and forms up a line headed south down the Providence River. Calm winds, motor sailing is the order of the day. A few hours later, the sky darkens and the heavens open up. A heavy downpour, accompanied by brilliant lightning flashes and thunderous booms, masks the other boats from our view. But being a typical summer storm, it is brief, and soon after we spy our mates and the Newport Bridge as we continue south. Gathering up, we stream into Conanicut and take our moorings. The water is cool and clear and deep here. Several of us swim from the stern of our boats, then call for the launch and go in for supplies or jerry cans of fuel. Later, as a group, we go ashore for dinner in Jamestown as the day dims. Clam chowder and seafood stew, this is New England.

Day 2, very early, we drop the mooring lines at 7am and motor south past the Dumplings on the right, then Castle Hill on the left. A long way to go, out to sea, we turn the corner at Brenton Reef and head for Cuttyhunk, a direct shot 20 miles to the east. Again, calm seas, no wind, we motor along, 6-ton sailboats being the slowest of motorboats. But later, a slight breeze from the south allows us to extend our jibs and pick up an extra knot. Finally, we are sailing. Arriving at Cuttyhunk late in the afternoon, we cruise the inner harbor but find all the moorings occupied. Back to the outer harbor, like magic we find the last seven available moorings. Late, tired, we decide to stay aboard, cook a little dinner on the propane stove, drink a glass of wine in the cockpit, and watch the sun set far to the west. As full dark settles in, a gaudy display of the Milky Way is amazingly entertaining. Then deep sleep and early to rise.

Day 3, again early, a quick breakfast, then we slip the lines and head for Quick’s Hole which separates Nashawena from Pasque Island and gives us ingress to Vineyard Sound. Luckily, the tides are with us and the crossing is uneventful. Tidal currents can be ruinous, but we are not so challenged. Again eastward, up Vineyard Sound, we tack into a northeast wind. The fleet of seven separate, but communicate on VHF radio and keep a very loose formation, somehow all finally arrive at Oak Bluffs within thirty minutes of each other in the mid afternoon. Luxury; a slip, with pilings, a sea wall, and 120V power. Heaven.

Oak Bluffs is very busy, optimized for tourism and hosting folks from around the world. We hear British and German and Midwestern American accents as we amble Circuit drive, looking for a dinner spot. Hot, midafternoon strolls are cooled by circling the Tabernacle in the Methodist campground. Civilization is nice, replenishing our ice and fuel and other ship’s stores - very satisfying. But somehow, the isolation of Cuttyhunk pulls at us.

After three days, including a bus trip to lovely Edgartown, watching the ballet of the twin Chappaquiddick ferries, and multiple fine meals, we are ready to return to sea.

Day 6, we drop our stern and bow and spring lines, emerge from Oak Bluffs harbor, and race a bit to beat the incoming fast ferry as it approaches the narrow channel. As the sun ascends and clouds clear, the wind picks up and we have a brisk north breeze to reach across Vineyard Sound. Finally, the sailboat comes to life and vibrates happily with the wind, curling a white bow wave as we cut through the swells. A fast crossing, we arrive at the south entrance to Quick’s Hole before noon. Again, fortuitously, the tides are with us and we glide uneventfully through to the north side, then turn west again to Cuttyhunk. Entering the inner harbor just after noon, we find enough moorings for our small flotilla.

After securing the boat and donning comfortable hiking shoes, we unship the outboard and mount it on the dinghy. A quick ten minutes later, we are ashore on Cuttyhunk and meet several others from our group. Always, the human tendency is to ascend, so we begin a slow climb. About 150 feet above sea level, the top of Lookout Hill was once a lookout station for WWII sailors spotting German submarines. Now, the pillboxes are nearly buried and prolific wildflowers decorate the heights. The view of the open sea to the south and west is magnificent, and Gay Head on Martha’s Vineyard is clearly visible. We meet another group of sailors up from Maryland – they have been attracted to Cuttyhunk for many years and often make the long voyage.

There is little on the island for tourists – one restaurant, one store, fewer than 100 residents. But one comes for the peace, the 1890s feel, the wildflowers, the wide open sky, and the expansive view of the sea.

Back to the boats, another supper aboard. We buzz back and forth in the dinghies, visiting our cohort, but finally settle in with the dark. Again, the Milky Way, ostentatious, as we sample a nice port and read a bit by camp lantern.

Day 7, up at dawn, a quick breakfast, then drop the mooring lines and gather up as we steam out of the harbor. A long day, we will be sailing about 26 miles to Dutch Harbor in Narragansett Bay. As the sun climbs, the wind gathers strength from the south and we manage 6 knots with engines quiet. There is nothing more freeing than the sense of a heavy boat creaking and groaning and slipping quickly through the sea, a fast as you can jog, all for free. Many hours later, we enter Dutch harbor on the west side of Jamestown and are led to our mooring. After a rest, we join our group and walk into town, finally aggregating a group of sailors for drinks and dinner and the swapping of lies. Nothing could be more satisfying.

Day 8, a little break, sleeping in a bit. Today we don’t leave until 9am, for we are in the familiar confines of Narragansett Bay and have only 20 miles or so to journey. A north wind, wouldn’t you know. But we have all day so tack industriously and gradually make our way up the bay. Finally, rounding Conimicut Point, the tacking becomes tiring and we decide to motor the last few miles. Up the Providence River, dodging a tug-driven barge or two, we reach our home port. With the sun settling in the west, a gentle, almost skillful docking, coming into the wind and backing the prop to kill our momentum, we glide to a stop.

This has been a proper New England vacation, one we are most likely to repeat.

On microclimates and Sunday afternoons

San Francisco has nothing on us. Eccentric Californians brag of the Golden Gate City’s microclimates as if they were of their own doing. Stolid Kansans, on the other hand, are quietly satisfied with their widely spread, mostly predictable weather.

New England is more in the San Francisco camp, with sometimes wildly divergent conditions (Mount Washington; currently 36°F with fog at the time of this writing).

But we need not venture so far afield to establish New England’s street cred. Our local newspaper reports of “heat-related issues” at a nearby Wrentham, MA, graduation ceremony (“Hot times at area graduation"). Fourteen audience members were reported to require treatment for heat exhaustion at the outdoor ceremony on Sunday, June 5. Proximate cause: temperatures in the mid 80s with a hot, blazing sun.

At nearly the same exact time, 20 miles to the south as the crow flies, a sound sailing yacht departs her slip on the Providence River for an afternoon sail. Conditions are initially comfortable, with a high, hazy sun and moderate winds. Proceeding south into the upper reaches of Narragansett Bay, the breeze freshens, reporting 17 knots with gusts to 20 out of the south. Tacking down past Rocky Point, the wind strengthens further and the clouds thicken. As we clear the wind shadow of Patience Island, the full force of the wind, having a straight shot up the bay from the open ocean, brings us the chill of the Atlantic deeps. Reported conditions: cloudy, 62°F, and with gusts to 23 knots, the wind chill is in the low 50s. Time to don long sleeves, fleeces, and jackets.

Tacking into a strong breeze is always challenging. The boat’s forward velocity is additive to that of the wind, and with the wind chill and salt spray, it can be quite nippy. The boat heels dramatically as the bow plunges into the waves, lifting huge sheets of spray that are (mostly) deflected by the dodger. The wail of the wind in the rigging and the pounding of the hull can be near deafening. Having reached the limits of our comfort zone, we come about and head back north. Now, with a fine breeze at our back, the relative wind drops dramatically as the boat’s speed is subtractive. The vessel returns to an even keel and moves gently with the swells, noise abates, quiet and warmth return; it seems, as if by magic, a new day.

A few hours later, tied up in the quiet comfort of our slip, the crew relaxes. With a few rays of the setting sun peeking from beneath the clouds, we celebrate our warmth, unaware of the “heat-related issues” not so far to our north.