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.

The Christmas trees of August

The "dog days of August” is not a specious phrase. In northwestern Pennsylvania, August brings intense, sweltering sun, high temperatures, and soggy humidity. The dogs, indeed, wilted along with us.

In spite of this, there was work to be done, and when our own farm chores were complete we hired ourselves out. A local entrepreneur, known to us from church, owned 30 acres or so of hilly Christmas tree farm off to the south. The trees were growing in rows that meandered up and down the rugged terrain, and more to the point, were nearly strangling in a sea of Queen Anne’s Lace, burdock, golden rod, orchard grass, and any number of other vigorous saplings and scrub. For the trees to form their proper shape and remain healthy, the offending undergrowth must be removed.

This was a complicated operation that had many moving parts. First, Mom got up early and made a pile of egg salad sandwiches. Long before the local food movement, the eggs came from our own chickens and the bread was baked in our own oven. She had filled plastic bottles with homemade root beer and frozen them overnight. The frozen bottles, placed in a cooler with the sandwiches, helped to keep them chilled but also slowly melted and provided icy relief during the hot afternoon. Packing everything up and securing to our old fat-tire, single speed bikes, we raced the four miles into town and joined a few school mates while the sun was just peeking over the horizon. Clambering into our employer’s venerable (even then) 1947 Ford pick-up, we fit ourselves in, a few in the cab and the rest wedged among several walk-behind power bush hogs. Then the trip south, perhaps 12 miles, to the remote hilly farm.

If you have ever pushed your way through a thicket of pines with bare forearms, you will recall the scratches and sticky resin that, per force, caused us to wear leather gloves and long sleeved flannel shirts even in these dog days. The heavy duty mowers made short work of the thick undergrowth, but even self propelled, exhausted us as we wrestled and navigated the steep, twisting terrain. We almost envied the other guys whose job it was to trim the bottom branches of the trees using hand saws. But in the end, the perfume of hot oil and exhaust and the thrill of reciprocating power made mower duty the preferred choice.

Finally, a break. Long draughts of water from a large galvanized can, who cared that it was warm? Grazing the forested field edges to pluck and suck the juice of warm, sweet blackberries as large as your thumb. Pulling some Queen Ann’s Lace from the ground, breaking the root to appreciate the scent of wild carrot. Likewise with small sassafras saplings, the odor of root beer rich and pungent from the roots. Then, back to work for we didn’t get paid to commune with nature.

Later, after our lunch and well into the afternoon, towering cumulonimbus clouds move in from Ohio and points west. The sun is doused, thunder rumbles, and an intense downpour commences. Our patron, sensing that not much more can be accomplished, helps us load up the equipment and we head back north, the vacuum wipers beating a cheery tune as we descend but slowing to a crawl as we struggle up the long inclines.

By the time we get back to town, the rain ceases and leaves a clean, fresh smell that enervates us as we propel our clunky bikes along. Home is welcome, even if some chores remain – those chickens demand to be fed in exchange for all those delicious eggs. Then a late dinner and early to bed, for tomorrow holds more of the same. Tired, but a good tired, born of honest labor, and sleep comes fast and deep and filled with pleasant dreams.