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.

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.