Mid-November in the Taunton River

I began the trip near the top of the portion of the Taunton River shown.  The Berkeley Bridge is at the center.  Peter's Point lies south of the bridge, just above the widening.  The Assonet River branches to the right from the bottom.

One last trip as cold and dark and wind threaten to close off the season--Taunton River in Surprise.  Endless short-tacking as I dropped down the river against wind but with the ebb; low stress, since we were always making windwardway with each tack!  Dinner and a nap above Berkeley Bridge while the flood passed, then at midnight away once more, under bridge and a few miles more of beating and running aground and hitting rocks invisible in the dark, then to anchor at 5am, slightly lost.

 The river is narrow with fluky winds in its higher reaches.

Up at midmorning to discover I was right where I'd wanted to be.  I chose to take opportunity to visit up the shallow Assonet River at the top of the tide, rather than riding the flood straight home--figure out how to get home later.  Assonet is a few miles of narrow water flanked by mcmansions, ending in a pretty little bay with a mix of houses modest and less so, and also marsh and forest. 

 After dropping anchor at 5am, slightly lost, daylight found me right where I wanted to be: across from the Assonet River.

               One of the more modest homes along the banks of the Assonet.

A tiny islet marks the confluence of the two rivers.

After tacking back downriver to the confluence, fought upriver against current with a fluky west wind until the weakness of wind and strength of current brought me to a stop at Peter's Point, a couple of miles below the bridge.  Ate and slept a bit, read Moby Dick, and resumed sailing after a change in the tide; but lack of wind left no option but awkward paddling.  (Surprise's odd shape makes a motor the only practical alternative power.)  Flood was very late in coming and weak.  Finally dropped anchor below bridge, fatigued by paddling and inadequate sleep, and called Bea to bail me out, since it seemed impossible to regain the ramp on this tide.  Left boat closed up, taking valuables ashore in kayak.  Beatrice brought me to the tow car and we drove home in convoy.

 The way ahead past Peter's Point was narrow, shallow and rocky.  I couldn't negotiate it against  both wind and tide.

Extensive Phragmites marsh isn't found much loweron the river than Peter's Point.

My hosts for the evening (since I sort of camped in their back yard) have a nice idea for enjoying their waterfront: a loveseat atop this rock.

A welcome sleep in my own bed.

Two days later put plan into effect to retrieve Surprise.  With the wind strong from the north, returning to original ramp couldn't happen, so brought trailer to a downriver ramp I'd never used.  Then paddled against a cold wind (well-wrapped-up) the 2½ miles to the boat, rigged, and sailed downwind with the ebb to the ramp.  Nice to see in daylight what I'd only passed in darkness.  Some beautiful (and some peculiar) yachts at the boatyard.  A very nice ride, though short, past interesting waterfront properties and eclectic and individualistic homes.  The ramp is a nice one--newly-renovated as an Eagle Scout project--and I'll have to use it again.

Relaxing solo in the Sakonnet

"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet...—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can."                                      Moby Dick   Herman Melville

Nice, relaxing couple of days in the Sakonnet "River" (really a salt water passage) last week.  Wanted to test new anchors and more comfortable seating, among other ideas.  And just plain wanted to get in the water.

I can only use Fogland ramp above half-tide (with high about 4:30).  Since I got there about noon, I spent time listening to the radio (Steven Jobs had just died), walking the beach and listing species, and treating myself to lunch at nearby Provender.

Boat finally floated at about 2:30, I walked her to windward around the gentle crescent of beach, paddled out and dropped the new claw anchor in about six feet of water.  I could only stay an hour or so, since I had to go back for choir rehearsal.  I spent the time establishing  landmarks against which to judge the holding of the anchor, then settled myself with my tattered Moby Dick first in the cockpit with my back against the cabin (fairly comfortable but a bit too sunny and windy), and then on cushions on the floor in the forward part of the cabin, looking out the companion (very snug and comfortable--and the only way to have full sitting headroom in my cabin).  I find I need a backrest for long-term comfort; a bunkboard leaning against the forward seat was just the thing.

The claw anchor had grabbed the bottom immediately, in accordance with its reputation, and in the hour-and-a-half I puttered and read while the boat swung to the 10 mph breeze it didn't budge a foot.  The claw also has a reputation for rather low holding power; for this reason I bought one sized for 24-30ft boats.  Of course, this was hardly any test, coditions being as light as they were.

I paddled the little kayak to the beach, secured it on the trailer, and drove the hour back home, confident the boat was safe in my absence.  I didn't get back to the beach until about 11pm.  It was now 52 degrees and windy and I was in shorts and short sleeves.  I shivered as I paddled.    I'd been aboard almost an hour before I had completely warmed up.  I washed the salt off my legs, got into warmer clothes, closed up the cabin and got into bed.  I was snug in my sleeping bag with book in hand and wine at elbow.  On the seat opposite were laid out all the necessities so I could have my coffee and breakfast the next morning without ever leaving my sleeping bag (a very attractive option just then).  I slept pretty well.

In the night I dreamed of a dilapidated house compound, a house like a ship, with lookout and decks, and a number of children who were vaguely familiar.  I woke feeling slightly guilty about leaving Beatrice as sole parent.

I got up pretty lazily next morning, knowing I couldn't get into "Pirate" Cove 4 miles away until the flood began late in the morning.  Though the temperatures dropped to 52 inside the cabin the previous night--42 outside--it was now a comfortable 57, and I got fully up and washed up before pouring the first cup of coffee.

Looking south in the Sakonnet, then north.

At 10:30 we were under way.  The boat sailed herself for the first minute or two after I landed the anchor, while I stayed on the foredeck and secured it.  Then we tacked north up the Sakonnet, making an average of 3kt in the light wind.  Sitting in the wind chilled me, and I eventually ended up in a light down jacket, warm hat and gloves.  I began to regret the late start, anticipating a lunch rendezvous with Beatrice in the cove, and not wanting to be late.  But the wind cooperated by swinging more westerly with time, so that the last part of the trip was a close reach straight up the passage, and I anchored off Grinnell Beach just outside of the cove, and was just about to get in the kaykak when Bea called to say she had just parked.

I didn't think to take a picture of the food (which Bea would have considered important).

We checked out Evelyn's, a well-regarded clam shack a mile away, but it had closed for the season. We had a nice meal at Stone Bridge Restaurant: a gyro for me and a sausage wrap, pudding and coffee for desert. 

The Beatrice Ann rides nicely on her lines.

Afterwards I decided to have a look at Nanaquaket Pond, a nice anchorage avoided by sailboats due to a bridge.  It wouldn't be too much of a challenge for the big boat since the masts could be lowered without too much fuss, and the direction of the channel would be favored by the sw winds usual in the warm season.  

Nanaquaket Pond

I didn't bother rigging to sail the last half-mile into Pirate Cove with the last of the flood, then under the bridge into the adjoining Blue Bill Cove.  The yuloh needed a fair test, I decided, but I found it awkward to use, and after it had slipped off its pivot a few times I put it away in favor of a canoe paddle.  When we cleared the bridge by only a foot, I was even gladder we weren't under sail.  I dropped the claw anchor off just off Spectacle Island before 5, this time dropping my new home-made pipe anchor after the claw, then slacking off on the claw so that the pipe anchor would hold first.  The water was shallow even at the top of the tide, so I retracted the centerboard halfway so it could kick up easily in the night if need be.  Then I decided to explore the cove by kayak.

Exploring the cove.

I paddled north towards route 24, looking for a beach I remembered seeing years ago, and a tiny sub-cove that shows up on Google Earth.  I didn't see any beach, but did find the little cove, meeting (I think) a great blue heron along the way.  Going ashore on a marshy spit I soaked my jeans by trying--and failing--to extricate myself from the kayak in a dignified manner.  Coming around the back side of Spectacle Island, I discovered it was inhabited: a red two-story house was nestled in the trees on the highest point, and a pontoon boat was tied up at a dock not far away.  Not far from my own anchorage was an old wooden cabin cruiser sunk to its portlights--a sad story, and probably one of neglect, I suppose.

With dusk sinking towards night, I boiled up water and took a warm water and alcohol sponge bath, got into clean clothes, and ate a supper of clam chowder and toast and wine.  I settled snugly into my reading nook in the cabin, but had a hard time arranging the light to my liking and couldn't keep my eyes open anyway, so I got into my sleeping bag relatively early, and turned off the light before 10pm.

Didn't sleep well: my foot was giving me trouble and I couldn't get comfortable.  Up before 7, made coffee and cooked oatmeal while a few confused mosquitoes tried to figure out why they were here.  I was fortunate this was their first appearance this trip.  The centerboard had kicked up in the night--probably the source of a half-remembered sound in the night.  The pipe anchor had not budged, but winds had been even lighter than the previous night.

Since Beatrice had a commitment this afternoon and I was needed at home, we got underway fairly briskly by 8am, the boat again self-steering while I tidied ground tackle--but this time heading confidently toward a small group of moored boats.  I had gotten a good look at each anchor in the clear shallow water before lifting it: the pipe anchor was dug in less than halfway, while the claw had dug in sideways, one fluke buried to the shank.  I scurried aft and got us on course for the bridge, while a couple of cormorants took heavily to the air ahead, their wing tips touching the water splash splash splash splash splash splash with each beat as they slowly gained altitude.  We shot out of the cove on the ebb at over 4kt, about half of which was current.

The current flows fast through the cove entrance; fishermen on the rocks.

Gould Island ahead.

"Pirate" cove behind.

Gould Island up close.

A cormorant spreads wings to dry on the end of Gould Island.

We cruised slowly south with a light beam wind, while I took photos.  We rounded Fogland Point and dropped anchor not far from our original spot at 10:30.  I was driving away, leaving the boat closed up and swinging once more at anchor, by 10:50.

I scooted for home, kayak strapped to the roof.  Later in the afternoon I returned with two sons, taking advantage of the empty trailer to put on a new roller before taking out the boat.  While I fussed with tools, Stephen asked to paddle the kayak.  I agreed before remembering that I had not brought life jackets.  Finally I let him wear my own over-sized inflatable while he paddled in EXTREMELY SHALLOW WATER VERY CLOSE TO SHORE.  Meanwhile Trevor sat in the car and read his book. 

Stephen paddling in VERY SHALLOW water; the big boat at anchor.

This time there was tension on the claw anchor rode: the pipe anchor had dragged.  I again chose to paddle to the ramp, though this time it was upwind.  We were back in the driveway before 7pm.

A little adventure

"Lake" Nippenicket is a little over a mile long.

          I've spent less time on the water this boating season than any since I launched my first boat in '05.  This is partly due to the graduate courses I've been taking, and the boat-building day camp I ran in July.  But it's also an odd side-effect of my being without a job: I'm just a little off-balance, and feeling I can't take a real vacation without having a job to take a vacation from.  So big trips (like a week around Cape Cod in the Beatrice Ann) are off the table, and smaller trips (like hanging out in New Bedford Harbor using Surprise as a sort of shanty-boat) are waiting.

          But.

          Less than fifteen minutes from my driveway is a pond that glories in the name "Lake Nippenicket."  Never mind that it doesn't fit the definition of a lake (deep enough that light doesn't reach the bottom somewhere)--it isn't even a large pond.  But it is pretty, with little coves some wild shoreline and a few islands that make it possible to get quite lost.  And its accessible.

          Today I put my little store-bought kayak Speedbump on the roof of the Corolla.  Five minutes after I shut the car off I was paddling away from the ramp.  I spent an hour-and-a-half paddling at a relaxed pace around the pond.  I drifted amongst the water lilies and milfoil, past banks with marsh grasses or willows.  I paddled by houses large and small and wondered what it would be like to live in this one, with its expanses of glass, broad deck, and kayaks on the little dock, or the little summer house with comfy chairs on a patio overhanging a little cove. 

          The far end of the pond is surrounded by wild land--some of it wetlands, some of it conservation area.  It makes a nice contrast to the time spent slipping through people's backyards and admiring their homes.

          Seeing a landing and signs of a recent campfire, I stopped just long enough to stretch my legs at what a large stone announced was the Harry C. Darling Wildlife Management Area.  Soon it was time to abandon the circumnavigation (just beyond the halfway point) to get back in time to meet my son coming home from school.  I paddled back vigorously in building wind and little waves.

          A motorcyclist greeted me at the ramp with, "made a good decision."  I looked over my shoulder to see a cartoon-style thundercloud--the sort Thor's fist might explode out of at any moment.  "It was time to come in anyway," I said.  "My back can't take too much at a time."

          As I tied the boat on the roof, he ambled over.  "You just put it up there like that and go?  "You carried it that easy with a bad back?"

          "It only weighs 25 or 30 pounds," I said.  "Takes maybe 5 minutes to load or unload.  But don't hit a rock with it."  He laughed.  "And it's cheap--the boat only cost a couple hundred on sale."

          He shared a bit of his philosophy of life, and the need for solitude, which I readily agreed with.  He eyed the pond appreciatively.  I've got to try that," he said.  I nodded.

          This is a "vacation" you can take any time--almost at a  moment's notice.  No days of planning, no shopping for supplies, no hours packing and readying the boat, driving an hour or more to a saltwater ramp, another hour to get under way, then a good day to clean-up when you get home.  With the little kayak, I can be paddling less than half an hour after I think of it, and drinking coffee 20 minutes after I touch the ramp once more.  The big boat takes me on big adventures to faraway places; the planning and remembering are part of the adventure and there is no substitute for the challenge--not to mention bragging rights--of real adventure.  But sometimes, in between big adventures, the right faraway place can be close to home, and as easy as thought.

Point Judith Pond to Block Island 8/21-8/23

Not a gps track, but my hand-drawn approximation of our route.  (Forgot to show tacking at se corner.)

This, I decided, would be a good year to return to Block Island.  Our first trip had been the first season we had the boat, and it was also the first time we went into open water and the first (hopefully only!) time we would be threatened by a hurricane.

We put into Pt. Judith Pond, Narragansett--a much saner ramp than the open water ramp we had used last time.  One goof: left cockpit drains open; once drained, some water still sloshed in lazarette for awhile.  NOAA called for winds of 5-10mph all three days, strengthening late the third day, with ideal directions: northerly for the first half, southerly for the second.  Downhill both ways!--and this time they got it right. 

          We left much later in the day than I'd intended, needing to catch the early ebb out of the Pond to negotiate the narrow tidal race.  Fortunately the wind cooperated splendidly and we sailed out of Pt Judith Pond two hours into the ebb on a broad reach, and headed out the west exit of the Harbor of Refuge.  A watcher on shore called "beautiful boat!" as we headed out.  I liked him immediately.

I love sunsets!

Seas were only 2-3 feet in Block Island Sound, and we made fair time, sailing past the North Light as the sun set and the reflections in the windows on the island changed from yellow to orange to pink and gradually dimmed and winked out.  Some sort of shearwater (I think) passed by on its own business--a notable event, since these birds are seldom seen from land.  Searching for the harbor entrance, I learned that F on the chart = "fixed" meaning not flashing: that's what the light marking the entrance was doing.  We entered Old Harbor soon after full dark and sailed to our "accustomed" northwest corner. We drifted into shin-deep water to set two anchors, in hopes that the north one (a new homemade weed anchor) would keep us from bumping other boats, and the south one (the big danforth) would keep us from going onto the rocks of the nearby breakwater.  Only a few yards from shore at low tide, I had to trust that an easterly wind wouldn't put us hard aground on a falling tide.  But being so close certainly simplified going ashore!

We ate a late dinner of stew and bread, and at 11pm settled in for the night.  I was tired enough that I didn't even pick up a book to read in bed, but went straight to sleep.  Although it wasn't completely quiet with downtown New Shoreham right there, the boat was rock still thanks to the light breeze, well-protected harbor, and the Block Island ferries' 9pm bedtime.

North breakwater.  Walking north on Corn Neck Road.

After a breakfast of coffee and juice, granola and oatmeal, we headed ashore before 10am.  We looked in at a few sights, walked the main roads a little north and south of town, played chess with a couple of fellow sailors at the Island Free Library (Mike from NY aboard his Contessa 32, and young Sally from her parents live-aboard trimaran), had a nice pizza lunch, fed a variety animals at Justin Abram's farm, bought books in the Island Bound bookstore, and then finally returned to the boat so the boys could practice paddling Speedbump, which we'd towed as tender, and so that I could look about the intertidal zone for seaweeds and critters.  I was in good spirits the whole delightful day.

Going south: a salt pond.  Looking south from Spring Street.

Dodging the larger waves, the boys go out on some sort of old pier or breakwater.

At Ocean View--site of a hotel that burned down in the 60's--I relax and read from my new book, True Spirit by 16-yr-old solo circumnavigator Jessica Watson.

Beatrice Ann at anchor, near high tide.

Darkness found us back aboard, where I fried up onions and peppers and sausage for dinner.  Both boys turned down fresh strawberries, but not me!  I took a bucket bath in the cockpit--not a comfortable thing with teenagers with flashlights scrambling over the nearby breakwater!  Then each of us settled into our berths with new acquisitions: Trevor with The Last Olympian by Rick Riordan, Stephen with Ghost Ship: the mysterious true story of the Mary Celeste and her missing crew, and me with teen solo circumnavigator Jessie Watson's True Spirit, and a glass of cabernet.

Hard on the wind toward the southeast corner; Southeast Light.

Strange clouds.

We were late leaving the next morning owing to a broken main sprit, but after an hour or so I jerried it together (who'd have thought I'd want a drill in my sailing tool kit?) and we were on our way.  Even with the delayed departure, we had ample time before the 5:20 top of the flood that would carry us back into Point Judith Pond, so I decided to complete a circumnavigation by continuing south around and coming up the west side of the island.  The boys were both tired for some reason--maybe their detours to climb out on old jetties and such--and stayed in the cabin nearly the whole way back, leaving me to single-hand.  Mostly I didn't mind, but when we got home and I found my backpack soaked and a book nearly ruined by the fountaining of the centerboard trunk I was a bit upset.  (The boys had rescued their own backpacks, but neglected mine.)

I took many photos of the sand cliffs around the south end of the island.  Studied closely, the patterns in the cliffs tell the geologic history of the island, how the sand got there.

Southeast corner looking north.  With the wind ahead of the beam, the boat steers herself for long periods.

Hundred-foot bluffs along the southern end.  Blopck Island is made of two distinct layers of till (unsorted stuff buldozed by glaciers): gray Montauk Drift of unknown age studded with metamorphic boulders, overlain by brown New Shoreham Drift of the Wisconsinan (last) glaciation.  Stream deposits left by melting ice cap all.

Coming up on the entrance to Great Salt Pond, which has New Harbor, where most boats anchor.

DInside Great Salt Pond.

Coming up the west side, I decided on another detour.  Great Salt Pond has a tidal race entrance usually denied to motorless sailors, but even with the state of the flood at 2pm, I figured the strong, favorable wind would get us out again.  We stayed in the pond only for the few minutes it took to look around, then proceeded out against the current on a run.

North Light, this time from the west.

 

The wind strengthened further as we surfed wing-and-wing down the waves the 10nm back to the Harbor of Refuge.  The boat balanced nicely with the sails at nearly 90 degrees from centerline, centerboard about 30 degrees down, and tiller locked on centerline; I didn't have to touch the tiller much for upwards of an hour.  It occurred to me to wonder how we would fair in this stiff wind when it was time to sail into it, but I also knew that reefing was not practical in open water.  If I'd really been desperate, I could have anchored once in the pond and reefed, or even moved masts, but that would have meant a later arrival home.

Entering the Harbor of Refuge.

Entering Point Judith Pond.

We are hailed: "Are you Jeff?"

Joe, in white, in a pretty little wooden sloop.

We made our entrance well before slack water, entered the pond, and almost at once dragged the rudder in the shallows just as Stephen announced he could see bottom.  I knew the Pond was very shallow in spots, but couldn't believe it was this shallow at this stage of the tide.  We also dipped the gunwale briefly sailing hard on the wind--the first time in years we've done that.  (Stephen, fresh from a long nap, immediately retreated back to his bunk where it was "safe!")  From then on I kept the mainsheet in my hand.

Halfway up the Pond we were hailed from a nice little traditional wooden sloop: "Are you Jeff?"  Rather taken aback, I eventually thought to heave-to and see if he would come up with us (with his sloop rig reefed and a shorter waterline, he appeared to be no match for us downwind).  He and his friends came by fairly promptly and he introduced himself as Joe Anderson whom I recognized as a fellow messing-about member and EC22 builder.  He was very pleased to see another B&B boat in the Pond.  I returned his greeting and told him we would meet online.  I since discovered he had emailed after seeing us on Monday--he had been the admirer on shore, and I suppose had been on the lookout since!  Unbeknownst to me, he and his wife have a house on Pt Judith Pond and spend part of the year there.  His beautiful Everglades Challenge 22 is nearing completion and should be on the water this fall.

We got a little lost trying to find the way between islands back to the ramp, but finally made a creditable landing at about 6:15, were on the road by 7 and in the driveway at 8:30, a great trip completed.