November in Nippenicket

Paddled the new skin kayak in Lake Nippenicket for a couple of hours late this afternoon.  The sky was overcast and in the 50s and it showered lightly a few times.  I bundled up in two fleeces and hat and waterproof jacket.  For comfort, I brought fabric to keep paddle drips out of my lap, and warm slippers to slip my bare feet into after I set out.  It was a pretty successful outfit.  I do need to get a real cockpit cover to keep myself drier, though.

Island

Cove with marsh in distance

  Since I've spent quite a bit of time in the southern coves this year, I decided to go straight to the north end.  I left the ramp at the se end about 4pm and paddled west of the big island.  Tooke a photo of the island, and the cove ne of it.  A flight of birds--geese, I think--were passing in the distant marsh behind the cove but did not photograph. 

Phragmites is an odd grass: world-wide distribution, yet recently increasing and taking over cattail marshes--maybe due to an imported European variety.

The cattail marsh is thin, but covers more area than the Phragmites

I spent a little time visiting a big stand of invasive Phragmites at the north end, and was cheered to discover cattail marsh of even greater extent west of it.  A little spit protruding from the marsh caught my eye since it had a little stand of trees.  It turned out to have been constructed or "improved" by some sort of cement work.  I have no idea what it was or why it was there--seeming the middle of nowhere.  The curving cement wall or path is clearly visible in Google Earth, but there is no sign of any path through the marsh behind it--supposing the marsh to be firm enough in places for walking.

I visited the wooded northwest end briefly before turning for home, arriving back at the ramp about 5:45.

Annual Camping Trip in Boston Harbor Islands

I was determined to get the boat upgrades done, and so worked on the wiring 'til the wee hours on Tuesday, spending some of the time scrunched in the cockpit installing wiring for the motor.  As a result, my left shoulder hurt and I got even less sleep than you'd expect, and I didn't begin packing the boat to go until the day of departure.  Every big trip I vow to be packed so as to leave early and well-rested, and every trip I do something like this.  And the lights don't even work!

Beatrice Ann, ready to launch.

We got off from Hingham in the middle of the afternoon, wove our way out the channel (because we could), and, with a fair but light wind, went ashore on Grape Island at 7:30pm.  (We'd have been ashore earlier, but I spent time reeling out anchor rode in an effort to get ashore dry-shod--a maneuver made more difficult with wind and current at an angle to each other.)  Leaving Stephen to keep the boat afloat on a falling tide, I went and found a ranger and got a cart to haul our gear.  At 7:45 I found Stephen with the boat hard aground.  To be fair, the bottom at that point was nearly level, so Stephen would have been hard-pressed to keep her afloat.  Stephen chose site 5--the same as two years ago--and we raced to get all the gear to camp and the tents pitched while we could still see.  We ate our soup in darkness and went to our separate tents for the evening.

Leaving Hingham Yacht Club astern.

We rose about 8am and breakfasted on oatmeal and croissants, coffee and juice.  A leisurely wander found  the boat still (or, rather, again) hard aground, so I relocated the anchor and shortened the rode before we set out by water taxi for Georges Island and its 19th century Fort Warren.

Water taxi leaving Grape.  Our boat is the speck grounded behind the bar in the center distance.

This time I remembered to bring headlamps so we could explore the fort's darker corners to our hearts' content.  Since this was our third year visiting as part of a Harbor Islands camping trip, we didn't feel compelled to see everything, but time in the visitor's center did  remind Stephen of the two Civil War bounty jumpers imprisoned and executed there--shot by a firing squad while standing beside their coffins--which sparked a conversation about capital punishment.  Stephen is generally against it, but had to admit that President Lincoln, also against it, needed to make an example of them.  Stephen is twelve, and feels these issues pretty deeply.

Lovells Island, seen from inside a watchtower in Fort Warren.

Finished with Georges after a modest lunch (that snack bar REALLY needs competition!--we decided to take a different water taxi to Lovells Island.  I was interested to see how its camp sites were arranged and how easy it would be to anchor safely in the event we decided to visit in the future.  This taxi dropped us there before 2pm, and we spent the next hour and a half circumnavigating the island.  We explored ruins and wondered about the tumble of granite blocks that lined the outer beach.  We also got ourselves in a bit of a fix trying to get around a cement foundation that had fallen from the bluff above to block our progress.  In making our way carefully around these enormous chucks of concrete, we found ourselves between tangles of reinforcing iron projecting from the concrete and deeper water than we felt comfortable wading.  Negotiating it without injury, we faced another obstacle: the next water taxi back to George would be too late to catch a ride on the original taxi back to Grape.  When I realized this in studying the schedule, a helpful ranger called the taxi company and got an agreement for the last taxi to drop us at Grape on the way back to their night-time dock in Hingham.  (On that final trip, we discovered we were not alone: three other couples came to Grape with us.)

Captain and crew of water taxi that graciously took us home.

Stephen likes to ride up front.

Back on Grape about 4pm, I was able to get out to the boat--now well afloat on high tide--and fire up the electric motor for a move to a nearer and more convenient anchorage.  Dropping the hook in about 8 feet of water, I calculated that the boat would still have a foot or two of water under her at low, but still be in reach of shore.

Low-grade slate that got my attention on Grape.  (I shouldn't have told Stephen to smile.)

I spent the late afternoon exploring the slaty rock that stands vertically on the western shore, and collect common periwinkle shells for future school use.  We ate a dinner of soup and bread while it was still daylight, then retreated into tents once fully dark.

Stephen loves to read in bed--same as at home.

Morning.  Breakfast is cooking.

Stephen slept late  waking to another leisurely breakfast.  We both explored a bit more, and then began breaking camp about 9:30am for 11am check-out.  The campsite was clean by shortly after 11, and the loading of the boat was fairly smooth owing to better organization than on earlier trips.

"Buzzing" the dock at Grape as we depart.

We had discussed possible activities for our last day, and decided to sail.  Stephen thought he might like to visit Nantasket Beach, while I wanted to sail into Boston proper.  We decided to try both, and set out for northward with a fair but light wind.  Stephen sailed us off the anchor, but was happy to return to his favorite spot on the foredeck once I was back in the cockpit.

Unexpected encounter with a (diesel) side-wheeler under Long Island Bridge.

We sailed gently under the Long Island bridge and into Dorchester Bay, then past Spectacle Island to starboard and seeing the beloved Corita gas tank far away to port.  Once past Spectacle, we were in Boston Harbor proper, sailing past the entrance to the inner harbor, flanked by Castle Island and Logan International Airport, among shipping great and small.  We had taken a long time to get this far; it was long after noon and a long sail home, and going into the inner harbor would have meant tacking out amid shipping large and small--clearly not an option.  So I decided to close the loop by going outside Long Island (President Roads), down the Nubble Channel, and back into Hingham Bay via Hull Gut.  It would give us more bang for the buck, and was only a little longer, I decided, than doubling back.

After a look and photos, we began working upwind in President Roads in light air, dodging first an incoming integrated tug-and-barge, then the general cargo vessel Arctic Blizzard, and later a cruise ship.  The Arctic Blizzard, lightly-loaded and showing much bottom paint and half her bow bulb, made her stately way past us.  Soon after, a smaller motor vessel with "PILOT" emblazoned on the side zoomed to her starboard side, looped around, and then came back.  I wondered whether she was picking up a pilot who had gotten the big ship out of the inner harbor, or was dropping off one who would get her out of Boston entirely.  The big ship remained stationary, and passing her we discovered she was riding from her starboard anchor.   A metal stair wend down her side about halfway to the water, and a rope ladder went the rest of the way: seeming to me a scary climb.  She remained in that position for as long as we could see her.

Fireboat.

Stephen and his sharp eyes spotted the fireboats first: looking like they were ready for a parade someone had forgotten to hold, they came out of the inner harbor with all water guns spraying.  A few minutes later they passed us--water thankfully turned off.  What could the fuss have been all about? 

Norwegian Dawn.

Later, as we approached the end of Deer Island and its spacy-looking sewage treatment plant, a police boat suddenly drew up and told us a cruise ship was coming and we should stay to the Deer Island side of the channel.  After my "ok" sign it jetted away to warn the next boater.  Meanwhile I turned to look.   It's hard to believe I could miss a big cruise ship speeding toward us, but so it was.  Only a few minutes later the Norwegian Dawn steamed past in a blaze of bright colors and incongruous artwork.  Perhaps the fireboats had been a send-off for her.

Passing Fort Warren.

After much light, fluky and sometimes non-existent wind and a foul current, we finally worked past Long Island as the wind shifted again and strengthened a bit.  From then on, my main worry was getting into Hingham before full dark, since the lights didn't work.  We sailed slowly south past Gallops Island and our old friend Georges, and approached Hull Gut just after 6pm.  Hull Gut has some of the strongest tidal current in the area, but I figured to beat the ebb since the moon was first quarter and high tide had only been an hour or so ago.  But entering the Gut I watched our speed drop from 3kt to 2 to 1.5 and finally to 1.2kt.   After a tense few minutes more it was clear we'd made it.

Now we had only to cross Hingham Bay to get to our ramp.  But as we approached the entrance to the harbor the sun set at last and the wind--now mostly foul--began to die away for good and all.   The tide was getting low enough for it to be risky to ignore the channel.  It was time to start the motor. 

We powered along cheerfully for awhile, sails still drawing most of the time, convincing me we were drawing little current.  We followed the coarse laid into the gps for an earlier trip when I thought we might come across Cape Cod Bay into Hingham late at night.  To my dismay, the battery began to give out, our speed dropping visibly until we made barely a knot.  i got out the paddle, but resisted the idea of switching to our other battery, which was under my bunk buried under a small mountain of camping gear.  My gps route wasn't entirely successful either, leading us aground once briefly, then taking us among moored sailboats some distance from the channel, but between gps and my floodlight, we found our way.  Finally, though, at 9:30 we touched the ramp, and the adventure was over.

Around Cape Cod: Day 5

Provincetown: the bar we grounded on is the light diagonal line extending from inside the middle of Long Point.  The dike we walked runs from inside end of Long Point to the edge of downtown.

I slept a little late, convinced we would be staying in Provincetown this day, come what may.  I climbed out, refreshed, at about seven to find we were aground on a bar a little distance from the beach.  Leaving Trevor sleeping, I took a walk barefoot on the bar, admiring shells and rocks, waded the tidal creeks, and returned about an hour later.    Rain sent me into the cabin Trevor had buttoned-up the cabin in my absence.  We ate breakfast and read while the rain pattered occasionally.

Grounded on a bar, Beatrice Ann is little the worse for wear after her adventure.  Even my splinted sprit was okay.

Late in the morning I called Bea for a weather update.  After hearing it, I needed no convincing that I should not risk crossing Cape Cod Bay for the next two or three days.  I wondered aloud whether Bea could come and get us?  She could.  We floated about noon, sailed over to town to scope out the ramp we'd seen while on foot the day before, toured the shoreline a bit, then sailed up to the beach to await her arrival. 

An amazing "houseboat" in Provincetown Harbor features Frank Lloyd Wright styling, good ventilation, solar panels and a shaded wrap-around porch.  Hanging plant on the right hand end for that homey feel.

It was a nice ramp, and not crowded.  The Beatrice Ann took up a lot of real estate on the small beach without appearing to be in anyone's way.  People swam, frolicked with their dogs, took out kayaks and a Sunfish.  I sat on the prow reading Outermost House, stopping now and then to resettle the bow on the beach as the tide rose and fell.  Trevor read in the cabin.

 

Bea and I once stayed at the Land's End B&B visible rising in ornate glory on the hilltop

We were all in the car headed out of Provincetown by 4pm, stopping at Moby Dick's in Wellfleet for a welcome dinner.  At home, I "saw to the horses first" by unloading the boat and beginning the cleaning process before going into the house to get clean myself.  As I worked, I left the vhf radio on, since it had up and decided to work again.  It suddenly erupted into warnings of severe weather--bands of thunderstorms, winds gusting to 38, hail, and so on--picked up on doppler radar all over the coastal waters, at a time we would have far out had we sailed that day.  Before this, such a warning would have been purely intellectual--now a little experience invests it with a visceral punch.  Never again will I take such a forecast lightly.

Beatrice and Stephen got us, then treated us to fish & chips, shrimp and fried clams at Moby Dick's.  A Fudgy Wudgy, cheesecake, and two Freezese capped it off.

Around Cape Cod: Day 4

the red line shows a distanc of 5 nautical miles, so our rough position.

We woke about 10am, having dropped anchor behind Long Point only six hours earlier.  Thinking it was already rather late to be starting across Cape Cod Bay to Plymouth, we might as well go into town.  The shore was about 100 feet to leeward, so I let out all the scope we had, added a second length of rode, and then brought the transom within reach of the beach with a paddle.  (On reflection, the whole affair took longer than it would have to simply inflate the kayak and paddle ashore.)  Leaving a second anchor from the stern to ensure a wind shift didn't carry the boat out of reach, we walked the quarter mile of beach and the mile of picturesque stone dike into Provincetown.  It was about two hours before high tide.  Our plan was the same as in Chatham: scope things out with an eye to finding something to eat and drinks in cool AC comfort.  We settled on a pizza place that also advertised ice cream.  

The dike is about a mile long, and a pretty walk into Provincetown.

The salt marsh and pond maintained by the dike.

These great fat ducks--common eiders, I think--seem to prefer swimming to flying.

Beatrice Ann anchored off Long Point.

We were back aboard about 3pm, half a large cheese pizza inside us and the rest in hand.  The ebb had begun.  I phoned Beatrice to get the latest NOAA weather forecast.  Winds southwest at 5 to 10 going west about 6pm, and possible thunderstorms from a coming cold front late at night.   Not great--but the frontal weather was to be with us right through the weekend.  I decided we would go for it.  It would mean doing most of the crossing after dark, but I was used to this, and had long-since laid in the gps coordinates that would see us safely into either Plymouth or the more northerly Hingham, near Boston.  (On an earlier crossing years before, we had started even later than this.  It was my first long night-crossing, and I still remember that night on Cape Cod Bay as a magical.)  Although I should have been tired, I felt pretty good.  Beatrice didn't exactly object, but I could hear worry in her voice.

Returning to the boat, tide falling but a bit higher than we left.  The Mayflower Memorial tower is visible at left in Provincetown.

 We got things ship-shape with all speed and got the anchor up.  I told Trevor that, to make so long a trip after so short a night, he would have to do a good deal of the sailing.  In his confidence he was ready to do all of it; we compromised: he could sail until full dark, then we would see.  He had rather enjoyed a little night sailing under a fingernail moon the night before.  I settled into my bunk and pretended to nap.  In reality, I was evaluating Trevor's sail trim, his course-keeping, and his reactions to events.  He did pretty well, even after a wind shift headed us, so he was no longer able to stay on the gps line.  I relaxed and daydreamed.

Five or six nautical miles off shore, I noticed that Trevor was luffing pretty continuously: I went into the cockpit to find him spilling wind to keep her on her feet.  He was ready to hand over the tiller.  On that day a new idiom entered Trevor's vocabulary: "out of my league."  While I explained that we could balance the boat better with both of us on the windward side (my bunk was on the leeward), and reef if we needed to, it quickly became apparent that a reef was an urgent priority.  The sky ahead was dark, lightning flashed in the distance.  Events were getting way ahead of me: I initially planned to reef the main alone, since the boat can't ride hove-to while reefing the mizzen, but by the time we were hove-to and I was on the foredeck, I couldn't even do that.  This was out of my league, as well.

My sails are sleeved and furl around the mast.  Furling or reefing the main in any kind of wind requires rotating the mast--usually not difficult. But the increasing wind put so much strain via the flogging sail that I couldn't budge the mast, no matter how I positioned myself on the tiny bit of deck.  Added to that was a new worry: the mizzen was unable to hold the boat head-to-wind since it was drifting backward so quickly that the rudder would steer it on the wind, then the boat would heel perilously on mizzen only, round up with agonizing slowness, repeating this at seemingly random intervals.  Wind and waves still building, my mind rapidly shifted gears, from "we need to reef" through "we need a way to ride this out," and "we need to turn back," to "I don't want to die."

Fearing a capsize, and unable to come up with a plan that couldn't make things worse, I told Trevor to leave the tiller alone and hang on tight.  Since I couldn't deal with the violently flogging mainsail, I reached into the forepeak and got out the drift sock.  I had long ago thought that this cheap fisherman's drift anchor might help with reefing under way, but my few experiments had been disappointing, and the sock was stuffed in among the anchors "just in case."  With no spare rode in easy reach, I tied it to the other end of the main rode and lowered it carefully over the bow.  In moments the strain on the rode was too great for a hand alone, and I cleated it off perhaps fifty feet off the bow.  Instantly the bow came obediently into the wind and the boat began riding properly.  Enormous relief!

 Now my undivided attention returned to the main just as Trevor cried out and pointed: the cheap aluminum carabiner (really a key ring) that I used to fix the sheet to the clew had carried away, and the main swung free of any impediment.  I shouted to Trevor that that was good news: had the sheet caught on anything for even a moment, we would have been swimming.  I knelt on the deck on the lee side of the mast and pushed with all my might to counter the pressure of the wind, and was able to rotate it a quarter-turn.  Once it had made a few rotations, the shrinking sail area began to make the job much easier.  By the time I had secured the sail, a plan had formed in my mind.

 The mizzen furled more easily, since I could stand and lean against the mast and its area was smaller to begin with.  Without the mizzen, the sock alone held the bow about forty-five degrees off the wind.  I explained to Trevor that we would sail back to Provincetown using just the wind on masts and hull as power--fortunately P-town was now almost directly downwind.  The bit I wasn't sure about was how we would come around, and what would happen when we were in broach position, with the increasing waves rolling us sideways.  Plan A was for Trevor to steer us around backwards as soon as the sock was aboard, and plan B was to release the centerboard if that prevented us from turning downwind.

 Plan B it was, no harm came of the moment we spent turning, and in a few minutes we were running before the wind and surfing four foot waves at a steady four knots plus under bare poles with centerboard up.  I called Beatrice to tell her the situation, and told her to expect another call when we were in shelter.

Waves breaking to port.  At that distance, not a worry.

Doesn't look like much, but we're doing a little modest surfing.

I was now pretty sure we weren't going to die today, but there were still some worries: the lightning had us as far from masts as possible--but on a twenty-foot cat ketch that's not very far.  We lightly discussed possible outcomes of a strike.  My happiest scenerio involved large holes burned through the hull at either or both mast steps, cabin and cockpit flooded, but the boat still afloat and reasonably stable due to the buoyancy of her storage compartments.  I sat in the back of the cockpit, four feet from the mizzenmast, while Trevor stuffed himself and a book at the forward end of the cabin, about four or five feet from either mast.  The lightning flashed behind and before, but never came within earshot. 

Increasing wave height worried me as well; I learned not to fear the waves I heard breaking well behind us, but concentrate on those that threatened to break right on the transom and poop us.  The cabin I had added to this open-cockpit design has only the merest division between outside and in: a six-inch high bulkhead beneath the thwart/mizzenmast partner was meant only to keep rainfall and spray in its proper place, outside the cabin.  The cockpit floor is below the waterline, so hasn't any scuppers.  Three feet of aft deck between transom and cockpit is the only thing between a breaking wave and a flooded boat.  The good news is that the boat is virtually unsinkable in the short term, having eight separate compartments totaling over twenty-four cubic feet in volume. Hatches to the largest compartments in bow and stern were on centerline, and would not go underwater unless the boat turtled.

A final worry grew on me as we approached the Wood End light that marked the beginning of shelter: These waves might increase further in height and begin to break as they approached the shallows near the point.  I began to bear away a little, adding some centerboard to better control my direction, as I sought to balance my fear of breaking waves against the possibility that we'd be unable to get into the lee of any land for shelter.

As Wood End light turned from a flashing abstraction into a solid white tower, and darkness fell, the wind and waves fell with them, and my fear followed.  What had happened to the violent wind and seas that had ended our passage?  It now seemed a thing half-imagined, blown out of proportion by my own inadequacy.  Rain came and went, but never amounted to anything.

In trying to turn up the coast, I discovered that, even with the full centerboard down, we could not sail under bare poles more than about twenty degrees off dead downwind.  We managed to get the trolling motor working, and slipped quietly up and back behind Long Point against a fading wind.  The big but untrustworthy old battery I had brought along as backup surprised me: it drove our half-ton on at a steady two knots for about an hour with no sign of exhaustion.  A call to Bea assured her we were well into shelter.  Battery still going strong, I decided to make for the corner close beside the dike so we would have easy access to town.  In the darkness I had to do this by judging the relative distance to Wood End and Long Point lights.  When I judged we were close, I headed shoreward until the centerboard touched, figuring we would have no problems being grounded so near low tide.   By ten o'clock we were celebrating being alive with left-over pizza and warm lemonade.  We slept well.

Around Cape Cod: Day 3

I only fully understood the cautions on the chart when I looked out the next morning near low tide.  A large reef emerged a little seaward of our route the day before.  Seaward of our anchorage, breaking waves marked a long bar.  With the wind behind us and centerboard up, we might make it after the tide rose a bit, but I was not fully confident, especially with the breakers complicating things.  Fortunately, Chatham has a respectable fishing fleet, and as I prepared breakfast boat after boat emerged from the harbor ahead, followed a line of little buoys through a break in the bar, and turned up the coast.  After a quick breakfast, we followed.

Morning surf on the outer bar--just where we're headed.

Chatham from the water.

As we made the final turn out of the harbor, I discovered more truth to the chart's warnings.  One of the little channel markers seemed to move toward us sideways--a stiff current had us--and before I knew it we had run down the marker.  In the process, the rudder snagged its anchor line and brought the boat, still under full sail, to a near stop.  I fought the rudder uphaul for a moment before realizing it had somehow caught between blade and stock, and then grabbed half of the broken main sprit to lever it free.  All at once we were moving again, and I hoped I hadn't dragged the buoy out of position.

The new Nauset inlet; Henry Beston's "Outermost House" was nearby.

Seeing the new inlet into Eastham, I put the tiller over and we made a brief pilgrimage to the stretch of beach that once hosted Henry Beston's "Foc's'l," where he lived for a year in about 1928, and eventuated in his famous and beloved book, Outermost House.  (That very book lay upon my pillow in the cabin for night-time reading.)  The house itself survived him, becoming a personality of its own, until it broke up and went into the sea during the blizzard of '78.  (I can't recall whether or not that same storm formed the new inlet.)

The old Nauset Coast Guard station. Her "surfmen" used to walk the beach every night looking for ships in trouble.

At this point, we were sailing under only one sail: the mizzen moved into the center step.  The main was out of commission with no sprit.  The wind was light, but more was forecast anyway, and I decided that, with a long day ahead and no shelter anywhere, discretion was the better part.  But as the day wore on, the ten to fifteen knots never materialized, but instead the wind turned foul, and the little mizzen showed little inclination to point to windward in such light winds.  To make matters worse, for once the current went against us, and we began losing ground.  After an hour or so, we had lost a hard-won mile, and I got increasingly discouraged.

Nauset light.

My discouragement was forgotten for awhile by an unexpected sight: whales.  They were small enough that I first wondered if I'd spotted dolphins, but it became clear that--if small for great whales--they were far too large for dolphins.  They were not covering ground, but appeared to wander aimlessly, probably following their food.  Often they were seen silent, at a distance, but more than once they startled us by the "whoosh" of their breath less than a hundred feet away.  They appeared to take no notice of us at all, and I can't say I'm sorry: had one decided to scratch his back on our keel, the results could have been serious.  In truth, that thought only came to me much later; at the time, all I felt was delight at being so favored.  I spun in place for long minutes with my camera trying to get some video and burning up precious battery time.  Later, we found that these whales were not at all shy of the near-shore waters: even when we were close in, they came between us and the beach.

Minke whale upper-right of center.  Their rising--even the sound of their breathing--became familiar.

Storm-petrels, minke whale.

Finally we were almost adrift, and it was time to ignore the tiller in favor of something with more promise: a repaired sprit.  I had taken a mast crutch along on this journey, vaguely thinking that taking the mainmast down at anchor in any stiff wind might help her ride better.  Now the five feet of pressure-treated 2X2 would be put to more necessary use.  Laying the pieces out and applying four bands of duct tape, we had soon splinted the broken sprit back together.  In the midst of this operation, we did not even look up at hearing a whale breathe.  The resulting contraption was ungainly but effective, and was finished just in time to take advantage of a slight breeze.  Mizzen back into its original step, we proceeded under all plain sail.  Now, at 5pm, we were finally moving forward--at 0.4 knots "velocity made good."  Only a half hour later did the wind pick up to move us at three knots and more.  We would keep this wind for the rest of the night.

North of the Nauset the Highlands begin.  These bluffs show layering of sands.

With the day waning and much more than half the day's sail still ahead, it was clear we would not see the top of the cape at all for darkness.  I made the most of the light remaining, taking photos of Nauset Light, and of the bluffs as we proceeded into the Highlands.  But after about five pm much of the shore was in shadow, and finally even twilight gave way to night, with many miles still to go.

Bluffs of the Highlands.

Trevor got his first taste of night sailing that night.  As a rule, his habit had been to make up the beds as full night came on, then climb sleepily into his own, read for a bit, then go to sleep, leaving me to sail in solitude.  That was fine with me.  But this night he stayed up, took the tiller, and steered until he could not see the gps.  Before he turned in, we saw the tiniest sliver of new moon I'd ever seen.  It was worth staying up for.  I called Bea so she'd know where we were, and that I'd leave a message on the phone when we anchored.  I also shared the new moon with her.

 As the hours wore on, our speed went from four nautical miles each hour, to three-and-a-half, then three.  Race Point looked less dangerous as I got sleepier, and I "cut" a few gps "corners" in the interest of shaving off a mile or two.  It was a quiet night, and we rounded Race Point by coincidence near slack current--a lucky break.  As I approached the last few turns into the anchorage, the gps died.  I was a bit surprised it hadn't done so earlier, since a small crack in its display renders it less than weather-proof (and we'd seen a lot of weather), but I was happy it held out so long.  I had only to negotiate my way around Wood End by means of a red ten-second flashing light, then Long Point by means of a green four-second one.  Finally, at 3:30am, I dropped anchor in the lee of Long Point, left a message on the home answering machine, and went to sleep.