Michals-Brown Adventures: Late August on Bumpkin Island

Disappointed of my Big Trip plans by summer calendar squeeze, I decided instead that it was time for the Fourth Annual Boston Harbor Islands Trip with Stephen. My indecision on where to camp this year was short-circuited by the limited choices available on such short notice: we would stay our two nights on Bumpkin Island. Bumpkin I had hitherto avoided because it was nearly connected to the mainland at low tide--scarcely an island at all, I thought.

To change up the experience a bit, I decided we would take Bebe, our nimble eleven-foot lug-rigged pram. This was a boat I used seldom, and I had recently spruced it up with a reinforced mast and a layer of fiberglass to protect the interior. Bebe would also be a good boat for Stephen to learn on. The island was only a 2 1/4 miles from the ramp, after all, and in protected waters. Because the boat only weights 120lb and has its own wheels, I could ignore the ramp and roll it straight down the beach. The real challenge would be trimming our camping gear to a pile the little boat could accommodate. Stephen likes the bigger cabin boat, and was not too sure about Bebe.

At Hingham beach nearly an hour's drive from home, I discovered I'd forgotten the mast. If that seems unbelievable, it is probably because I usually handle mast, sail, boom and yard in a single bundle; but the mast had been separated from it so I could work on it earlier in the summer. Loading the bundle on the roof, I was too preoccupied to notice it was there was one stick missing--even if it was the biggest one. Unwilling to reload everything back on the car and trailer, I asked Stephen to watch the boat while I went back for the mast.

Two hours later I was back with mast and a few other forgotten items. Stephen was not happy: he had gotten aquainted with not one but two police officers, and several beach-goers concerned he was alone so long. One mother returned to the beach with a snack for him, bless her.

After smoothing a few feathers we completed our cargo, rigged, and sailed off the beach in light to moderate wind a good two hours later than I had planned. On the one hand the tide had been rising, so we were able to go straight out and ignore the tortuous channel. On the other hand, there was less than two hours of daylight. Though I have sailed this boat at night, I had not brought the nav lights, had not been to Bumpkin before, did not have the chart, and had not set any waypoints into the gps. (Just writing that last sentence fills me with chagrin.) But I knew the island was almost due north of our launch point, close by, and in sight.

However I had not banked on the lateness of the day, and had especially not banked on the fog bank. (Sorry--couldn't resist.) Yes, fog closed in within a half-hour of leaving the beach, reducing visibility to perhaps fifty yards. Only the small waves showed that we were not on the open ocean. Only the wind and gps enabled us to steer any kind of course.

Hearing an approaching motor invisible in the fog, I suddenly wished I had my trusty air horn or spot light off the big boat. Stephen scrambled for the camping lantern, while I fumbled for my whistle. A runabout full of people throttled down only a dozen yards away, and hailed us to know if we were alright. We thanked them for their concern, and sailed on.

For awhile I sailed confidently, expecting to hit the island pretty much dead-on by-and-by. But then doubt crept in. Was Bumpkin really due north? Suppose we overshot and darkness came on? There would be little chance of landing in any predictable place in dark AND fog. my little gps had only the crudest of maps, not even showing a clearly recognizable coastline. And the light was failing. Mind you, we were still in the confines of Hingham Bay, so this was less a safety issue than a possible spoiled trip.

After staring at the child-like gps drawing of the coastline a little longer, I decided to head west a little. After a bit, we headed north again. Suddenly, less than a hundred yards away, land loomed. A moment later a man appeared, tending a beach fire in the twilight. I hailed him: "Is this Bumpkin Island?" "Yes," he called back. Flood of relief.

In a few minute more we had raised the dock, beached on the rocks, and went looking for the ranger. It was almost 8pm, but her little house was right by the dock and she was relaxing at her outdoor table.

There followed a rough hour or two as we unloaded the boat, carried everything up a steep hill and along unfamiliar trails in the disorienting fog, and strove to get the tents up and everything under cover as rain threatened. Finding no beach worthy of the name, I gave up hopes of keeping the boat ashore and anchored it a few yards off the rocky shore in a few feet of water. (We had luckily towed the little plastic kayak, mainly because I knew Stephen would like to go paddling at some point. Now it became our access to the anchored boat.) After a little soup, we dropped into bed exhausted.

Stephen always prefers to sleep in his own tent, and so we always carry two. But in the foggy night it appeared we had lost one of the flies that make the tents rain-proof. So we slept in the remaining tent for the duration, which I rather enjoyed.

We had a lazy morning, and it was late when we went down to the dock to check the boat and the ferry schedule. The boat bumping gently on rocks on a falling tide told of the anchor dragging. After towing the boat out to re-anchoring in deeper water, I joined Stephen is exploring the shoreline--he on foot, I in the kayak. Then we returned in time to catch the ferry.

The ferry carried us to Peddocks Island (site of a miserable stay two summers ago), then mainland Hull, and finally to Georges Island, our traditional day trip. We spend several hours exploring Fort George in the fitful drizzle, walking the parade ground, visiting the prisoners' and officers' quarters, exploring the bakery, and peering out the gun loops of this historic fort cum prison cum fort. Built during a defense build-up that followed the War of 1812, the exhibits most evoked its time as a Civil War POW camp, though it was active in defending Boston Harbor right up through World War I.

We caught the return ferry back to Bumpkin in mid-afternoon, lazed around camp awhile, then walked to the western end of the island to watch the sunset and see the lights of Boston Harbor.

After a fitful night's sleep, I rose shortly before dawn to watch the sun rise, and then to go plant collecting in an effort to compile a flora for the island. This day would be the first sunny day since we left Hingham Harbor. After breakfast we began to break camp. In packing the tents, I discovered the missing tent fly under the tent we had slept in. Joy! we still had two good tents. With everything packed up and stacked by the side of the path, we had a nice lunch at a picnic table with a view of downtown Boston.

I had a clever idea for loading the boat: rather than pulling it up on the rocks and wading everything to the boat, I got the ranger's permission to tie up to the dock. Then we wheeled everything right to the dock for a stress-free departure. Except that the floating dock, sized for the ferry, was about four feet above the water. So as I hovered around the boat in the kayak (maybe not the smartest move), Stephen lay on his stomach and managed to pass items to me without (a) dropping them in the drink, or (b) oversetting me in the kayak. It took a looong time and climaxed in Stephen's descending into the boat from that height, but we finally raised sail and set off in a nice breeze.

We creamed along at nearly five knots, following the channel past the Hingham yacht club, made the first dog-leg, missed the second, but managed to get a across the shoals safely, and finally hit the beach in the early afternoon. We were tired and a bit short-tempered as we slogged through the sand with load after load of gear, but were home again well before dark, a good trip ended.

Not a lot of room in an eleven-foot boat.

Cloudscape.

Sun lowering over Hingham Harbor.

What duck?

Bebe at anchor, Speedbump on beach.

Will tide go any lower? Bebe's delicate bottom wants to know!

View from hilltop: Hingham Harbor in distance.

The east end of the island is covered with birds. (I thought cormorants, but too stocky for that.) Waves breaking on bar connecting island to nearby Spinnaker Island--a gated community.

Exploring the shoreline.

Birds scared off; Spinnaker Island's wall-to-wall condos.

In Hull, I admired Halcyon, which seemed ready to put to sea.

Fort Warren; old gun emplacements to left, newer watch tower at right.

Fort Warren is pretty big.

Our campsite.

On a dawn stroll, I scared up a flock of turkeys. The young emerged one at a time from the marsh grass to join their impatient elders as I approached.