It’s a warm, late Summer’s day. Our 32 foot power cruiser Ginger Lee is in fine spirits this morning, eagerly cutting through the one foot chop with barely a wiggle as she transports us to one of our favorite destinations. Her two diesel engines, whom we have named Castor and Pollux, thrum contentedly in unison beneath our feet. They seem to be happiest running at a steady 1400 RPM, pushing us along at six to nine MPH, depending on the current.
We round rocky Angelica Point, take the stern of a large sailboat, and behold in awe the forest of masts that is Mattapoisett Harbor, wide open to Buzzards Bay with no obstructions; it is a sailboaters heaven.
I hail the launch service on channel 68. “We have plenty of moorings today.Take any vacant orange ball and call us when you get settled,” is their welcome answer. We choose one near the boatyard because it’s not in the way of the many vessels coming and going under sail, but also has great people watching potential, which is the real reason why we have two pairs of decent Nikon binoculars.

Mattapoisett Boatyard.

I love hooking up to moorings. It is free from the worries of anchoring, cheaper than a slip, and you can’t beat the privacy. But wait, there’s more! As an extra added bonus, your view changes with the wind.

I’m relaxing on the aft-deck, cold beer in hand. Our friendly dinghy Salty II gently rolls on the end of his long painter, then slowly nears closer and closer. Bump, bump, bump. His fine bow meets the swim platform. My guess is he’s lonely, or bored. We decide to take him out for a spin and have dinner at the Mattapoisett Inn. Last time we ate there, it was crowded and a bit formal, so I call to make a reservation and discover that it’s now called more plainly “THE INN” and has a more relaxed atmosphere. This is good because all I have on board is shorts and tee shirts: I can’t even find a pair of socks.

Town Wharf

Salty finds his way to the dinghy dock, and like most dinghy docks these days, it’s an ocean of rubber. Fifteen years ago, when I had a mooring in Wells Harbor, Maine, I had the only inflatable dinghy. Gradually, over the years, inflatables got so popular that a hard dinghy like Salty is unusual.

An ocean of rubber.

There’s not a heck of lot happening on the waterfront. Just a Harbormasters hut and a shop or two. We wander into one and poke around a bit but I’m way too distracted. “I’m starving. Let’s go eat!” 

Right behind the Town Wharf is “The Inn.” We have delicious homemade chips and dip for an appetizer. I order meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, she the lobster roll. Everything arrives in a flash and the waitress is wicked friendly too. The food is great! I’m definitely comin’ back.

We take the long way back to Ginger Lee, slowly motoring with Salty through the large mooring field. We comment on every boat we pass, especially their names. If there is no name, we jokingly refer to it as, “a sad little unloved boat.”  Why wouldn’t a person name his boat? I just don’t get it. Sometimes my wife and I will assign a boat a name, usually a descriptive one: Hot Rod Sea Ray (loud exhaust), or Aircraft Carrier (large deck popular with the seagulls), or Four Gullsweep Formula (self-explanatory).
Once, we were hanging out on our own mooring. A couple from a nearby mooring dinghied over to introduce themselves. I asked him the name of his boat and he said it didn’t have one. Imagine how surprised he was to discover that I had taken the liberty of naming his boat for him! I don’t recall how I came up with Affinity, but we’ve been calling it that for years.

Swifts Neck mooring mates. (L-R) Penny Out, Affinity?, Ginger Lee.

Ned Point Light.

The choppy afternoon waters have matured into a calming, early evening ripple. Thankfully, our view now includes Ned Point Light. From our comfy deck chairs we take it all in and reflect on the days event’s. I make a silent wish on the first star that blinks into my consciousness and it comes true immediately. I am right where I want to be.

“I can’t get the pump-out thingie to work an’ we’re outta block ice,” the dock attendant said, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He has a sorry look on his young face.
“I thought you called ahead,” the XO said, looking at me.
“Yeah. I did. They said they had fuel, a pump-out facility, and block ice. One stop shopping.” Unfortunately I bought eighty gallons of diesel before I find out about the broken pump-out. Ah well. I tip the dock boy and we shove off. We get the block ice next door at Crosby’s, and by radio, I make arrangements to meet the Harbormaster’s pump-out boat at an unused mooring in the North Bay channel. She wasn’t surprised to hear about our problems at the fuel dock. “The just don’t like to pump out boats,” is all she said about the matter.
So with our fuel tanks full, holding tanks empty, and many blocks of ice in the chests, we say good-bye to sweet Osterville and head three nautical miles southwest around Succonnesset Point, then due west another three.

Good bye Osterville.

The last time I was in Waqouit Bay a couple of years ago, I had proclaimed it “the best place on earth,” or something like that. Set a bar that high and you’re bound to be disappointed right? Not today. It’s as beautiful as I remember it. More lovely than ever. An old clammer tosses us a friendly wave as we motor slowly through the breakwater and into a world of blue skies, lush green foliage, and warm gentle breezes.It must be a weekday; I don’t see the usual water-skiers and tubers disturbing the glass-like waters. Only Osprey and various wading birds greet us. The depth sounder reads five feet as we follow the private aids northward and tuck Ginger Lee behind a sand spit.There are no amenities here, no restaurants, no slips for rent, no fuel dock. We had to bike several miles to find Waquoit village, which consisted of a Cumberland Farms, post office, pizza shop, and of all things, a shoe store.

Solitude.

We are completely alone. So alone that we have no reservations about sunbathing completely naked on the fore-deck. No doubt the coming weekend will bring more boaters here. But today, the solitude washes over us in pleasant waves. We float on our deserted island; the sun warms us; the birds entertain us; we want for nothing except our own company. Right now, at this very moment, this is truly the best place on earth.

     It’s a beautiful morning in Osterville. The sun, not quite free of the horizon, is washing this cloudless North Bay scene in a pleasing muted glow. A hunting osprey’s call-cheeop cheeop cheeop-pierces the predawn quiet; he has been busy feeding his young, rapidly growing family. Working fisherman are busy as well, boating to and fro in their small skiffs; all day long they will stand thigh deep in the salty shallows of West Bay, tugging their long-handled shellfish rakes through the soft sand. My shoulders ache just looking at them.  
Our slip at the Nauticus Marina, right next to the bascule bridge, is perfect for boat watching. As usual, we’re “bow in” so that the aft-deck faces the water. Downtown Osterville, less than a mile from the marina, is cute as a button, and has everything a boater could want. Our provisions are low, so we unfold our bikes at the dock and head out to the adorable Fancy’s Market, where we make the rookie mistake of shopping while starving. Inside the market they’re frying up peppers and onions in butter, and baking racks of fresh bread. We’re still salivating as we load the bikes like pack mules with not only enough food and supplies for a week, but all kinds of kooky junk food. Back at the boat, I immediately tear off four inches of crusty baguette, slather it with way too much Land O Lakes, and munch away with such zeal it makes Susan gasp and call me “cave man Rick.”  The next day on a bike ride, we are stopped at the border of Osterville Grand Island. Apparently, the place is so snooty, they have security guards posted on the only road in. If you’re not on the list, you get turned away. For a brief moment, we consider zooming right by the uniformed guard while he’s busy checking a car.
“What’s he gonna do, chase us on foot, shoot us in the back?”
“I don’t see any guns, but maybe they have dogs. Maybe they have alarms and flashing lights like a Stalag in an old war movie.” We both laugh at the thought of it.
“Wait a minute, they wouldn’t have to chase us; the only road in is also the only road out.” The logic is inescapable; we canned the idea and turned around.
“Hey! We could take the dinghy and find a landing spot near a road.”
“Yeah! Storm the beaches!”   We decided to forgo the criminal activities and find a nice pub instead, preferably one with fried seafood, onion rings, and ice-cold local beers. Like moths to a flame, our bikes practically drove themselves to my favorite Osterville eatery.   “Sure beats a night in the ol’ Grey Bar Hotel,” I say between artery-hardening bites. But the best is yet to come; I can’t wait to get back to the boat and light up that big, fat, Ashton cigar the XO gave me for my birthday. That and a snifter of brandy is a perfect way to celebrate my sixty-second year on the planet.

Your humble blogger, beach-combing in Osterville.

It’s the kind of morning when the grey of the sky so nearly matches the grey of the ocean that it seems to suck the color out of everything else, including my mood, which is as grey as the monochromatic vista stretched out before us. “I don’t want to leave this awesome place,” I say sadly. The XO astutely points out that I say that about nearly every boating destination. Yeah, okay; she’s right.
“Well, I’ve seen prettier days. And higher tides!” I say as I pilot Ginger Lee due east past Harding Beach Point into Chatham Roads. The tide is so incredibly low that the Coast Guard is issuing a heavy shoaling warning for this very area we are cruising through. Wet sand is showing a mere ten feet on either side of us. It looks like you can walk all the way to Monomoy Point. My eyes scan the depth finder more often than usual, but for now there seems to be enough water under us; one can’t be too carefull in a place where the aids to navigation are as moveable as the channels they mark. I think of it as a suggested pathway and boat accordingly.
We leave the rusty, red and white “SH” buoy to port and find deeper water. “Good-bye beautiful Chatham. I hope we’ll be back someday.”
The seas are not kind to us this morning. Oh we’ve certainly experienced larger waves, but they’re coming straight at us; it will make the ride uncomfortable the whole twenty nautical miles to West Bay, Osterville. To avoid burying our bow into every wave, we tack back and forth, adding even more time to the ordeal. It’s all part of boating: taking the good with the bad. But I don’t feel threatened or unsafe; it’s actually very exciting. I feel alive and living in the moment. “Ha! Take that you wave! I got you that time! Is that all you got?” I stand at the helm, determined to win the battle. Hands grip the wheel firmly, legs spread for optimal balance. Man against the ocean! Jeez I was never so happy to see Wianno beach and the rock jetty that cuts into West Bay, where we have rented a slip at the Nauticus Marina.

The entrance to West Bay.

“We beat the rain,” is the only good thing I can say about that ride. The long and winding channel through West Bay is so calm and welcoming. Like an old friend it speaks to me: “Hello weary boaters. Before you tuck your boat into its slip, enjoy this slow cruise though the most picturesque bay in all of Cape Cod.”
I hail the Osterville Bridge; it opens; we cruise though and immediately see the familiar face of Dockmaster Ken waiting on the dock. He expertly guides us into our slip, helps with our lines, and listens to our excited tales of the harrowing passage. We, in turn, listen to his tales of a similar trip years ago in his old Boston Whaler. All the while we are smiling and laughing, so happy to be here, safe and sound, in wonderful Osterville, Massachusetts.

Ginger Lee in Osterville.

It’s early morning in Chatham. Sunshine and coffee warm my soul and tummy. Can a harbor be any more beautiful? I sit alone at the table watching the seals frolic all around our boat, my camera at the ready, hoping to get a decent picture of them. But those rascals are much too quick, so darn it, no photo. I suppose I too would be quick, if I was swimming in a harbor known for the appearance of Great White Sharks.
There’s a research vessel floating next to us. Two young scientists are busy with a large fake seal.
“What ‘cha doin’?” I ask, sticking my head out the salon window.
“We’re gonna study sharks. There’s a camera in here,” he points to the dummy’s head.

Shark bait?

After breakfast we hop into the dinghy and head off to explore the Oyster Pond River, which wraps itself around Stage Harbor to the north, and ends in a large pond near downtown Chatham. My chart shows this area to be so shallow that I didn’t expect to see any boats at all, but we soon discover there are thousands of them. Boats of all sizes line both shores on private residential docks, and the moorings, neatly arranged in two central rows, forming three separate fairways. There’s even a marina with a fuel dock.

The Oyster Pond River.

Because of its name, you would think there would be oyster shops all over this place, but nope, no joy yet for my oyster lovin’ wife. Finally, as we near the end, we spot a cottage with a big sign: OYSTERS! We dock, clamber out, but find no one around. We walk around back. Nothing. Nobody. Locked doors and a dirt road greet us. After a while, an old pick-up truck drives slowly by, stops, backs up, stops again, and a tall salty looking guy climbs out.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“We’re looking to buy some oysters.”
“How many?”
“A dozen should do it.”
“Twelve dozen or twelve bags?”
“Twelve oysters,” I say, becoming a mite confused.
The dude let out a formidable guffaw, and informs us that this is a wholesale operation, and there are actually no oysters for sale in this building. Feeling a bit stupid, I apologize, red-faced.
“Sorry to bother you, we got sucked in by your sign, the one in front that says OYSTERS in large letters,” I say, trying not to let too much sarcasm color my tone. I don’t think he caught on, but jeez, we can’t be the only boaters stopping here thinking this is an oyster shop.
“Well hang on. I think one of my guys is working the beds down river, maybe he can sell ya a dozen. Lemme give him a call,” he says and pulls out his cell phone. After a short conversation, he smiles and lays the good news on us: “About a half mile down on the left, you’ll see the floating shack. He’s waiting for you.” We thank him and leave, taking one last look at the questionable sign.

There are no oysters for sale here!?

“I don’t see anything in that sign that even suggests wholesale only. This place totally looks like an oyster shop,” I say shaking my head. “Ah well. What can ya do? Let’s get those oysters.”

Floating oyster shack.

We find the floating shack and the friendly kid working it. “A dozen right? Buck apiece,” he says with a happy smile. “Just pulled ’em out!” He hands the XO a red net bag heavy with fresh Chatham oysters. We take a minute or two to talk to him.

Happy oyster fisherman.

He knew a great deal about oysters and answered all our questions with so much zeal that it made us both smile.
“You love your job, huh?” Susan asks.
“Oh yeah. It’s great. Nothin’ like it,” he answers with gleaming eyes and disarming smile.
There’s something uplifting about a young man happily working a job he loves.
With our faith in mankind renewed, and the noon summer sun blazing high overhead, we head back to Ginger Lee. Those fresh oysters are calling my wife’s name, and I have a date with an ice-cold beer. Maybe two!

The Chatham oyster feast begins.

“There’s no E,” I said. “I see D, F,  and G all in a line, but not E.”
“Hold on please; the Harbormaster just walked in; I’ll ask him,” said the young woman over the phone.
We are circling through an unfamiliar mooring field in Stage Harbor, Chatham, Massachusetts. Thank goodness Ginger Lee is nimble and well-behaved in close quarters.
“It’s near the shore,” the young womans voice came back.
“We just can’t find it,” I answer, and it’s the truth. The XO and I have done this many times: she stands on the bow with a boat-hook; I am at the helm; we communicate through our headsets; she almost always finds her mark. But sometimes a mooring float will sink, or disappear; it does happen.
The phone comes to life again: “Take the D instead. Sorry about the confusion.”
“That’s ok, no problem,” I say and bang a youie. The XO snags D’s pennant, drops it over the bitt and we are here! I meet her on the deck for hugs and a look at our new surroundings; It’s been a long ride from Martha’s Vineyard.

Mooring D and Ginger Lee.

It is a warm summer day. Not the raging heat like last year; it’s just darn nice out. After cocktails we load the bikes into the dinghy and head off to the dock, anxious to stretch our legs on solid ground.

The Harbormasters hut with an excellent outside shower, (lower left.)

Stage Harbor as viewed from the Harbormasters balcony.

The first order of business is to check in with the Harbormaster.
“How long can we stay on that mooring?” I ask.
“As long as you want; it’s thirty bucks a night,” was the happy reply.
“Well we’re certainly in no hurry to leave. Which way to downtown?”
“Take a right out of the parking lot. There’s a map over there,” she points to a small, grey, pamphlet stand. Susan plucks one out; the XO loves a good map.

Our bikes await.

Busy downtown Chatham.

We found the ice cream shop…

and the lighthouse that can be seen from both east and west shores.

Back at the mooring, we watch a couple of black seals as they chase down their dinner.
“If there’s seals, there’s sharks,” the XO reminds me, as she prepares our own dinner.
“We’re gonna need a bigger boat!” Darn it! No sharks today. Tomorrow, we plan to take a dinghy ride through the beautiful Oyster River. My wife has her heart set on sampling some local oysters; hopefully, we’ll find some there. As for me, I am so happy to be here, blissfully floating, enjoying the pleasure of her company, the warm summer breeze, and these calm Cape Cod waters.

Stage Harbor sunset.

The crowd roared. An old Harmony guitar hung on my back by a faded  black leather strap. I felt its reassuring weight on my shoulder, like a close friend had placed his hand there. Triumphantly, I raised both arms high. The crowd roared again in approval. Women screamed and swooned, a gaggle of them rushed the stage only to be rebuffed by three burly security guards, who carried out their duty without reservation. To my left, lawyers in three-piece suits holding fat record company contracts, waited patiently just off stage. A chant started, softly at first, then increasing in intensity until it was deafening, even to my leathered old ears. WE WANT RICK, WE WANT RICK, WE WANT RICK!
Suddenly, a strange noise enters my consciousness and I bolt upright in bed. “What was that?” It took a few seconds to take stock of my surroundings. “Okay. I’m on the boat. In my cozy sleeping berth.” My wife, warm beside me, breathes slowly, evenly, obviously sound asleep. It’s pitch black, coolish, and absolutely still. “Please, if there is a God, let me go back to that dream,” I prayed. All at once an odd noise breaks the silence: clomp clomp clomp. “What the…” I shivered with an eerie chill and froze.
Again: clomp clomp followed by a scraping sound. Jeez! It sounds like its right overhead on the deck. I jump out of bed, fly up the companionway stairs, and gaze gooey eyed out the windshield which is fogged from the cool nighttime air. High above the fly bridge, the anchor light floods the deck with a yellowish glow; it was like looking though lemon Jello.
Clomp, clomp clomp. “There it is again,” I thought.  Did I just see something? A shadow? I quickly reach up and hit the wiper switch. A small electric motor whirred and swept the blade across the glass. “No good. The fog is on the inside.” I put on my Sperrys and flick off the anchor light. From the aft-deck, I step up onto the starboard gunwale and make my way forward, but find nothing out of the ordinary, only the most beautiful night of the whole year! Transfixed I stand, letting the night air surround me, completely yielding my whole consciousness to a nightscape whose splendor is beyond description. “So many stars,” I say aloud, their brilliance astounds me so.  A sliver of a moon hangs low over the Weweantic River, seemingly resting on the tops of silhouetted pines on Nobska Point. The whole scene is perfectly reflected in the mirror still waters like a Mother Natures two-for-one deal. But wait! There’s more! As if one was not breathtaking enough. Right now, I wouldn’t trade my life for anything in this world.
We are anchored in the lee of Long Beach Point on the western edge of Indian Neck in Wareham. Accessible mostly by boat, its shell covered beach is popular with the locals, who gather here nearly every warm day for picnics, cookouts, sunbathing, or to just hang out in one of the most scenic and lovely places in Buzzards Bay. It all but disappears every high tide.
I gave the rode a tug to check our set; the anchor held firmly. “Good holding ground here,” I muttered. That’s when I heard it: a tone, soft like a womans voice, about as long as a person can hold a note in one breath. Mid scale range, like D. Beautiful, angelic. Then another, higher in pitch by a half step, like D sharp. The same duration but ending with a gentle wavering tremolo. It seems to be coming from just beyond Long Beach which is now awash from high tide. I strain my eyes and see nothing but stars and the red flashers atop the wind turbines in Falmouth.
Later that morning, over breakfast, I tell my wife about the strange occurrences in the wee hours.

A misty morning on Long Beach.

“What do think it was?” she asks as she plunks an ice-cube into her black coffee.
“It’s the ghost of Annabelle Barnes. What else could it be?” I answer immediately
“There are no ghosts. It’s the creaking of the anchor roller as the boat gets moved around from the current. The same sound we always hear while anchoring.”
“And the singing?” I ask.
“Just one of the kookie hippies we always see here,” she countered.
“BORING,” I say in a sing-song beat.
The XO looks at me over the top of her coffee cup, trying not to encourage me, but I continue anyway.
“Annabelle Barnes was the daughter of a wealthy sea captain who made his fortune delivering ships built in Kingston and Plymouth. She had fallen in love with a young shipwright from Marion, but Captain Barnes thought the young man wasn’t good enough for Annabelle and forbid her to see him. When she discovered her father was to deliver a sloop to Sippican Harbor, the largest port in Marion, she stowed away in the vessels hold. That night, the moon was a sliver, and the way it shone through the pine trees made Captain Barnes mistake it for the Bird Island Light, which marks the entrance to Sippican. He ran the sloop onto the rocks off Indian Neck, completely destroying it. He and his crew were able to wade the half a mile to shore, but not knowing his daughter was aboard, left her to drown. Every year, in late September, when the sliver moon dips just below the horizon, she calls out to her lover from the rock outcropping now known as Little Bird Island, so named for that terrible tragedy.”
Susan, half-smile on her face, raises her eyebrows over the top of her glasses in that skeptical way, and says: “There is no ghost. You just made that up. Didn’t you?”
I put down my coffee cup, gave her one of my patented I’m-hurt-that-you’d-even-think-so looks, and said: “Totally. It’d be a shame to let a silly thing like reality get in the way of a good story.”
It’s Autumn in New England. Weather-wise, this weekend is the best so far this year. The temperature is in the low eighties with just enough humidity to crowd the beaches. Perfect boating weather too.

Susan sailing Windsey off Long Beach

Stranded on Long Beach. These poor dudes will be there till after dark. On the right, that’s me in Salty II, asking if they need anything. “A few feet of water,” was the answer.

A Long Beach party.

After a chilly August, many took their boats out of the water for the season. I’m sure they are regretting it today. The weather gods are giving us a gift, and the XO and I are sucking it all in; this could be the last great boating weekend of 2014. So here we are, floating blissfully, enjoying the sea, the sun, and the warm hospitality of our dear old friend, motor vessel Ginger Lee.

I don’t like leaving Martha’s Vineyard; the place just pleases me. But I’m itching for a change of scenery. So at sunrise, I fire up Ginger Lee’s diesels, the XO slips the pendant off the bitt, and we’re off on another adventure.
It’s a good day on the water. What day isn’t? The sparkling seas are running one to two feet, favoring one. The temperature is in the upper seventies, and visibility is unlimited. Mister Sun is not totally with us yet, but he’s hiding behind such a thin veil of milky white clouds that it’s almost a certainty he will show his glorious face soon enough.
“How long is this ride?” the XO asks from her perch at the helm.
“Maybe our longest. Depends on the current,” I answer.
I remember a trip from Boston Harbor to Provincetown. We crossed Cape Cod Bay on a straight line course with no land in sight, nothing to look at except the occasional bird, and of course, the Pilgrim Monument in Provincetown, dead ahead for the whole six-hour trip. Yup. On a clear day, you can see that sucker from Massachusetts bay, just outside of Boston Harbor.
We’re on a boat that typically cruises at six mph; time is a factor. I’d love to cruise a straight line from East Chop on Martha’s Vineyard, to Chatham Roads, the approaching waterway to Stage Harbor, our destination, but no can do. When crossing Nantucket Sound, there are three areas to avoid. The first two, a pair of bars less than one foot deep, haunt the western edge of the massive Horseshoe Shoal. Fortunately, they’re well-marked and we thread our way between them. It’s a bit freaky watching our depth sounder go from thirty feet to five as we pass through the shallows. The last obstacle, called Bishops and Clerks, are deadly rock outcroppings, marked with a flashing light atop a large, bird infested, cylindrical structure. In keeping with our strict policy to avoid all deadly rocks, we leave them well to starboard and continue east past Kill Pond Bar, the Herring River, and Harwichport.

The light at Bishops and Clerks

A few points off our starboard bow, Monomoy Island presents itself through the shimmering mist. Our radio comes alive with chattering fishermen, piloting their vessels through its many shoals. Dead ahead there is a flashing light plainly visible despite the blinding sun. I time the flashes, consult the chart, and discover it’s a lighthouse on Chatham’s eastern shore, or the other side of the land mass we are nearing. Chatham’s western shore has a lighthouse too, but it’s been decommissioned. I wonder why.

Decommissioned Lighthouse on Harding Beach, Chatham.

Maybe somebody said: “Why do we need a lighthouse on the west side when the lighthouse on the east side is plainly visible all around?” It makes sense to me. But wouldn’t it confuse an unsuspecting mariner?  Lighthouses typically mark the edges of the land. Imagine it’s a dark and somewhat foggy night, our unsuspecting mariner sees the oscillating light, heads along side it, keeping it prudently to port. Suddenly, WHAM! He’s hard aground. Hey, I know it’s a stretch, but there are plenty of unsuspecting mariners out there. This is, after all, Massachusetts, where no licence is required to own and operate a boat. That’s right! Any palooka (or palookette) over the age of 12 can be out here alone, on the water, driving a motorboat. See that 42 foot Cigarette with the twin 600 horsepower V-8’s? The one that’s screaming right at you doing 75 mph. It could be legally driven by a dude who bought the thing before his first shave!

Stage Harbor buoy.

Finally, after five plus hours, the buoy marking the entrance to Stage Harbor greets us in all its red, white, and rusty glory. We on the “elbow” of Cape Cod, as far east as we have ever been in our boat. It’s wicked cool! I can’t wait to explore Chatham.

Courtesy of the Kingston Public Library Local History Room.

When the town of Kingston bought a new boat for the harbormaster, they had a contest to name it. My wife submitted the name INDEPENDENCE after the boat depicted on the town seal.
Well I’ll be darned. She won! The prize was a tour of picturesque Kingston Bay (and surrounding waters) in this gorgeous, spankin’ new vessel: a 23 foot Parker. It was a perfect late August afternoon that featured warm sunshine, large fluffy white clouds, and practically no humidity to speak of.

The Jeffrey S. Bonds Pier.

The newly dedicated Jeffrey S. Bond Memorial Pier was looking downright spiffy. Our harbormaster host greeted us warmly and we hopped aboard the sturdy new boat.     “Wow! Still has that new boat smell,” I commented after sticking my head into the cabin. Harbormaster Denis Carvalho started up the big 250 horsepower Evinrude E-TEC engine.
“I can barely hear it,” I said.
“Two stroke,” Denis said proudly.
“Nice. I love the power of a two-stroke.”
“Wicked hole shot, so much better than the four strokes.”
“Way lighter too,” I commented. It’s funny, in California this motor would be illegal, as are all two stoke engines, but Evinrude did such a good job with this E-TEC series, it won awards for its low emission levels. Personally, I’m glad they bounced back from the brink of extinction after the FICHT fuel injection debacle. The century old company went bankrupt in the year 2000, probably from honoring the warranties of many bad FICHT equipped engines. They were rescued by the huge Canadian conglomerate Bombardier. Evinrude has been going strong ever since.

Harbormaster Denis Carvalho at the helm.

We cruised out of the Jones River and zoomed through Kingston Bay into Plymouth Bay. Denis was very knowledgable about the aquaculture that seems to be springing up everywhere, a testament to the excellent quality of the water.

Shellfish Constable Francis Ferioli and Archivist Susan Aprill.

Town Clerk Paul Gallagher and the Duxbury Pier Light (Bug Light)

The tide was high so we were able to cruise a mile or two up the historic Jones River. At low tide, almost all the water drains out, leaving the boats resting in the mud. Unlike the mooring fields in Wareham, divers are not needed to inspect the moorings here.

The Town Landing at the mouth of the Jones River.

I can’t remember the last time I was driven around on someone elses boat. At first I didn’t know what to do with myself. I figured it out after a while and found a handy grab-rail on the starboard side, the high gunwale made a nice seat too. All in all, it was an enjoyable day on the water. I got a good feeling about motor vessel INDEPENDENCE. Long may she serve the beautiful seaside community of Kingston, Massachusetts.

Your humble blogger aboard Independence.

Saturn Sun.

The otherworldly sunrise over Tarpaulin Cove speaks to me. Hey Saturn Sun, message received. It’s time to leave this beautiful place. But to where? I think I’ll mull it over with a cup of coffee. There is, after all, plenty of time; the XO still sleeps. For at least another hour it’s just me and my buddies: the rising sun, the gentle breeze, and Folgers percolator blend. It’s another gorgeous July morning: not too hot, not too humid, just about right.
I love the still morning waters. peaceful. Spiritual. Inspirational. Jeez I feel like writing a song or something!
Okay, so where to next? If I had an internet connection, I’d consult Active Captain, the internet cruising guide, but there’s no wifi here on remote Naushon Island, and by choice, I am not quite ready to enter into the modern world of hot spots, smart phones and such. So I spread my charts on the table, and open my cruising guides, non cyber style.
Susan emerges from the galley holding her extra-large coffee mug, kisses the top of my head.
“Where we going?” she asks, eyeing the nav charts open on the table.
“I think it’s time we try our new folding bikes,” I announce and stab my index finger on Martha’s Vineyard. She nods approvingly. Who the heck doesn’t like Martha’s Vineyard? Let me re-phrase that. Who the heck on this boat doesn’t like Martha’s Vineyard?

Sunny side up.

After breakfast we haul anchor and head across the Vineyard Sound. I figure by the time we reach West Chop, I’ll have a destination port.
First, I call Edgartown Harbor, and darn it, all their moorings are reserved. I don’t like anchoring outside that harbor; it’s too exposed. Susan dislikes Oak bluffs; it’s way too loud.
“Let’s go to Vineyard Haven,” I suggest. “If their mooring field is full, we can always drop a hook in the Lagoon pond, or outside the breakwater.”  Everything is good. Why wouldn’t it be? We’re on vacation! Our conversation is lively as we cruise on, anticipating the change of scenery.

Ferry outside of Vineyard Haven.

With our destination in sight, I hail the Harbormaster on channel 9. “I got space. C’mon in,” he says. “At the other end of the breakwater, near the beach, take the mooring that looks like a white spar. Can’t miss it.”

Breakwater.

After hooking Ginger Lee up and settling in, we load our new folding bikes into our dinghy and head out to the public dock near the Harbormasters office.

The new folding bikes.

Bikes unfolded.

The bikes are great! Why didn’t we do this years ago?  We rode the whole Martha’s Vineyard bike path. About 15 miles!

Riding through Oak Bluffs.

Ice cream along the way.