Day One
Penobscot Bay is a chunk bitten out of the Maine coast, a coastal sea dotted with large and small islands. It's more protected than ocean, but still a large body of water with all the dangers that go with it.

From Rockland on the western shore, the central islands are -- on all but the clearest days -- little more than a dark stripe on the horizon. Vinalhaven and North Haven (the Fox Islands) are the chunks of granite that dominate Penobscot Bay's southern heart. From the Fox Islands, the mainland -- even the Camden Hills -- take on the same appearance -- a dark stripe on the horizon.

The Fox Islands to Stonington is a shorter hop but can be challenging water.

I left Rockland about noon Friday, late to begin a journey of any kind, much less a paddle across these relatively unprotected waters. It had been a gorgeous morning, mixed sun and puffy cumulus, nothing threatening. The forecast was good, scattered showers, moderate wind and waves (2-4 feet, which usually means that the bay will be on the small end of that scale).

But I couldn't leave early, had to pay bills and deal with mail, finish last-minute packing.

Everyone's concerned about my safety on these solo trips. It's not an unreasonable concern but I can't help remembering my feelings walking to the post office that morning. I was more afraid of the traffic passing me than I ever am on the water.

But I took precautions: left my complete itinerary with a friend (by e-mail) and packed lots of extra safety gear. So finally I got it all in the car and drove to the dock, next to the ferry terminal. It's a drive of two blocks but there was no way I'd start this trip exhausting myself by lugging a loaded boat two blocks.

What did the boat weigh? My guess is 100 pounds, but I could be far off. There were times during the trip when I actually lifted it totally loaded and carried it as far as 100 feet. It wasn't easy, but the hard part was getting it balanced properly.

Where was my head that morning? Why take this trip?

This was to have been my summer of freedom and freelancing. But by September, I was feeling I'd squandered it. Fall was coming on early after a hot summer and I greeted it with two minds: that glorious sweet cool autumn air and golden light on the one hand, the descent into long winter on the other.

And freelancing? Well not only was I finding myself too undisciplined to make that work, I was also not using the free time for as much fun as I'd planned. Doing the nine-to-five gig made me treasure free time and use it wisely; not having responsible commitments, I often piddled (not paddled) away the days.

So this trip was in several ways a last gasp: an attempt to sieze was left of good paddling weather, a rebellion against inertia, a photographic self-assignment, an attempt to show myself I could do something amazing.

In the grand scheme of paddling, crossing PenBay is small potatoes. You can really spend less than two hours totally exposed and "out there." There are loads of fishing and pleasure boats around to answer a flare or whistle. It's unlikely there will be trouble and if there is, help is usually nearby.

For me, though, it was a big deal. I'd been paddling a few years but only had my own boat two seasons. My eskimo roll is good and reliable but I still haven't tried it in a loaded boat. I've paddled in heavy seas, feel confident surfing seven-foot waves and overall prefer challenging water to the flat stuff.

It was a big deal because this was solo.

This was a crossing I'd done before, I'd been in much worse wind and waves. I gave myself plenty of time.

All was fine at the start. Getting used to a fully loaded boat always takes some time. Paddle strokes seem to have little effect, the boat doesn't respond the way it does empty. But once it's moving, momentum helps out a bit and the boat keeps moving steadily. The water in Rockland Harbor was glassy, the sky blue with some friendly cumulus reflected on the water. I headed straight out to Rockland Light, at the end of the mile-long breakwater.

Turning left at the lighthouse, I saw the bay stretched out ahead of me. And I saw that the water was changing. Outside the protected harbor, the waves were one to two feet and chaotic. A steady north wind was blowing the tops of them into spray. Looking north, I saw dark sky over the Camden Hills. My bow dove through each wave, sending a fresh shower of cold spray into my face every few seconds. Now keep in mind, this is still no big deal; two footers ain't squat to me.

But somehow, this isn't how I'd envisioned this day starting out.

I got to Ram Island, the rock at the outer edge of Glen Cove, and turned my boat east. But I stopped to think and assess the situation:

I'd been paddling near shore and was still having a time of it. From where I sat, I could see the swells were three feet or better, topped by peaks that the north wind was turning white and trying to push over. And that wind? My guess is 12 knots, definitely more than 10 but probably not 15. Lobster boats were doing some serious rocking and rolling in the middle of the bay and I was reminded once again of the Port Clyde lobsterman who greeted me as I pulled out one day: "You're gonna die out there," he said. And a storm was moving in. Well, storm is too strong a word. Dark clouds hung over Rockport and the Camden Hills a few miles north. I could see, dropping from those clouds, sheets of rain.

Do I really want to do this? Hell yes!

Here's the problem with solo paddling: you're never sure you're listening to the right voice in your head. Now the reasonable person would say, "I'm all alone out here so I'd damn well better do the prudent thing. I'm turning back. I'll do this tomorrow if the weather's good." But the realist doesn't want to undo all that packing and preparing. He doesn't want to send a second e-mail saying, "I chickened out" even though his friends would respect him more for being wise rather than courageous (or foolish). So what did I do? I went -- stupidly -- and lived to tell you not to.

Seriously, it was stupid. Here's what I didn't factor in: I had done this crossing, these waves, a loaded boat, this wind, the rain. But I had never done all of them at once. The crossing took two hours. The first hour was way cool, it really rocked. I got into the rhythm of the waves, learned how to lean so my bow rode over them instead of plowing through. Lobster boats and sailboats passed me, their captains looking at me like I was crazy.

Each crest blotted out my view of Mark Island, each trough was a tiny canyon. And the clouds had turned the sea a dull olive drab, water's least pleasant color. So the first hour or so went fine, nothing I couldn't handle.

The second hour got progressively worse. No, that's wrong. The conditions stayed the same; I got worse. My hands were locked in a deathgrip on the paddle, totally bad form and bound to cause problems. I stoped to rest, reached for my water bottle and realized my right hand was freezing up, losing feeling, in danger of becoming useless. I rested longer than planned, got blown south, spent time stretching and kneading my cramped claws. Then when I started paddling again, I watched my form more carefully. I loosened my grip as each hand pushed forward, made sure that I was paddling with my torso, not just my arms.

But the rest had spooked me: clearly I was tired to the point where my ability to deal with a capsize would be impaired. Being spooked can be good. I got more careful, took more breaks, drank more water, watched my form. And made it to North Haven, where I stopped for a snack and a stretch. The weather was clearing, the wind slowing.

The rest of that day's paddle was tiring but uneventful. The wind and sea calmed as I paddled along North Haven's north shore. The farther I got along the shore, the more the wind and waves calmed. By the time I rounded the north end, the water was glassy again. I followed the shore around to Island 41 (MITA designation) on the east end of the Fox Islands Thorofare, landed and set up camp near the east end.

The experience of landing alone on a wild island for the first time is difficult to describe. It's not Robinson Crusoe; others have been here before. It's an excitement at the coming exploration, a feeling of ownership, proprietorship, stewardship. It's a feeling of wealth beyond belief.

I had Island 41 to myself and camped on her south shore about 20 feet from high water. Across the thorofare, a sailboat was anchored off another island and its occupants had gone ashore and made a campfire. They were the only nearby people.

By the time camp was set and dinner cooked, it was twilight. All the day's clouds and weather had vanished, giving way to a Maxfield Parrish sky. Stars began appearing.

I went into my tent, arranged my sleeping bag and read for a while. When I blew out the candle lantern, there was still lots of light: stars! I lay with my head at the tent door and opened it enough to let me see the sky but keep mosquitos out. It was stunning; the Milky Way a bright splash across the sky, Orion rising.

I live ten miles from here but rarely see the stars like this, brilliant, close, alive.

I thought of my twin nephews, three years old, living in Philadelphia. I want to bring them here someday, to see these stars, smell this air, hear this silence.

I slept well.


Index || Solo || MITA || Gear || Spiritual
Day 1 || Day 2 || Day 3 || Day 4 || Day 5

This web site is by Jim Dugan.