Moonlit Nights

We had a few especially warm, sunny days that just happened to coincide with the holiday weekend, and I was stuck at work. From my window in the gallery, I saw kayaks atop cars and out beyond the harbor, wet blades flashing in the sun as if to call my attention to them. And of course, everyone coming into the gallery remarked on what a nice day it was, just rubbing it in. Beneath it all, you know there aren’t many days like that left before it turns cold and stays cold for the next seven months or so.


But the full moon was approaching. The best nights for a full moon paddle are the evenings before full, when the moon is already in the sky after the sun goes down, so it never really gets dark. I finished work, got my gear together and launched a little before sunset. I paddled out to Steves Island, and paused for a moment as the disappearing sun turned the western islands into silhouettes. I turned on the light suction-cupped to the deck behind me, strapped on my headlamp, and continued on a very familiar route, out around McGlathery Island.


It helps to know the route well. It’s not so hard to recognize the shapes of islands and know where you’re headed, but it’s good to have some idea of where the ledges are, and when you see the lights of an approaching boat, to know that you’re out of the channel, out of its way. I eased into the darkness as I followed the south shore of McGlathery, and began navigating by the sound of waves on the rocks, and maybe even the feel of the water beneath the hull. I waited among the ledges for a lobster boat to pass, listening to its hum turn into a roar. Bright lights lit-up the deck where the sternman hosed everything down. Then it was gone, bound for the lights of Stonington, and with no other boats approaching, I crossed the channel, toward the dim outline of Ram Island.


It was a holiday weekend to be sure. A couple of miles away, the Haystack School glowed as it does on summer nights, and someone had a couple of lights on over on Devil Island. A lone sailboat was anchored near Camp Island. As I passed Russ, I smelled campfire smoke. A pair of campers, marked by their headlamps, moved between the campsite and the water’s edge. Metal pots clanged against rocks.


The next evening, I paddled out past Crotch and Sand Islands and watched the sun go down before pointing west. I paused at each island, wondering, as it grew darker, how dark it would finally feel, but I kept going until I landed on the sand at Sparrow Island. From there on, I found my way by moonlight: listening to the waves crashing on nearby rocks as I approached Scraggy Island, landing on the ledges beneath Mark Island Light, finally aiming for the flashing green light at the entrance to the Thorofare. The moon lit the high cirrus clouds and sparkled on the water. It’s tough to describe it without the word “magical” coming to mind. Everything is just the same as in the daylight, but it feels like another world. When I returned to the ramp, it was hard to believe I’d only been gone two hours.


And then Monday afternoon, at the end of the holiday weekend when gallery traffic had slowed to a trickle, I closed the door, got my camping gear together and headed-out to Wheat island. I’d thought I might get out and paddle in the moonlight, but it was enough to wander around the island on foot, the moon casting my shadow on the granite ledges, and listen as the wind whipped-up the waves, lapping ever higher as the tide rose. I sat and drank my tea. I could see a handful of lights in Stonington, a couple over on Vinalhaven, as well as the red flashing lights from the tower on Swans. Over on Mount Desert Island, an occasional headlight flashed from atop Cadillac Mountain.

The next afternoon in the gallery, after I'd spent the morning paddling, visitors commented on how nice the day was. I could only agree, but the nights weren't so bad either.

Around North Haven

I woke up in my sleeping bag. The sky was lightening already. I’d left the fly off the tent, so I could drift to sleep beneath the stars, and now across East Penobscot Bay, where the Mark Island Light had flashed all night like clockwork, the horizon clouds were turning pink. The seas were calm, the air warm for late September, and I had all day to paddle around North Haven.


I felt lucky to be there. Rebecca was taking my place in the gallery for a few days, and the weather just happened to be perfect. I’d pitched my tent atop a grassy bluff on Little Thorofare Island with asters blooming between the rocks and a view so sweeping I wanted to just sit and stare. Not for everybody, judging from the MITA logbook- the steep, rocky banks are a bit tricky. I had unloaded my kayak, hauling gear up in mesh duffels, then shouldered the boat up to my perch.


Getting around North Haven would take a minimum of 18 nautical miles, and I figured I’d check out a few coves as well. It would be a big day. I ate my oatmeal and launched. When you know you have a long way to go, it’s tough not to start off with an almost frantic pace, thinking of the destination more than the scenery at hand. This is especially senseless when the destination is the place you’ve just left, but I settled into a quick rhythm, soon passing Mullen Head, Marsh Cove and the bluffs below Oak Hill, the northeast point of the island.


To the north, with the Camden Hills and Islesboro as a backdrop, schooners tacked back and forth across the bay. I followed the shoreline: dark bluffs rose directly from the water with an occasional stairway poking down from the woods to a cobble beach. After a couple of hours, I paddled into Pulpit Harbor, following the shoreline past well-kept old homes all the way to the end, which at high tide had the feel of a farm pond surrounded by grassy meadows.


I continued along the coast, dipping into the coves and harbors along the way, and the hours and miles went by. I would think about how far I had to go, forcing myself to focus on a fast and efficient stroke, only to be distracted by the usual stuff: rocks, the perfect cottage- often the guest house on a larger estate, and sunbathing women whose curves, on second glance, transformed into sensuous limbs of driftwood. I rounded the southwest end, pointing toward the next mansion on a headland.


Finally, halfway into Southern Harbor, my hull ground to a halt on a sandbar and I sat for a long moment before getting out for a stretch and a Snickers. I was tired and had miles to go. Instead of following every remaining inch of shoreline, I took a more direct route for town, landing at the North Haven town dock. I walked into town. I bought an ice-cream cone at Coopers and walked, following the road out of town. Everyone who drove by waved like they knew me.


I found the trail and walked uphill across a field, through some woods, and emerged at a rocky protrusion called Ames Knob. I stood and marveled at the view, watching the comings and goings in the Thorofare until I had a strong desire to be back in my kayak, headed back to camp, where I arrived just as a couple of schooners anchored nearby for the evening.


As I made dinner, I realized I felt tired, not only from a 24-mile paddle, but from all I had seen. It was a lot to take in- even the small details, like the lack of tire tracks on North Haven's quiet streets. And learning, once again that the more I see, I understand how much more there is to be seen. I would get to a bit more of it the next morning, at high tide when I paddled into some inlets that are otherwise inaccessible, but I still feel like I'm just getting to know the place.