Baileys Mistake to Lubec

We floated in our kayaks below the bluffs of Jims Head. Beyond the harbor entrance, a jagged horizon of rough water undulated offshore. We hoped that it marked the edge of a massive eddy that would diminish as we made our way along Boot Head and the tidal current slackened, affording us the least-bumpy passage around the head. 

 

It was a brilliant, clear day, and Jims Head rose steeply from the sea upon tall fins of dark, flaky rock. There were six of us. Most had been on a Downeast multi-day trip I’d guided at the end of August, and we were continuing from the spot where we’d had to cut the trip short. There’d been some bad weather coming, and we’d made a hard choice, but we’d made plans to return the next time we all had a day – in October, and here we were. 

 

We followed the shore out toward Boot Head, and though the conditions were docile, they were perfect for some mellow play along this shore. We looked for small challenges – slots to back into, rocks to get buoyed over by waves. The challenges grew progressively as we made our way along the shore. Finally, we took turns paddling into the tallest, darkest chasm on Boot Head. You back in so you’ll see the waves coming your way, and it makes it easier to paddle out quickly if the need arises. You go one at a time, alone, and as you venture backward, alternating your over-the-shoulder view of your destination with that of the bright entrance beyond your bow, your companions become distant silhouettes, occasionally eclipsed by a wave rising between you, You’re dwarfed by the soaring walls. You look up and see the crack of light above, the blue sky outlined by spruce. The walls are damp, mossy, echoing each time a wave thunks into the rocks behind you.

 

We were paddling the eastern end of the Bold Coast. We’d launched in Baileys Mistake and hoped to finish somewhere north of West Quoddy Head. We’d left a car in town in Lubec, so we could shuttle back to the launch. This easternmost section of the Maine coast is a stretch of steep, craggy shoreline dropping abruptly into the Grand Manan Channel. Known as The Bold Coast, the twenty-or-so-mile section between Cross Island and West Quoddy Head has only a few small islands to buffer coastal boaters from the open Atlantic, and just a handful of small coves or harbors. In addition, the tidal current accelerates between this shore and Canada’s Grand Manan Island as it flows in and out of the Bay of Fundy, known for having one of the highest tide ranges in the world. 

 

For some paddlers, the Bold Coast is a challenge standing in the way of larger goals, as it was the first time I paddled it with my friend Todd. We were paddling from Stonington to Lubec and at that time there was little info available about the area. Guidebooks suggested avoiding it. We learned what we could, including the popular theory that you could just catch the flooding current and make it from Cross Island to West Quoddy in about three hours. It didn’t work that way for us, and I now understand how little I knew about tidal currents back then. And even though I think I now understand the currents better,  I still expect surprises. Maybe that’s part of what keeps pulling me back there. 

In the years since, I’ve paddled the area various ways, but have found it most rewarding to take shorter trips that allow for ample shoreside exploration, especially if the conditions are calm enough to get in really close. Yes, you could go far enough offshore to catch that big current, but it’s likely to feel like simple “Point A to Point B” paddling – highway miles, and I wouldn’t go out of my way to do that. I’ve also paddled a hybrid route – staying near shore as far as Boot Head and going offshore for the last 6 miles to the lighthouse in an hour – or vice-versa.

 

On the last Saturday of my guiding season, we met again at Baileys Mistake, joined by Todd (see trip #1 above) who’d been guiding with us over the summer. The day couldn’t have been much nicer. There was a bit of an east wind, and it did happen to be during an auspiciously big tide range (max flood in Grand Manan Channel approaching 4 knots) but it felt almost warm enough to skip the dry suit (but not quite). After paddling into the chasm on Boot Head, we stopped for lunch at Boot Cove, where a few hikers eyed our kayaks curiously (the Boot Head Preserve is owned by Maine Coast Heritage Trust and has nice hiking paths leading out to the cliffs, now somewhat ubiquitous on Instagram).

 

After lunch we continued, but as a couple of us headed along shore, continuing to find features to weave among, the others took the more direct route a little offshore, chatting with each other. Perhaps they’d had enough of all these details, or perhaps they had much to chat about – who knows? But though their route was more direct, and I was dilly-dallying among the rocks, I got a little ahead of them. I took this as a sign that the eddy was starting to increase – win-win: you get to dilly-dally along shore, and get moved along with a little help from the tidal current. Far offshore, the tall navigation buoys leaned heavily toward the southwest – current that would have been against us. So as we went around each new corner, I headed in toward shore. Though these rocks along this stretch are not tall and imposing like those at Boot Head, there’s plenty here to explore. There’s a few houses here and there, and you pass the shore of one more preserve – Hamilton Cove Preserve – before you reach Carrying Place Cove, where the shore again turns steeper along West Quoddy Head.

We got our obligatory group selfies in front of the lighthouse and then hugged the shore (more tall rocky passages to weave among) and then curved in westward to avoid the current against us in Lubec Channel. This was another test of faith in theories about tidal currents. Some wanted to head straight across and stayed far to the east of the group, paddling against more current than those veering westward. You could paddle a little farther with less current against you or paddle on a treadmill that looked more direct. Or at least that’s how it looked from my perspective, and by this point as a guide, I felt inclined to let people figure it out for themselves if they didn’t want to follow me or test my theories about it. 

 

The current beneath the bridge was largely diminished by the time we passed beneath. We made our way around the breakwater to the take-out. 

 

 

 

 

The 2021 Schoodic Sea Kayak Retreat

Last week we temporarily closed shop here in Stonington to coach at the Schoodic Sea Kayak Retreat. The five-day event gives paddlers of all levels the opportunity to paddle and play in a variety of locations with different coaches each day. Home base is The Schoodic Institute, a former Navy facility in Acadia National Park, near the end of Schoodic Point. There’s apartment accommodations and 3 meals a day at the dining hall… a bit like a summer camp for grownups bent on sea kayaking. 

 

The event is organized by Gerry Polinsky of Sea Sherpa Kayak and Nick Schade, designer and builder of Guillemot Kayaks. Paddlers choose a “pod” depending upon their skills and desires, and that pod goes to a different paddling venue each day, with different combinations of coaches. The. participants come from all over, with a sizeable contingent of those paddling self-built kayaks, and a higher than usual share of those paddling with Greenland sticks. And though there is an instructional element, there’s no curriculum, much the way we teach or coach here at Sea Kayak Stonington. 

Aside from sampling the stunning neighborhood paddling venues, among them Bois Bubert, Ironbound Island, Sullivan Falls and of course the craggy shoreline of Schoodic Point itself, paddlers were also there to connect with other paddlers, to try out a few boats and get a few tips to improve their paddling. 

For us it was a change of pace from the summer we’d been having. It wasn’t exactly a vacation, but we appreciated the excellent meals in the dining hall and the relaxed atmosphere – at least a bit less non-stop than the pace we’d been keeping all summer. We liked paddling those locales that we don’t get to regularly from Stonington, and it was satisfying to coach a few people intent on expanding their skills and comfort zones. We could easily observe significant improvements over the 5 days on the water. 

 

Among the highlights was the boat swap, in which we tried out a few different kayaks, including some self-built models. We both loved paddling the Guillemot Petrel Play, which is available in kit form from Chesapeake Light Craft, as well as the composite version built by Joey Schott at Turning Point Boatworks. I had imagined it as mostly a play boat, akin to the P&H Delphins we often paddle, but was surprised how well it performed when you’re more focused on covering a few miles. The kayak has a 13.15-foot waterline for its 14' length. As the name suggests, it is indeed a nimble play boat, whether you’re catching a standing wave at Sullivan Falls or taking a tight turn through the rocks beneath Ironbound Island’s cliffs. I put it through a number of turns, forward, backward… upside-down, and it did just want I wanted – one of those “magic” boats that immediately makes you feel like a better paddler. 

 

There were off-water events as well. We gave an evening talk about our 2017 Maine coast trip. I set the timer and we just chatted about it, which seemed get the story across without putting anyone to sleep. Dan Carr of the Maine Island Trail Association followed it with some info about the Trail. We were asked thoughtful questions and there were even a couple of positive testimonials about AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England. I rarely hear such feedback or get much recognition beyond getting relegated the realm of “kayaking freaks,” so it was satisfying to bask in the scene for a bit. We even got a T-shirt.

Gooseberry Island

As we paddled along Little McGlathery Island, a mild swell washed over the near-shore rocks, lifting our kayaks gently and then dropping them as the waves rebounded from the granite bluffs. Gooseberry Island lay to the south, with Isle au Haut rising behind it. The day had started bright and clear, but now a layer of high, wispy stratus clouds floated over us from the west, the sun a pale disc. Rebecca maneuvered beside me. She said, “Lunch on Gooseberry?” We turned our bows southward. 

 

Paddling excursions had lately been the result of watching the weather, and days ahead, deciding that a particular day might be good enough for a paddle. And when that day arrived, if the weather forecast was close enough, and if we weren’t too lazy or too stuck in our routines, we dropped everything and went. Sunday was one of those days. With the temperatures approaching 40 degrees, we made some sandwiches, filled the Thermos with hot mocha and went for a paddle. We had a few ideas about places to go, but once we launched we just pointed across the Thorofare and went with no particular goal, until finally we found ourselves on the seaward side of Little McGlathery, angling out toward Gooseberry Island, a half-mile off. 

Even on the last day in February, I had a sense of relief as we rounded the point and saw that there was no one else at the beach where we liked to land, at the head of a narrow cove, overlooked by a dense boulder field. Of course, there was no one there, but the habits from summer remain. We hadn’t come across other paddlers since some time in the fall, and in a way I looked forward to seeing others out there again. There weren’t even many lobster boats out, quiet for such a nice day. 

We landed on the shell sand beach, barely pulling our boats up since the tide was retreating, and we sat on a log to eat our sandwiches. The water looked glassy clear, as it does in winter when there’s less algae, but frigid, probably just above freezing. I don’t think we had much to say. We’d had no shortage of time together lately, and we always found things to talk about. But it was also a relief just to sit and eat our sandwiches and look out toward Isle a Haut, with the clouds thickening before the sun. 

 

We then walked out among the boulders. I can’t think of any other spots with such a concentration of them, like the glacier just tired of artfully placing them here and there on sloping granite shores and said “ah hell, just drop ‘em all here.” Walking among them feels like strolling through a natural sculpture garden. 

 

Gooseberry Island is one of the many names that pops into my head when someone asks me about a favorite place out in the archipelago. It’s been a favorite for a long time, even back when it was privately owned and we’d heard that Maine Coast Heritage Trust would acquire it. We like the island’s small size, the boulder field, the way it feels like the last stop at the edge of the archipelago, with Jericho Bay and Isle au Haut for a backyard and the vast Atlantic stretching out beyond. It’s only about 3 ½ miles from the launch, a good distance for a casual paddle, just far enough away from the busier islands near town, and yet angled away from the archipelago, so it feels more remote. 

 

We started feeling a little chilled and launched again. I made my inevitable joke about skipping the swim at Green Island, and when we returned to the launch we were surprised how late it was; the days were getting longer. 

The Fort, Second & Andrews Islands

Our winter excursions tend to be a bit less ambitious than in warmer months, so if we launch from town, we find ourselves at the usual places fairly often. Nothing wrong with that, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d paddled out the Deer Isle Thorofare and, instead of going left or straight, taken a right turn.

With all the attention given to the islands between Stonington and Isle au Haut, some nearby neighborhoods are often overlooked, like the southwest corner of Deer isle with its trio of small uninhabited islands just offshore. It really does feel a bit like a watery neighborhood, bounded on the north by Fifield Point, which stretches slightly southwest toward The Fort and Second Island and more distant Andrews Island. The stretch of residential shoreline between Fifield Point, Sand Beach and Moose Island makes up the other side – about a mile-and-a-half of bulbous, glacially smoothed granite with a few pocket beaches and a bunch of (mostly) modest summer cabins. 

Rebecca and I met Todd down at the ramp just after lunch and headed out just as the tide was cresting. The clouds were thick and gauzy, with the sun occasionally shining through. Temperatures hovered around freezing; we were comfortable as long as we kept moving.

 

We went past the boatyard and followed the shore of Moose Island, past the newer, large homes with corresponding ‘PRIVATE ESTATE’ signs posted over the beaches. With the tide so high, there were plenty of shoreside rocks to weave among, and a very slight swell rolling in, and as often happens in such conditions, we started focusing less on any destination and more upon the feeling of maneuvering through these passages. 

 

The sun was already low, dimmed by clouds, casting the boulders in  a flat, wintery light. We paused and remarked that none of us had harbored high expectations for this developed shoreline. Perhaps in the summer, with more people around it would feel busier, and certainly at a lower tide we would be more limited in our options, but at high tide on a winter’s day, when many of the summer cottages had boards over their windows, surprise, surprise: it was pretty nice to be there. 

 

Sand Beach, which is essentially a town park and a go-to spot for those wanting to get out for a bit of fresh, salty air, or perhaps a sunset over the Camden Hills, was empty. We followed the shore and finally spotted a distant couple walking the shore, pointing binoculars out toward the water.

At Fifield Point we headed across to The Fort, a 2 or 3-acre island with a prominent rocky bluff rising above many of the trees. The island is only a couple-hundred yards from the point, but we began to feel the northeast breeze as we pulled away from shore – the wind from the northeast was part of our logic in choosing this mostly sheltered route – and we felt quickly chilled as soon as we landed. It would need to be a quick stop. Maine Coast Heritage Trust owns the island, named, apparently, as a reference to a time in the past when it was a popular duck hunting spot, and often resounded with gunfire. A trail leads up to the high point atop a granite promontory with broad views of East Penobscot Bay. It’s a big view for so little effort. Across the bay, the Camden Hills were spotted with snow. Nearby, in the shallows leading toward Second Island, seals were piled upon a ledge. 

I’d be lying if I denied repeating our usual winter mantra: this would be really nice in the summer. It’s fine out there in winter, and certainly better than not paddling, but right now it sounds pretty idyllic to spend a little more time hanging out without getting cold. We paddled around Second Island and over to Andrews, also owned by Maine Coast Heritage Trust and would have loved to have landed there and taken a walk around, but we were a little chilled and sunset was nigh. We paddled back to Moose Island and retraced our path back up the Thorofare, arriving at the ramp a little after sunset.

 

Notes: 

The Fort and Andrews Island are owned by Maine Coast Heritage Trust and open to day use. 

 

State-owned Weir Island, just off Sand Beach is on the Maine Island Trail and has a campsite.

 

Sand Beach is private land designated as a town park. In recent years it has suffered from a dramatic increase in visitation. The recently expanded parking area continues to become overrun, resulting in sloppy parking along the road. This past summer there were complaints, echoed in a newspaper story, about boaters parking trailers  that take multiple spaces. 

Rainy Day in September

  

I’m lying on the couch, wearing dry clothes, drinking coffee. I managed to sleep an hour or so later than usual. Outside the front windows, fog hangs thick over the harbor. It’s been raining and tires hiss over the wet pavement below. I’m very happy to be here, and happy, for a change, to not be out there on the water. A day off from paddling. My last day off was another rainy day almost two weeks ago, and before that was a similar span of good paddling days, all filled with work. My body feels beat-up. I’ve done my stretches and thinking maybe another ibuprofen may be good. My mind feels a little beat-up too, and I’ve been looking forward to sitting here, doing exactly this, even though I still have very little time to do it. 

It has been an amazing summer, especially considering how it began. Back in June we had little idea of whether we’d even have a business through the summer. Maine had largely avoided the virus, partially due to strict quarantine and testing requirements. At first it looked like our only customers might be people from Maine. All our trips were cancelled. The ten-day guide’s class I teach in June was cancelled. I pondered over whether I should continue the liability insurance for Upwest & Downeast Sea Kayaking. I wondered if maybe our guiding business might become a footnote: one good summer followed by a global pandemic. I could sell a few boats. We thought maybe we’d just do a lot of kayaking on our own this summer- an appealing thought, even if it avoided the question of income. 

 

But then the Maine restrictions eased- just enough to allow more visitors and still be safe. We worried about it of course. We worried about the virus more than making a living. Making a living was a little more within our control. I posted the COVID restrictions on the website, for which I received a little fallout, as if I were making this stuff up myself. But so be it, I thought. I didn’t want people who weren’t careful or considerate. 

 

On July 4^th I ferried over to Vinalhaven to guide my first trip of the season. The next came a couple of days later, up in Brooklin, and the next a couple of days after that. The pace rapidly increased. Our guests seemed so glad to be here, so relieved to be outside. Soon we had trips every day, and then multiple trips every day, with both me and Rebecca guiding. We focused on providing custom private trips, which had been our intention from the start. 

 

Added to the influence of the virus were changes at Old Quarry Ocean Adventures. Bill, the owner had retired at the end of last year, and with the virus it seemed prudent to remain closed for the summer. But a crew evolved and it did open, at least long enough for someone to buy the place as a private residence. It closed on July 31^st, and suddenly the demand for trips rose dramatically, along with the desire for rental boats. Traffic at the town ramp increased, and people started launching and parking at places that became problematic and raised the ire of various people. On some days the ramp became quite crowded, often with people who parked for hours while loading their boats. We began to see many more obviously unprepared people heading out into the archipelago. Campsites appeared randomly on various islands. Kayakers’ cars began occupying prime downtown parking spaces for days at a time. We began cautiously renting some of our boats, a side of the business about which I’m still hesitant. 

A weird summer was made even weirder by the death of a woman off Baileys Island when she was bit by a great white shark. We only had one trip cancel for fear of sharks, but it has been on everyone’s mind. Just this last week rumors of local shark incidents have been circulating- a shark nipped at a lobster trap as it was being hauled onto a boat, and there is apparently an increase in dead seals being spotted. I don’t want to spread unsubstantiated rumors – Facebook works well enough for that – so I’ll leave it at that for now. I saw many many seals yesterday off of Little Cranberry Island, and they didn’t seem too concerned.

 

So here we are, nearing mid-September. I expect demand for trips to taper in the next few weeks. We have much to think about in terms of where we want to go with our guiding business. We like the simplicity of the ‘mom and pop’ aspect – just me and Rebecca, private trips, keeping it simple. And yet we spend a lot of time hauling boats around. Every evening we spend hours cleaning gear and answering emails and other inquiries. I recently turned 56. I feel like I’m in pretty good shape, but some of these days are pretty tough. Most of the time I hardly think about it – I just show up and do it, but on a day like today, with the rain and fog and a little time to reflect, I know that it all warrants some thought about what we’re doing and where we’re going with it.

 

 

Notes:

I also have a book to finish. I published the Kindle edition in July so it could be accessed from Zest Maine, where the first chapter was published. We received a grant from the Maine Arts Commission to help with publishing the print edition. I’ve been too busy to shepherd the book into its final form, but maybe now I can finally do that. In mid-August we gave a webinar for the local land trusts about our trip and the book, and it can be seen here.

Island Clean-Up

 

Although we’ve organized many annual island clean-ups over the years, usually to Wreck and Round Islands, this year it was not on our radar until the Maine Island Trail Association contacted us about their plans, which were a bit different this year. Because of the need for social distancing, it is problematic to put a bunch of diverse people together in a small boat, so MITA has asked people to volunteer for less organized efforts with fewer people. Of course, we could pick-up all kinds of trash out there, but can’t really get most of it back in our kayaks. 

 

MITA organized a concentrated effort off Stonington though, with the MITA skiffs picking-up garbage, so I sent out an email or two. Also, staff from Island Heritage Trust wanted to take part, so we took-on our usual Wreck and Round Islands, which are both owned by IHT and are on the Maine Island Trail for day use. 

We ended-up with a nice group of people: 9 in kayaks and another 2 in a skiff. Some local, some from afar (one from out of state who had done his quarantine time). Social distancing was not difficult, and I think everyone was happy to be part of a group with a common goal. Rebecca and I are pretty familiar with Wreck Island and where the garbage usually accumulates, and I think our methods have become more efficient over the years. We split-up and went opposite directions, finally meeting at a beach on the south side for lunch, joined by the two MITA skiffs and the skiff from our group.  And yes, we all kept our distance from each other. Note: in the next photo, the people sitting close to each other are in the same family. 

 

The forecast had been for some fog, so I was relieved that we had a clear day, even a bit hot (90s inland). The day was really just perfect in many ways- the weather, the paddling, the people. After lunch we went-on to Round Island and found part of it clean, obviously recently picked-up by an anonymous volunteer (thanks, whoever you are). The other side had the usual accumulation of fishing-related garbage.  We meandered back to town, stopping at Little Camp Island for the slightly elevated glimpse of the nearby islands from the bare top of the island, where wildflowers are starting to bloom. 

 

I hesitate to include the weird encounter we had there, which cast a little shadow over an otherwise perfect day, but it’s probably worth mentioning. As we approached the landing beach on Little Camp we saw a portable latrine tent set-up atop the beach. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before, certainly not on a no-camping island, and I suppose it might have signaled an unusual encounter to follow (or it could signal someone really concerned about Leave No Trace visitation). There was a familiar local skiff anchored, and after we landed we noticed a beach blanket and assorted other stuff, but saw no people. 

 

We encountered the couple and their dog as we walked toward the height of the island. Just to summarize- and I missed most of the exchange, being hard-of-hearing and having walked ahead- but he complained that they’d come out there to get away from people and that there was a virus going on, etcetera. He was reminded it was a public island, which only drew a lot of angry swearing. We could have elaborated that not only was it a public island, but a very popular one, close to town, and not a place one should ever expect to have all to oneself. And of course we were only visiting for a few minutes near the end of the day. Fortunately it ended there. I watched over our boats as they packed up and left. It’s not worth dwelling on it, but it was perhaps a reminder of the strange time we’re experiencing. I’ve had very few negative experiences with people out there, and the current state of things seems to increase tensions, and perhaps also enhance local residents’ sense of territoriality and animosity towards people who might be from somewhere else (even though many local locals are of the ‘no mask’ ilk). Maybe it’s good to take it as a reminder to not make assumptions and to try to be nice. 

We returned to the launch, having left two islands in a much cleaner state, part of a bigger effort that improved a bunch of islands out there, and that felt pretty good. I would encourage anyone to look for these clean-up opportunities and get involved. Here's a link to MITA's 'A Call To Oars' announcement.

 

Notes:

1)    More info about this paddling locale may be found in my guidebook AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England.  I get asked quite a lot for basic advice: what boat to buy, am I being safe, etc. There’s a lot of that in my book. Please buy it or check it out from the library. I don’t mind occasional requests for help or advice, but it does get old when people are averse to just reading a book where all these questions are already answered. 

 

2)    While the quarantine order for people coming from out of state is in effect, those coming from New Hampshire and Vermont are now excluded from the requirement, and all others may skip the quarantine if they have a certificate of compliance from a recent negative test. New inquiries and bookings have begun again. Yesterday’s trip gave me hope that we can be safe and socially distanced without it interfering with our on-water safety and fun.

 

3)    The new book: it’s getting there. I will probably make a Kindle version available before the print edition is out. Proofs of the print edition have taken much longer than expected, and we still have some illustrations to add. Also, Zest Maine will include a link to the Kindle edition in their July/August online issue, which posts on July 15. 

 

4)    One thing we’re offering this summer is a 5-week subscription series: 5 full-day trips with instruction in various locales for only $400 (that’s $80 per day). I’m not very good at selling myself. I meet and communicate with so many people who would benefit and something keeps me from pushing it. You can try out different boats before you buy one. You can learn things and gain some basic understanding of how to be safe, all while going different places on fun trips. And you can meet some other local paddlers. 

 

5)    Old Quarry Ocean Adventures is open again, with, for now, a pared-down selection of offerings. There will be camping and kayaking. You can go there to park and launch. The other day we met Eric, the new manager, and he’s got a great attitude. 

Remote Sea Kayaking

By ‘remote kayaking,’ I mean ‘remote’ as in ‘virtual,’ as opposed to ‘far away from things.’ I prefer the latter meaning. A month or two ago, the virus prompted pretty much everyone to start conducting meetings and other events via remote computer hook-up chats. For some reason I thought ‘no way, I don’t want to do that,’ and I did manage to mostly avoid Zoom for a while. Maybe it’s part of that tendency that people sometimes have when they get to a certain age where they feel filled-up, overwhelmed with all the new things in the world and want to stop learning. Bad idea, right? I started to cave-in to it when friends appeared as guests on some of these online events, and last week I even watched panelists from the Maine Arts Commission review my application (and several others) for a grant. Anyway, I’ve just finished watching, from a bug-on-the-wall’s perspective, the last of The Maine Island Trail Association’s ‘Lunch and Learn’ series, and I wish I’d started paying attention sooner. 

This episode featured three sea kayak guide/instructors: Karen Francoeur, Keven Beckwith and Nate Hanson, who all gave advice about getting into sea kayaking. There were over fifty viewers, some who commented or asked questions in the chat function. When the subject came to trip planning, I was grateful to hear my name mentioned, both in reference to AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England and to this blog. I felt a little pang of guilt, having not posted anything here for a while. 

In fact, I’ll admit that I’ve become ambivalent about the whole idea of blogging, as well as even sharing photos from paddling excursions on social media. There are many reasons for this – it’s complicated and perhaps best left unexplored for the moment. My feelings about it go far beyond the current situation with the virus, but I’m not sure about flaunting it when many people are unable to get out, and when many other people are gung-ho to do so – in rec boats, in jeans when the water is still cold. There have been two paddling deaths in the last month or so on Maine freshwater, both probably due to unprepared paddlers in cold water. This has always been the case in spring, but this year the illusion of summer came to us a little earlier, and people have time on their hands.  Frankly I’m surprised there haven’t been more mishaps.  

But it is getting warmer, and summer will come, one way or another. I really haven’t paddled much for a while, and my excursions have not been ambitious – it’s been enough to just get on the water. And staying at home has been good on other fronts. A couple of articles recently came out in Zest Maine, both personal essays that revolve around sea kayaking. In their next issues, the online magazine will publish the first chapters of my new book, Upwest & Downeast: Meandering the Maine Coast by Sea Kayak. I know I’ve been saying for a while that it’s almost done, but… it’s almost done.

My statement on my guiding business site about COVID-19 has changed a couple of times and it has been difficult to plan, but so far we’re proceeding with the assumption that, at least for a while, we might be guiding and teaching people who live here in Maine or have quarantined for 2 weeks. In many ways it would be a relief to avoid the limbo of unknowing and just skip this year, but we’ll see. We’re in a good place, living in downtown Stonington near Rebecca’s studio, which is just up the street from the public ramp. I feel inspired every time I look out the window, even on days like today when a dense fog obscures the usual view of the archipelago and Isle au Haut. Hopefully we’ll be taking a few people paddling soon, or at least just getting out more.