Monhegan

Sandwiched between a couple of windy days, Wednesday (7/26) brought the gift of a calm, hot day that began with us camped on Black Island, in the middle of Muscongus Bay – within range – 10 nautical miles or so – of Monhegan. We hadn’t exactly planned on paddling to Monhegan, nor had we planned not to. It seemed a bad idea to put it on the schedule, to assume there would be a day calm enough that we’d want to paddle the five or six-mile crossing- committing ourselves to the return paddle as well. On the other hand, if we got ourselves to the right spot and had a good day for it… by all means, we wanted to paddle to Monhegan.

The island had been off in the distance when I’d paddled the area in the past, and lately it had drawn my attention whenever I glanced out to sea, even at night when its lighthouse emitted one Fresnelian explosion of light  for every three LED blips from the Franklin Island lighthouse, as if its shore were beckoning.

So we got an early (for us) start by around eight, and headed-out, first for Franklin Island for the obligatory (but fun) lighthouse snapshots, and onward to Eastern Egg Rock, where we floated just off its shores, sitting as still as the monitors in their bird blinds, and watched the puffins winging about, sometimes swimming not far away.


All the while we floated with the puffins, Monhegan, still six miles distant, seemed to be calling: “Michael,” it said, “I’m here.” Not only that, but we guessed there would be ice cream there, so we kept paddling, via a steep hump of rock called Shark Island where I nearly blew the whole thing by making an ill-advised surf landing among the boulders for a pee. The landing went fine, and the pee went fine, but the relaunch took a couple of tries. Finally, I was glad I’d brought my helmet. Rebecca watched me and wisely decided to wait.

I’m not always a big fan of these offshore forays, favoring the safety and features of following a shore. I tend to think of it as highway miles, counting-off time and distance until you get somewhere, rather then the ‘being there’ feeling I get while following a shoreline closely. But this time I loved it- the glassy, dreamy swells that kept us pleasantly in a motion other than forward; the different birds- gannets and terns and others yet-to-be-identified. And the slow, gradual fulfillment of a goal that wasn’t a goal- that I’d had in mind for a long time. The features of the island slowly grew, and behind us the mainland and the islands we’d left behind melded into a haze, low on the horizon.

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As you approach Monhegan, Manana, the steep, treeless island that forms one side of the harbor separates itself from the island proper, obvious eventually as its own entity. A building that in the distance appeared small reveals itself as a fairly large hotel, backed by a warren of more modest buildings on crooked streets. The ferry from Port Clyde arrived shortly before us, disgorging a crowd of day trippers. We landed shortly after noon at a public strip of sand just below a take-out restaurant with a 2nd floor Harbormaster’s office above it. Other boaters had left their dinghies there, and a few dozen people sat around, doing nothing much but watching the ocean. A young girl collected sea glass- the beach had more than its share, still mostly jagged and sharp. It seemed very quiet, but then a woman at the take-out restaurant would shout a name, like a parent scolding a child, and someone would get up to claim their order before their name could be repeated.

A woman stood at an easel, creating a small, very realistic painting that included a house. It felt like we had walked into a drama that had started some time ago and we had no part in, and after the breadth of the ocean, it felt strange and perhaps anticlimactic to be here finally. We carried our boats up high and went looking for a restroom- after all, it had been over four hours on the water. The only public bathroom on Monhegan is behind a take-out place called The Novelty and we were directed there. A sign above a postal flap in the wall asked for donations (suggested 50 cents per visit) since it is privately-operated.

We ordered wraps and waited outside at a picnic table for our number to be called. There were other tourists, all more clean and less stinky than us, but we shared our table with a group that included a very tan gentleman wearing aviator shades who told us that he used to kayak, that they’d paddled sit-inside kayaks, unlike those sit-on-tops that we… he waved his hand dismissively- paddled. Rebecca and I shared a look, but didn’t correct him. He told us he’d done way bigger crossings than what we’d just done – ten miles probably!


We hadn’t talked to a lot of people about our trip. When people did talk to us, it was usually to ask Rebecca about her wooden kayak. When we did though, it often had the effect of inspiring them to recount experiences rather than ask about the one we were having. Even if we did get a chance to talk, I usually could do little more than say 'it's been great.' We didn’t care, of course. We just smiled and nodded and said “that’s wonderful, that’s cool, that’s great.”

It took about two hours to find a bathroom, eat lunch, eat ice cream and buy some broccoli, chips, cheese and a gallon of water from the store. We found room in the boats for the groceries, got our paddling gear on, and set-out around the southern end. You make your way out of the sheltered harbor, and even on a calm day like this you’re bound to get some swells rolling in. We’d had gently-rolling 2-4-foot swells on our way out, spaced far enough apart to move us up and down with a slow, dreamy rhythm. Those same swells, coming from the outer depths and colliding with Monhegan’s steep, seaward  side pack a bit of power and make for some dramatic paddling as you make your way along those cliffs. We didn’t get in too close, but lingered offshore taking photos while atop the cliffs, hikers pointed their cameras seaward.

At the northern end, having come all the way around the island, we pointed our bows toward Allen Island, some 5 miles distant, and started back.

Notes:
We camped that night on Little Griffin Island, a 2-acre island owned by Outward Bound and included on the Maine Island Trail: a little rough and overgrown, but a good place to spend the night after a twenty-odd nautical mile day.

The Muscongus Bay islands are included in my guidebook, AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England, but Monhegan, since this was my first paddling excursion there, is not. Perhaps it will find its way into the next edition.

I wrote this shortly after our Monhegan day, but as we've progressed east, the Internet through cell service has become less reliable. We're now on Deer Isle for two nights, doing some resupplying today before heading-off on the Downeast portion of our trip.

Hog Island, Muscongus Bay

Part of the fun of a trip like this is that it is pretty tough to foresee the twists and turns wrought by weather, whims and tide and know where you'll be in a few days. We keep trying though- always a couple of different route scenarios for the next day or two that will bring you to X in a week or Y in two weeks. You may pore over charts and guidebooks all you want, consult the weather and the tide predictions and still, the place you find yourself at the end of the day may not be what you expected in the morning. In a way, that's part of the beauty of the Maine coast and the Maine Island Trail. In some areas, like here in Muscongus Bay, there are many options. You may feel inclined to try as many as you can.

This morning, we're on Hog Island, in the northwest corner of Muscongus Bay. It's been a good, fairly sheltered spot to hunker-down while a storm passed-through. We have a picnic table, over which we've hung a tarp, and the tent is up on a platform. The landing was an easy beach landing, and an easier than most spot to pull our boats well-up past the post-new moon high tide line. Late in the afternoon, after interspersing our time between rainy walks on the beach (a beach that actually has some sand) and time here at the picnic table updating notes and sipping hot beverages, we took a damp two-hour walk on a mossy trail that circles the Audubon-owned island. In some spots, we waded through shoulder-high ferns. Back in camp, Rebecca made brownies in the Outback Oven.

We came here from Thief Island, less than an hour's paddle, but worth it to find a more sheltered spot before the storm arrived. We'd landed there after sunset the previous night after paddling around 24 nautical miles from Ram Island, in the Sheepscot River. We hadn't intended to go so far - the whole idea behind this trip is to make a little time for ourselves to enjoy these places and paint and write, rather than slogging through long miles. But with the storm coming, we knew we'd get land-bound somewhere, and rather than spend another couple of days on Fort Island in the Damariscotta River as we did on our way south, it seemed prudent to just get around Pemaquid Point while the getting was good, and explore some other spots.

A good choice; it felt good to push ourselves, and Thief Island is home to the picnic table with one of the best views around, taking-in a broad swath of the bay, looking to the north, where the Camden Hills are visible above the Saint George Peninsula - a new perspective of a very familiar landmark. Last night, standing on the beach before bedtime, I gazed seaward, watching the Franklin Island light flash three times for every blinding flash from the light on Monhegan.

After leaving Crow Island in Casco Bay, we went-up Harpswell Sound and spent a night at Strawberry Creek Island, and the next morning caught the current up around Sebascodegan Island into the New Meadows River, where our friend Will picked us up and brought us back to the small house where he and his wife Sue spend their summers. We've known Will since we lived in Iowa (which we left in 1998) but reconnected through Facebook. Both Will and Sue are writers and we had a lot to talk about, late into the evening. They dropped us off at Five Islands the next day, and we paddled-off, heads full of stories, inspired.

The Sheepscot River MITA sites were busy that night, and we camped on Ram Island, sharing it with a young family who'd arrived in a powerboat. It's worth mentioning that we see very few sea kayakers, and have encountered none camped on islands. The next day, Sunday, we paddled to Muscongus Bay.

So today we're weighing our options. It's calm now, but the forecast calls for increased winds as the day progresses. We'll probably meander a bit more through Muscongus Bay, keeping in mind the series of moves that will bring us back through Penobscot Bay, and then Stonington in a week or so.

Notes: Some of these places are covered in my guidebook, AMC's Best Sea Kayaking in New England.

Our host, Susan Futrell's book Good Apples: The Story Behind Every Bite is forthcoming in
September, and promises to be a good read. Will Jennings' personal essays may be found in various publications, including  I'll Tell You Mine: Thirty Years of Essays from the Iowa Nonfiction Program. 

Island Snapshot: Crow Island, Casco Bay

We wrote in the MITA logbook that we liked Crow Island so much that we came back for a second night. We'd stayed there Tuesday night after a couple of nights on Jewel. On Wednesday, we packed everything up and paddled to Fort Gorges where, in a short window of less-fog, we had a glimpse of the Portland waterfront.

You could almost feel all the activity around you there, like a hum in the air, which was occasionally split by the surprising, all-encompassing thunder of a jet, having just taken off, rising overhead. On the return trip, we paused at Cow and Little Chebeague Islands, where we also could have camped, but maybe we wanted to distance ourself just a little more from that urban buzz.

We kept going until we found ourselves, once again in the fog, drifting into the familiar little cove on Crow Island.

Our campsite lay in a grassy clearing beneath the stout, spreading limbs of a mature oak. Only steps below lay a crescent of crushed white shell beach, pocketed between grey, rocky outcrops where we did our cooking and lay clothes out to dry (when the sun poked through).

Though I'd had a positive image of the island from previous visits, I hadn't first gravitated toward it, probably  due to its proximity to the mooring field and anchorage for some 40-50 vessels. At the head of the cove, maybe a quarter-mile away, a boatyard, store and Post Office bustled. But bustle is relative.

We'd arrived in the fog and quickly found ourselves in our own world. Lying in my hammock, hung from another stately oak, I could hear the clang of rigging against an aluminum mast, and the occasional chug of a power boat off in the fog, but our island - on a clear day an easy day trip for rec boaters launching from the beach at the head of the cove on Great Chebeague - could have been miles away from anything.

There's an old cabin in the middle of the island, and you can camp inside it or on its covered porch if you want, but I liked our spot near the shore better. There are logbook entries, in childish scrawl, that describe the cabin as "wicked scary."

When the sun comes out, the true proximity to other people is more evident, and the liklihood of sharing the island more probable. The lobster boats come nearer, their rumble unending. But at high tide the water along the sandy beach looks inviting enough for a swim. And Casco Bay is a bit less cold than waters Downeast; you're more likely to stay in for a bit.

So, like a lot of islands along the Maine Island Trail, it's tough to leave. On FRiday, when we wanted to head east and have some current behind us as we made our way up Harpswell Sound to Strawberry Creek Island, it made sense to wait until after lunch to launch, so we had the sublime luxury of a few hours hanging-out, painting, reading, writing... just soaking in Crow Island's ambiance. When nineteen kayaks paddled by young teenagers and their slightly older leaders arrrived on the beach, we were ready to move-on.

Day 17 on Jewel Island

I don't want to give the impression that I've spent an inordinate amount of time lying in the hammock while we've somehow managed to also paddle to Casco Bay from Deer Isle, but once again, I am indeed lying in the hammock, which this time is strung between two stout birches in a meadowy campsite upon a bluff on Jewel Island, in Casco Bay. It's mid-day and the fog that drifted-in first thing this morning still comes and goes, alternating between soupy-thick and thin enough to see the houses on Cliff Island, almost a mile distant.

Earlier, we used the fog as an opportunity to take a hike on this 222-acre island and visit the concrete towers that were used to guard Casco Bay back in World War II. I'm sure the view from the top is stunning- well it was stunning, but we couldn't see beyond the edges of the island. When the fog lingered, we decided it would be more prudent to spend more time here, rather than bump around with all the bigger vessels in these waters.

Here's a quick synopsis of our travels since the last post.

From Fort Island, we headed-out the Damariscotta River, spending a couple of hours in East Boothbay to get a few supplies at a small general store and water at the kitchen sink in the fire station. We made our way out to Damariscotta Island and over to The Cuckholds, where we'd hoped to camp on the MITA island west of the lighthouse. Fortunately we arrived early enough to realize it wasn't a good choice: populated with colonies of shrieking birds and the stench of their poop, not much of a flat spot to pitch a tent, and you might feel a bit on display for the guests arriving at The Inn At Cuckholds Lighthouse, on the neighboring Island, greeted by a crew of smartly-uniformed staff. Instead, we opted to paddle another five or six nautical miles up the Sheepscot River to camp at Spectacle Island, a truly lovely and idyllic campsite on its own forested islet.

The next day we went back out the Sheepscot, around the south end of Georgetown Island and into the Kennebec River, catching some current to help us against the north wind as we paddled a few miles north to Perkins Island. We were caught by a downpour well before we arrived, and explored a bit in wet paddling gear before setting-up the tent. We were glad we had warm, dry clothing to put on and hot drinks to warm us up. Maine in the summer has fairly broad meteorological mood swings, and you need to be ready. But the rain passed by and we were able to hang-out by the lighthouse as it got dark, taking photos, watching the current build.

On Friday morning we floated out of the Kennebec, past Fort Popham and out the mouth of the river. I'd paddled there plenty of times to play in the surf and standing waves, but this was the first time we could let the current take us on past all that until we reached open water, whereupon we took a right. Cape Small beckoned a few miles off, past long stretches of sandy beach until we made our way around it and found a a pair of pristine crescents of sand, facing out to sea. Apparently this stretch of undeveloped shoreline is private, but since no one was about, we pulled-in where the waves were smallest and had a quick lunch. From there it was just a few miles to West Point in Phippsburg, where our new friend Sid lives, just a short distance from a gravel launch. Sid fed us, entertained us and put a roof over our heads for the night. We were also able to drive into Bath for a few groceries, clean our clothes and ourselves, and recharge the batteries. He was a huge help. Thanks Sid!

Sid joined us the next day as we made our way to the Cribstone Bridge between Orrs and Baileys Islands and on out to Eagle Island, where Sid turned back for home- good training for the Blackburn Challenge, which he'll be paddling in in a few days. We went on to Bangs Island- a bit late- and watched the lights come-on at Great Chebeague Island as we made our dinner.

Yesterday, determined to see Robert Peary's Eagle Island when his house was open, Rebecca and I paddled over to Eagle Island and toured the home on the island the Arctic explorer had bought in his twenties, for $200. Onward from there, we arrived late in the day here, Jewel Island.

Mid-day has turned to mid-afternoon and the fog still lingers. Rebecca has found something to paint. We may get out for a short paddle - maybe just another walk. We'd like to get over to Fort Gorges and get a glimpse of the Portland waterfront before we start heading downeast, but we do need to start heading that way soon. Maybe after another day or two here in Casco Bay. We want to have enough time to explore Downeast and to not hurry too much on our way back toward Deer Isle. But at pretty much every island we stay on, we fall in love with it, and don't mind the idea of hanging out a bit and enjoying it. We're struck every day by what a privilege this is, and I don't think an evening goes by in which I don't sit back after dinner, take a look around and say "I'm so glad we're taking this trip."

Notes: I'll just need to add a few specifics when I have less limited Internet and power, but many of the places we've been paddling through are covered in my guidebook AMC's Best Sea Kayaking in New England.

My photo-posting ability is a bit compromised now, but I've been putting some on Instagram. Look for either Seakayak Stonington or #upwestanddowneast.

Day 11 on Fort Island

Once again, I’m in the hammock, this time on Fort Island, a mile or two up the Damariscotta River from East Boothbay. My hammock is strung between a couple of spruce trees atop a bank at the head of a small cove, facing north, avoiding much of the wind whipping upriver from the ocean. The forecast for today included thirty-knot gusts and thunderstorms, so we went to some effort to get up here, in a relatively sheltered spot, and we’re glad we did. The cove is tranquil except for the frequent shrieking of terns, diving for the little fish that swarm the shallows of the cove. Rebecca has found something to paint, and I’m weighing which might feel more grimy, my present funk or salt residue covering my skin. Choices.

We left Ram Island last Friday morning amid concerns of fog rolling-in from where it lingered offshore. We had a five-mile crossing of West Penobscot Bay to get over to Monroe Island a stretch of water that contains the occasional tanker, but the fog stayed out to sea, and we made it across easily enough.

We made our way along the shore of Owls Head and had lunch on Ash Island, another one of Maine Coast Heritage Trust’s hidden gems, before continuing-on to Lobster Buoy Campsites in South Thomaston, where we spent Friday night, as much to recharge batteries as anything, but the shower was nice, as was refilling water containers… and the Klondike bars. A club was there for a few days of paddling and I ran into a friend I know mostly from Facebook.

Saturday we’d only been paddling for a couple of hours before we came upon a new MCHT preserve on High Island, just off Tenants Harbor. It looked good, and afternoon conditions didn’t, so we easily chose to spend a night there. A young family from Tenants Harbor arrived in a powerboat – nice folks – and camped nearby. We paddled into town and picked-up some supplies at the General Store. The ice cream didn't seem like it would last out to the island, so we ate it while sitting on the dock.

Sunday we paddled past Jamie Wyeth’s Southern Island and spotted the painter walking from the lighthouse building to the house. The downeast/ upwest aspect of this route has been pretty obvious so far. The term ‘downeast’ comes from the days when schooners frequently plied the waters from Boston down-wind and east, up the Maine coast. So we’ve mostly been paddling against it. Hopefully it will be at our backs on our way back up the coast.

We picked up a few more supplies in Port Clyde and headed out across the northern part of Muscongus Bay and camped that night on Black Island. Yesterday we made our way south along Pemaquid Point -against wind and southeast swell that created miles of lumpy paddling. But seas off the Pemaquid light were relatively calm. Still, it was tough going, so it felt good to turn north into Johns Bay and let the following seas push us northward for a bit.

So here we are, taking another zero day, which may be the only way I’ll update the blog. We spend a lot of time hauling gear and boats, unloading and loading, and then it’s time to make supper. So this time in the hammock is the exception and well-appreciated. At pretty much every island we get to, we look around and wish we could spend more time. So far, it still feels like we’re at the beginning of the trip, just getting our routines down, getting used to it. I frequently look around at our surroundings and it just makes me smile. There’s something about doing a trip like this that feels a little unreal, off in your own world for a bit. And yet it feels so second nature as well, like all the kayak training has prepared us to do exactly this. Each day rolls into the next. Tomorrow we’ll probably pass through Boothbay Harbor and head into the Sheepscot River.

Surfin' at Reid

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Rebecca and I had a Wilderness First Aid class at AMC’sKnubble Bay Camp over the weekend, so we thought we’d make the most of the trip by squeezing-in a paddle somewhere. The surf report hadn’t looked promising, but since Reid State Park was nearby, we decided to swing by there and have a look, grudgingly shelling-out the $12 to the iron ranger at the gate (up from last year’s $4 a person- time to get an annual permit).

I wasn’t convinced we’d find good waves, so we had a quick look from atop Griffith Head, as much a landmark for its iconic coin-operated binocular devices, swiveling weightily out toward The Cuckholds lighthouse, Damariscove Island and the lighthouse on Seguin Island, as it is for the rocky bluffs that they stand upon. This is a good place to eat one’s PB&J while deciding that yes, those waves look good enough to go for it. When surf is the goal, one quickly adopts some of the radder-than-thou, dude-worthy lingo that still lingers in the teen-age skate-slacker part of the brain… so yes, we decided to go for it.

This is probably exactly the kind of behavior that keeps the fourteen-year-old mind live and kicking inside the 51 year-old body, and when you get into the surf, it’s a mindset that serves you well. Depending on the usual variables of swell and tide height, the steep shoreline at Reid often has steep, dumpy waves that break close to shore, but that 14 year-old mind just didn’t care and said “let me at ‘em.”

We started catching some short, lively rides right away. We got the first capsizes out of the way, and properly invigorated, proceeded to have a blast as we made our way down the beach to the most promising-looking area, catching waves as we went, occasionally landing right on the beach. The waves were biggest and dumpiest beside the rocky point (Little River Ledges) that separates the two beaches, but we continued on to Todd’s Point to ride the lower, but easily catchable surf that rolled slowly over the sandbar into the inlet. A couple of rangers patrolling the shore with garbage buckets paused to watch.

We finished the day with more rides back near the rocky point and did manage to get properly thrashed once or twice, which in an odd, invigorating way, after a long winter, just felt good. The shoreline is so steep there that I often got dropped high on the shore by a wave, but managed to quickly spin around on the sand and begin slipping seaward again in time for the next wave to buoy me away. 

After a particularly thrashy take-down, Rebecca took a break on shore and snapped a few photos - long enough to develop a hypothermic chill – perhaps another useful spring rite, making that part of our first aid training a little less hypothetical. In this case, treatment took the form of hot chocolate in the car with the heat blasting. As we tied our boats atop the car, the rangers stopped by and said they’d enjoyed watching us. I felt an inner relief that we’d dropped our twelve bucks into the iron pay tube at the gate, and concluded that it was well worth it. 

The rangers chatted about other paddlers (most of whom, they said, worry them) and mentioned the couple that had come through a few yearsback on their Lubec-Key West trip and camped (illegally) on the point. Since I’d followed that blog, I was able to inform the rangers that the couple had made it all the way - quite an accomplishment, even if their campsite researching skills needed a little work.

We warmed-up in the car en-route to Knubble Bay.

More information about paddling in this area is available in my guidebook, AMC's Best Sea Kayaking in New England, in the Georgetown Island chapter.

Always More to Learn

The learning never stops. A few years ago, when I worked toward earning my ACA Level 3 instructor certification, I claimed to have no interest in progressing to the highest level. The prospect of coaching people in the bigger, more potentially hazardous conditions just didn’t have its appeal. But as I progressed into those environments, it helped to have the occasional guidance from upper-level coaches. As I became more comfortable getting out in rougher spots and moved-on to L4 certification, I naturally started finding myself in those spots with less-experienced paddlers, attempting to pass-on the same kind of coaching that had helped me.

This week I went to an L5 instructor development workshop (IDW) to get pointed in the right direction. We met at AMC’s Knubble Bay cabin, which became our base, and spent the next three days paddling in the area: Five Islands, Reid State Park and the mouth of the Kennebec River. These locations translate to distinctly different environments: rocks & ledges, surf and tidal currents. Each day we had conditions at or beyond the level 5 remit: 3-5-foot seas, 15-25 knots of wind, 3-4-foot surf break and 4-5 knots of current. Beyond that, the water felt cold- still in the high 40s.

But it’s not all about conditions. A big part of L5 has more to do with being able to simultaneously accommodate students at different levels, with different needs. First you need to be able to assess a paddler- see what is working well for them and what isn’t. Then you need to be able to guide them through different activities to help them learn and discover. There’s no set way of doing things. The process will change according to the student and the environment, so the coach needs to be able to put things together on the fly.

Often, in instructor development sessions, we might need to pretend that we’re at a lower level to be students for our peers, but at L5, we just coach each other. It’s tougher, since we’re often looking at skills we’re trying to improve for ourselves, but for that reason it’s also very valuable. And you never get it all. You may focus on improving one aspect of your performance, but then you need to return to some other habit or skill that falls to the wayside.

I don’t take action photos at these events anymore, especially when I’m an instructor candidate, so the photos I have are off-water snapshots, but I like the way these photos, over time, have the feel of a family album, bringing together people we run into at these events and paddle with from time to time. I left with an action plan, the crux of which involves spending more time in these L5 environments with students and peers, working on observational skills and translating that to activities.

Despite the bracingly chilly water, it felt great to be paddling in Maine again. I was glad I’d spent plenty of time in the Florida surf this spring, where the water is now about thirty degrees warmer, but aside from awesome paddling, the Maine coast provides us with far more challenging environments than we’ll find most other places, and you need to keep paddling in challenging places if you want to keep your skills sharp.

We’ll be transient for a couple more weeks before we settle-in at Old Quarry for the summer.

Damariscove Island

We launched from Ocean Point just south of East Boothbay -- Rebecca, Barb, Julie and I -- and headed south, pointed toward the Ram Island lighthouse across a half-mile channel that, in the summertime would have been cluttered with fancy picnic boats but now lay steely and calm, hardly another boat around. October had been fairly warm, and now, nearly at its end, the season seemed unlikely to yield many more such days, and we were here to make the most of it with a trip around Damariscove Island. We passed the lighthouse and followed the shore of Fisherman Island.

It felt good to follow the contours of the shore, in and out of the rocks, making tighter and tighter turns. Seguin Island rose over the horizon, eight miles down the coast, across a calm sea. We joked about changing our plans and heading there-- it was the sort of day you could go just about anywhere-- but I was already thinking about eating lunch. And this trip has an obvious lunch destination- the long, south-facing cove on Damariscove Island. You know you're almost there when the tower of the former lifesaving station rises over the treeless, rolling hills.

Damariscove Island has a long history of human habitation. The natives came out in canoes to hunt for birds and eggs until the 1500s, when European fishermen began using it as a base. The Pilgrims stopped at the fishing station there on their way to Cape Cod Bay, and returned when they ran out of food in the winter of 1622. Damariscove fishermen sent a boat-load of cod, which probably saved the colony. Now the lifesaving station is a private residence, but most of the island is owned by the Boothbay Region Land Trust.

We ate our lunch at a picnic table beside the museum- a tiny building with a collection of artifacts from the island- and then took a walk up to the tower, from where you can see a long stretch of the Maine coast, from Cape Small to Monhegan and Metinic.

While we were up there, we observed that the tide had begun to ebb against the mild south wind, turning the water surface choppy. We headed out of the harbor and followed the the southeast shore, occasionally pausing to play in the lively bits.

Rebecca was paddling a Delphin and had some particularly graceful moments. Here she's pivoting into the incoming surf, swinging her stern around toward shore. A moment later, she caught the same wave and surfed it away from the rocks. Small waves, big fun.

We headed over to Outer Heron Island and the White Islands, both part of the Maine Coastal Islands National Wildlife Refuge. They're both closed for bird nesting earlier in the year, making this a good time to check them out.

Tall, whitish cliffs drop steeply into the sea around the southern end of White Island. At the top, an old chimney still stands like a monument.

We landed at a pocket beach on the north side and followed rocky ledges up to the top. The sun was sinking toward the western horizon, dropping out of the clouds and giving us a brief burst of color, before the clouds moved-in again, wispy lace and mackerel scales with a distinct wintery look.

I had hoped I might get a photo or two for the guidebook- maybe one that really conveyed the feeling of Damariscove Island. We headed back across the channel, aiming for the tiny splotch of red where we'd parked the car. I felt I had a few photos and some new details as well. I've been editing the guidebook, compressing it and weeding-out extra words. It feels like a process that will never end, even after the book comes out, and in a way, I don't think it will. We were off the water just before sunset.

Practice Students

Nate and I were headed south on Route One well before sunrise. A couple of hours later we pulled off at a gas station, puzzling over the map when a car with a familiar kayak on its roof passed by; "There goes Ed." We followed him to the AMC cabin on Knubble Bay, where we met the others- a dozen of us in all. We were there as practice students for several candidates assessing as ACA Level 5 instructors. For the next two days, we would be their guinea pigs.

Sometimes, practice students are referred to as teabags, since getting dipped repeatedly into the ocean is usually part of the drill, but I'm told that various other connotations have brought this term out of favor. Practice students are needed for ACA assessments, and if possible, you want to get real students- not someone just pretending that they've never heard of torso rotation. We've had practice students for Instructor Development Workshops, and I had them for my L3 Instructor assessment.  Some were great; others were challenging in the way that any student can bring along their own hurdles. The challenges usually involve ego... not accepting that you might have something to learn from the instructor candidates.

Why be a practice student? The short answer is free instruction. The long answer...

At the AMC cabin, we separated into two groups. Our instructors, Mark and Danny introduced themselves and we got some sense of how the day would go. I'd paddled with both of the other students, Ed and Jenna. Todd Wright would be the assessor that day and would switch with Josh Hall (recipient of the ACA 2012 Excellence in Instruction Award) for Day 2. In a way, I think we all just wanted to get onto the water. Until then, we would be sussing each other out, wondering how skilled the others were, how we would fit in- or if we would be wet, cold and out of our element for the next two days. If I were an L5 candidate, I'd worry that the students are either too skilled and I'd have nothing to teach them, or that they're not proficient enough. Either way, you try to figure out what your students need to learn and how you'll make that happen.

We spent the first day in the mouth of the Kennebec River, practicing in the surf on Popham Beach and in the current out toward the middle. For Level 5 students, the day might involve more coaching than lessons, our instructors observing and getting us to understand how we might paddle better. If you count the assessor, the instructor to student ratio was 1 to 1: not bad.

The next day, we launched in Knubble Bay and used the current around Goose Rocks and Lower Hell Gate. I'd hoped for some rock gardening out at the Thread of Life or Damariscove Island, but conditions looked a bit small. So, while you can't always count on swell and wind, tidal current is fairly dependable, and it's tough to teach L5 skills in L2 conditions. We didn't have a lot of current, but in a way, the mild flow is almost better for coaching.

In addition to working on our personal skills, we watched the candidates to get ideas for our own styles of instruction. Whether it's a warm-up exercise or the subtly different ways we try get concepts across, getting exposure to other teachers is priceless- one of the best ways we can develop our own teaching skills.

And then there's the "just soaking it in" factor. After our first day, we all sat around a long table in the AMC cabin, trading stories, having a laugh or two. I mostly listened, impressed by the camaraderie among paddlers who have been at this for awhile, who, among a revolving cast of characters, show up at these paddling events, whether they're on the East Coast, West Coast, Scotland or Wales, and share their love of the sport. It's not something they're doing to get rich, and it isn't an easy lifestyle, but paddling has obviously pointed the way.

So I soaked it in. I had a good two days. Nate had a good two days. Pleasantly exhausted, we had a lot to talk about during the drive home. We felt fortunate and grateful for a lot of things: that we've had good teachers along the way, that we've found peers to share it with- including our wives who paddle their own boats and make it possible for us to go off on some of these trips.