Tinker, Bar, Trumpet & Ship Islands

A half-hour after setting-out, it occurred to me that I was going the wrong way. I’d launched from Naskeag Point in Brooklin, bound for the Tinker Island group. I’d passed the usual waypoints on the crossing, aiming for the pair of southwest boulders on Pond Island when I thought “wait a minute...” I paused to have a look at the chart on my deck.

Those arrows weren't drawn on it yet. Too bad; I felt a little confused. I’d planned for high tide at noon and light winds out of the north. I’d get pushed north up Blue Hill Bay, to the north end of Tinker where the tide would change and began pushing me south. Beautiful. Love it.

But then it occurred to me that I’d read the tide chart wrong. I shouldn’t even admit this. It isn’t the first time. I’m starting to think of it as “navigational dyslexia.” East is west, high tide is low tide... Usually it lasts a few moments until I figure it out. I did figure it out the night before, but instead of choosing a different destination, I decided.... I don't know- something that didn't make sense. Low tide was at noon, not high tide, and anyway I forgot all about that when I launched and just pointed out toward Smuttynose. One way or another, I was destined to paddle against the current some of the time. Maybe this had been the case all along, but it’s worse when you think you should have known better.


The Tinker Island group islands all occupy the same ridge of shallow water, dividing Blue Hill Bay roughly in half. Bar Island, my first destination, is mostly privately-owned, but the southern end, along with Trumpet and Ship Islands to the south, is part of the Coastal Maine Islands National Wildlife Refuge. Most of the refuge islands are off-limits due to seabird nesting from April 1st through July. This was the last day of March, and just offshore, seabirds lined-up in droves, ready to stake a claim. I still had half a day before the stampede, so I got out and had a look around: broad beach, eroding bluffs with grassy meadows above, dotted with occasional spruce. My eye was easily drawn to Western Mountain on Mount Desert Island, just a few miles east.

I went around the island, barely crossing the bar at low tide, and followed Tinker’s western shore up to Sand Point, where I stopped for lunch. Tinker was occupied before the American Revolution and the population grew to over 40 inhabitants in the 1840s when a shipyard operated at Sand Point. It’s been a century since anyone lived there full-time, but there's now a summer residence on the southern end. Maine Coast Heritage Trust owns the northern half, maintaining a couple of campsites, like the one at Sand Point. It’s a nice spot, with views past the lighthouse to Isle au Haut. 


While I ate my lunch I watched the effects of the tide change as the northbound current began pushing against the southbound wind, developing a chop with whitecaps spread across the bay. I paddled around to the east side, where the going was a little easier and made a figure “8,” crossing back over the bar to the other side of Bar Island. I knew I was running out of time- I had to volunteer at the Opera House at six, but when I saw some “FOR SALE” flags, I just had to stop and imagine where I would put my cabin. I’d need to look at my financial papers when I got home (the still-unchecked lottery ticket from Friday night) but this would do.

By now, the northern wind had shifted around to the south and picked-up considerably. I made quick stops on Trumpet and Ship Islands, verifying that they were ready for the birds to inhabit, and headed back across- four or five miles against the wind and waves. I willed myself to not look at my watch, to not think about how late I would be.

This is why I don’t like to make commitments. I paddled straight toward the sun, which turned the distant islands and growing swells into dark silhouettes. I focused on my immediate surroundings, on keeping a clean forward stroke, and eventually made it back to Naskeag Harbor. An hour later I stood in the ticket booth at the Opera House, stretching-out those sore muscles.

Herrick Bay, Flye Point

At the Naskeag Point launch, fishermen unloaded boatloads of lobster traps, stacking them on the pier while I readied my kayak nearby on the beach. The overcast sky was dark for mid-day, and though the air temperature hovered up around fifty, a cool breeze blew from the east, accompanied by small, but persistent waves. If I hadn’t gone to the trouble of getting all loaded-up and driving there, I might have easily decided that the sea didn’t look too inviting, and found some warm, dry place to spend a less eventful afternoon. Thanks to other commitments and a trip to the Midwest though, I’d just gone three weeks without a paddle, and I was itching to get out.


As I paddled into the waves and wind out toward the point, I felt a bit sluggish- such hard work after the weeks off. I focused on a clean stroke, and it didn’t take long to fall into the familiar cadence. I rounded the point and made some turns between the rocks, letting the waves do some of the work: nice and splashy, salt water on the tongue. It felt good to be paddling again.


I followed a shoreline of crumbling bluffs topped by a few small camps, finally curving into Herrick Bay, where the wind and waves diminished. Much of the time when I paddle in developed areas, I end-up checking-out the houses, which in more and more places seem to be large and seasonal, designed to look impressive - the sort of places featured in those magazines selling a fantasy Maine lifestyle.


I usually go for their smaller counterparts, which end-up being guest houses or boat sheds. I liked the neighborhood around Herrick Bay. Largely undeveloped, the dwellings tended to be humble, including a small travel trailer, a couple of yurts and the sort-of falling-down equipment sheds that I could almost imagine living in- if I could just find room for the art collection.


But the surroundings make-up for diminished wall space. The view changes at low tide though, when much of the head of the bay flats-out. At high tide, it felt like a lake.


I did find some art though, on the Crabtree Seafood barge, beached in a cove. I liked how the artist depicted the fishermen harvesting crabs from the crab trees. This is why it pays to paddle into every cove: you never know what you’ll find.


As I paddled out to Flye Point, the wind and waves had greatly diminished, and I followed a series of ledges out to the Flye Islands, where, just an hour after high tide, a swift current had begun to funnel through. About a mile off the point, I came to the Blue Hill Bay Lighthouse and drifted there for a few minutes as the western sky began to show hints of sunset - at three-thirty in the afternoon. With a little help from the current, I dug-in for the paddle back to Naskeag Point, arriving at the launch as the sky turned dark.