Learning

The nurturing period for seat of the pants learning changes dramatically with the advent of school and enforced socialization. There were two kinds of learning that I remember which helped in the formation of a budding fisherman. One was the schooling kind and the other was the character kind. The education from school was not only reading, writing and math, but also the tutelage of innumerable rules for safety and getting along. As an inquisitive child I liked the math, science and reading part but the crushing blow to my independence was irritating. In retaliation, I became a dreamer and finished my class work as fast as possible so as to be assigned messenger jobs. School just didn’t go fast enough. Between five and ten years old, the best time was recess, after school, weekends, and the whole free summertime.

It was in the time out of school when the practical lessons took place. There were the beginning stages of multiple skill sets to learn. In the nautical area, tying up a boat, learning the basic four or five knots like a bowline, sheep shank, half hitch, square knot, and simple eye splice required practice and patience for awkward fingers. Sanding and painting our wooden boats taught proper preparation of surfaces and tidy application of paint and all about turpentine and linseed oil. Other boat skills included rudimentary navigation, and helmsmanship toward an object in the distance and by compass. All of my intuitive knowledge blossomed into the beginning skills of operating a boat, whether a rowboat or a sailboat.

My Dad loved to eat fish. First he had to troll a line behind the Scamp or later the Nana boat for snapper, better known as baby bluefish, a delicacy of Great South Bay. This snapper was the first successful catch of mine that I remember eating. As I perched on a settee in the cabin, out of the perpetual afternoon breeze with the Nana boat on a reach going towards Amityville, I tasted a teeny bite of the sautéed snapper from a paper plate.
I was prepared to hate it, but instead was pleasantly surprised. I actually liked this fish and since I caught it, that made it an excellent fish. On subsequent weekends and summers on the Nana boat, we drifted and mooched for fluke, a flounder-like bottomfish which flourished in the Shinnecock Inlet area. It offered a larger fillet than snapper but it tasted bland. My mother had a lot of mouths to feed so her cooking style was get it cooked, get it eaten, get it washed up so it was a done deal. She was saddled with my Dad’s excellent clamming and fishing skills which never let up on the summer’s supply of seafood.

Dad taught us clam collection by exploiting the digging and burrowing ability of our feet. All four of us kids were poised over his secret clam beds with our toes working the mud for that special feel of a littleneck or cherrystone. When you hit one, you reached in the bay to your armpit, grabbed the clam, and stuck it in your bag. There was one adversary in this adventure. The local crab population could strike a toe or ankle and lead to howls of pain.

Seat of the pants learning was gaining the logical application of skills to further abilities in many directions. One area of learning was mental and physical toughness. My siblings and I valued bravery. If you scraped your knee or stubbed your toe, never, never cry. When being spanked it was OK to wince and grimace but not to cry. We learned a lot of neighborhood games such as Red Rover, Giant Steps, softball and others which all had rules over which we fiercely fought. Fairness was a real doctrine. Athletic ability was valued as well as the rudiments of strategy. My older sisters were adept at ditching my brother and I, which was a useful strategy later on for me. Our character was developing, our competition amongst siblings and neighbors was toughening, and our desire to succeed was growing. I wanted to be as smart and nice as my sister Lee, and
as popular and in charge as my sister Pam. We all wanted to win, be first, and be the best at everything. With four children all two years apart, it was an impossible task. It was a great rivalry because we learned discipline and drive and hard work from both our play and from our hobbies and games with each other. My brother had it the worst because we expected him to be the toughest being the only boy. We were merciless at times. I pounded him on the back for hitting me on the head with a shovel, and then with a hammer. We fought until I was 12. It was a good sturdy childhood. We all became strivers, committed to excellence. From seat of the pants and intuitive learning, we absorbed our environment, but with life’s early lessons of family life and school, it was pressed on us to challenge or react with personality and skills.

There were always boats....

Nana, Dad (4 yrs) at tiller of Scamp, Great Aunt Flo- Great South Bay, Long Island, NY.

My father’s maternal grandfather was in banking and lived in Brooklyn, New York. His family spent summers out of the humid confines of Brooklyn and commuted to Amityville on the southern shores of Long Island. Here he built a home on 138 Ocean Avenue on the Amityville River. Eventually a covered boathouse was added with a marine railway in order to maintain his growing fleet. There was the Scamp, the Teal, the Scampa, the Coot, and the Gull. The entire family sailed in the Scamp including Dad. He took the tiller at a young age. His father and mother split up and Dad remained with his mother and grandfather, Marshall Woodman. My great-grandfather “Grandpa” was only in my life for five years, but I remember his glasses, his chair, and the big tree in the yard at Ocean Avenue. Most of all, the boathouse held a fascination. The aromas of tar, linseed oil, and oakum are redolent of smoky teas like Lapsang Souchong.

My siblings and I were welcomed aboard both the Teal and the Scamp as babies. I was sleeping in a dresser drawer for my maiden voyage. My two older sisters were already old salts. Sometimes I was left to nap in a pram under the big tree (I claim it was a willow) with my Grandpa to watch for any wiggles. My first visual memory was the interplay of sunlight and shadow through the wisps of leaves on a scorching summer afternoon. Another very young memory was the sound of water slipping by the hull of the Scamp as I lay in a blanket to leeward under the cuddy. There is no finer sound than this….soothing and smooth. From the heeling angle and the faster sound of the water sliding past, I could lay there and imagine the wind freshening up, the tiller pulling slightly with weather helm, and the ripples on the surface of the bay turning into small waves. This is how a child gathers all the information to have what’s called “seat of the pants” knowledge of sailboats. Much of it comes through your senses, some of it is mimicking your parents, and very little of it is pedagogical. The wind hits your face and you can always point to its source. The waves usually come from that direction too. The sailboat won’t sail into the wind. Stronger wind causes heeling. Becalmed is no wind. Current can carry you slowly with no wind. Tides go in and out. Shallow water is to be avoided unless the centerboard is up or you are going clamming. The tiller was pushed opposite of the direction you wished to sail. No one had to school or tell us. The data came in and registered. We were sailors, rowers, and helmsmen at a very young age.

How a Father Raises a Fisherman

All fathers seem larger than life when a child is very young and mine was no exception. It seemed like he led our family on its greatest adventures which usually centered around boats. My first sailing trip was in a dresser drawer on The Scamp, my great grandfather’s sailboat. We lived in Amityville, New York, the town in which my father grew up. My great grandfather and my grandmother lived on the Amityville River which afforded a covered boathouse with an internal marine railway for hauling out in the winter. This boathouse was a hangout for my father as a child, listening to the stories of his grandfather and his friends as they smoked their pipes and whittled half models. It smelled of oakum, tar, and linseed oil, the scent of my favorite tea, Lapsang Souchong. My father grew up immersed in the culture of Great South Bay which for him meant anything to do with, on, or around boats. He knew the south shore like the back of his hand and was eager to share it with his family, which eventually grew to four little onions. That was his name for us in fond times…his “onions”.

We soaked up his style, vocabulary, and talent with sailing and rowing. He taught us how to dive under the breakers in the Atlantic surf while Mom counted heads to see if we came up. He could walk on his hands down the beach. He towed us swimming the breaststroke with our arms around his neck. He showed us how to dig for clams with our toes in the shallow water where he had a secret bed. My Dad often hummed or whistled and had a smile on his face out on the water. Tamping down his pipe filled with the tobacco in the blue package, he’d survey his “onions” rowing and sailing with a competence he never questioned. He was happiest in this world of ocean and we thrived in it too.

When children learn skills at their parents’ side, it transfers the deeper attitudes towards life in general. We also learned optimism, and a strong work ethic. We learned classical music and Broadway musicals without knowing…..they were in the background but in the fabric of every day. My mother taught us the practical stuff and my father provided the romance. He also was “true blue.” This exacting sense of doing the right thing by others was bone deep and his strongest moral principle.

My brother and I spent numerous days out cod fishing with him as our older siblings found our lobster boat less thrilling and our mom stayed home. This special time with him was his way of getting away from the stress of the corporate world. My brother and I were rascals and poor fishermen. Instead we horsed around in the dinghy one cold fall day off of Children’s Island (Marblehead, A) and swamped it. My Dad quickly raised anchor and came to our aid. The chilly water was debilitating. He never yelled, just stripped off our wet clothes, wrapped us in scratchy wool blankets, and made us swig a shot of scotch. We didn’t say a word through blue guilty lips. We stayed in our bunks until the mooring buoy an hour later. Our punishment was disappointing my father. He was worried about hypothermia and we were worried about losing our good standing in his eyes. That is how it should be….he earned our deepest respect, love, energy, and hard work….that was my father and by the way, he gave a fabulous bear hug.

How my Mother raised a fisherman

Our mother had her hands full with four children, all two years apart. We were a noisy lot but left to our own devices, were able to entertain ourselves quite well. In order to do what I wanted, it was necessary to tell my parents just enough to make them think I was involving them in my life. If I said too much like my oldest sister, then there was a lot of restrictions. If I said nothing, like my next oldest sister, then it aroused suspicion.
The middle road of parental notification suited me because it afforded the most freedom
and did not altogether eliminate my parents as allies. My mother claims that I was a skeptical child and needed direct experience to learn. If I was told the stove was hot, I touched it once and verified what hot and burn and pain meant. I just couldn’t believe my Mom or anyone for that matter.

She did teach us many skills which had a lot to do with going to sea. From the age of four, I was given a blue denim bag the size of a pillow case to pack all my clothes, books, dolls, etc. for a trip on the boat. It was our job and if we forgot something, then we had to make do. Mom was a master of lists and organization. She had large canvas bags with sturdy handles in which to pack all the food. A good cruise planner runs a seamless operation and my mother was a champ. Good stowing skills utilized a thought process of what will be used or eaten first and last. Shapes must fit all together in tiny spaces and then be stable so that rough weather won’t dislodge them. The labels were taken off and the canned food was marked with magic marker. We all helped and by doing so, learned the business of planning, packing, stowing, and tying down. None of us paid a lot of attention to actually learning anything from Mom but we must have copied her expertise because all of us are capable of planning and organizing on a much larger scale.

Mom was usually cheerful and that is a good quality for life at sea. One could always be reminded that you could be in school or some other miserable fate and it would make life on the boat very sweet. She was a disciplinarian when it came to speaking the king’s English. Our grammar and manners were corrected no matter if we were steaming towards Gloucester or reciting a homework assignment. Sometimes on weekends she would choose to stay home and we would feel like Dad was the leader of the lost children from Peter Pan as he took us on adventures in the Phyllis. All we had to be was “charitable” as he called it. We were an eager crew when Mom stayed home because the rules were slackened. Our cooking and crewing were appreciated by my father’s great love for having his “onions” close by.

Mom got the short end of the stick because she was stuck with raising us alone when Dad traveled on business which was often and for long periods of time. It was similar to having a fisherman father, gone fishing for six months. Four energetic, independent, and opinionated kids couldn’t have been an easy group to manage, but she did and much credit is due for her perseverance and dedication. We all survived childhood in one piece. My mother credits it to the philosophy which she and Dad used.” Treat them like racehorses: give them a little slack on the reins but be ready to pull them back in.”

Pendleton Island and Sardine Fishing 100 years ago

Eastward across Passamaquoddy Bay laid an island which was also part of Canada. It snuggled next to Deer Island , a larger and longer island which borders the southeastern side of Passamaquoddy Bay. We anchored offshore this island, Pendleton Island, and went ashore to see what we could see. (Just like the proverbial bear....a main theme in my life to this day) Mom and Dad found the salt water pool which warms up as the tide seeps in over the warm rocks. With a Bay of Fundy tide fall of 29 feet, this does not take too long. We were too early for any measurable water so the four of us kids left Mom & Dad to wait it out while we hiked around the hills and found a plethora of wild blueberries. Every pocket and bag was filled as well as our mouths, continually. We were intrepid explorers as well as pickers. Our poking around finally brought us back to the salt water pond in which we found Mom & Dad skinny dipping in luxury. Pam had the presence of mind to document this event with her Brownie camera, and it is a mainstay of laughs in the Harris book, our large family photo album started by Nana. My favorite quote about life on Pendleton for children was this from Hazel Pendleton, " Living on Pendleton's Island made the children very self-reliant. They could entertain themselves, learned to be useful around the place and to take care of themselves on land and water. They learned early to handle a dinghy and understand the tides and the best route to follow across the passage to suit the time of tide. None of them ever learned to swim. " The Harris kids were much like this but we all could swim like fish.

Historically, Pendleton Island was occupied by the what else, Pendleton family at the turn of the 19th to 20th century. A good perspective is documented in “Life on Pendleton” by Hazel Pendleton. The following brief description of sardine fishing in the early days is recollected after reading hazel’s account:

To get an idea of the area from Pendleton Island to Lubec,ME see NOAA chart 13398 or the Google map * displaying from South to North, Lubec and Eastport, ME, to Pendleton Island, New Brunswick. Historically, the sardine fishery occurred by American law from April 15 to December 1st but Hazel’s grandfather said that the first sardines came into Passamaquoddy Bay on or about April 15th anyway. In the early 1900’s, the population of Eastport reached 10,000 in sardine season. There were many sardine factories and one can company, American Can, which supplied the stock to the canneries. Entire families migrated from Deer Island to Eastport for the season. The Petit Manaan gang went to Lubec instead. The canneries gave each family a one room cabin next to the harbor with an outhouse which hung over the water. All the amenities like stoves and bedding were brought from home. Everyone over 10 worked all day and sometimes into the night until the job was done. Kids younger than 10 gathered wood on the beach and tended the little kids and babies. When the season was over, everyone packed their things and went home to Deer Island or Pendleton and the kids started school again. The money earned in the sardine plants would have to last till next April.

The sardine boats were not too big. The sardines were trapped in weirs and then scooped into open tenders or later were seined by larger boats. These boats had no wheelhouse, just a wheel and sometimes a crate on its end for a seat. In rough weather the skipper often had to tie himself in. The fish were carried in hogsheads and sold anywhere from $3.00 to $10.00 per barrel depending on the quality.

Later on the seiners filled their holds with larger amounts of sardines. One particular Eastport character was Captain Guilford Mitchell who was the boss of several factories and boats. He had ample lungpower and could holler down the channel “how many hogsheads?” to which the approaching skipper would hold up his fingers. Captain Mitchell would then direct him to the particular cannery he wanted him to go.
The seiners all hired a “scooper” who donned hip boots and oilskins. He worked in the hold, netting the sardines into barrels. These were hoisted out of the hold up into the pickling shed. He was paid by the skipper and seemed to have the glory job.
Many of the skippers were Canadians from Deer Island and Pettit Manaan but the boats were registered in America. No one cared much because the islanders went back and forth from the mainland to the islands with impunity.

One area to be avoided on a big tide was a whirlpool known as Old Sow. Almost everyone in the area had a near escape from the clutches of this dangerous phenomenon.
Dad avoided it but we were hoping to glimpse the vortex in the innards of Old Sow.

* Click the "up" arrow in the upper left hand corner to scroll to Lamberts Cove which is directly south of Pendleton Island.

We Cruise Way Down East

Difficult as it was, we pulled anchor and headed NE, or down Maine, past the Libby Islands which have the second most vocal fog horn on the Eastern Coast of the US, honking for close to 36 days and nights per year. Only the West Quoddy Head moaned longer (941 hours a year). We ran along the shoreline in deep water until we came to this very same lighthouse marking the entrance to Quoddy Narrows. It wasn’t foggy or we would have been blasted by the horn when rounding the head.

Our older sisters had recently joined us after a summer at Camp Wabunakee.
They taught John and me all the camp songs.”A Cannibal King with the Big Nose Ring,” “Peace I ask of Thee oh River,” and others in unknown dialects. My sister Lee reminded me that she and Pam were not interested in out of the way islands and wild coasts after roughing it at camp. Give them the sociable harbors like Northeast Harbor. Lee was in 7th and Pam in 9th grade, and they liked civilization. The dynamics of our family life changed as did the sleeping arrangements. All four kids slept on air mattresses in the cockpit under the steering shelter. Mosquito netting hung down to keep the buggers out. In this era, you had to blow up your mattress every night. We raced and almost passed out. We pulled the plug on anyone being a brat.

NW of Quoddy Narrows (what is a quoddy?) is the fishing town of Lubec. Where there’s fishing there’s seagulls galore and gunky water too. We continued up Lubec Narrows to Eastport. Both towns claim to be the easternmost town in the US. Mom’s practical notes about Eastport remarked of an A&P and an excellent meat market, but no ice. We had an old ice box requiring a diet of two blocks every three days. Eastport was good for an ice cream cone. Sardine canneries dominated the harbor. Our boat, the Phyllis, was too clean to be a bona fide fishing boat around Eastport and Lubec. My Mom and sisters voted in a block for more civilization so we were forced to go north again to St Andrews.

St Andrews by the Sea ought to tell you something about the nature of the place. We anchored off a pier which looked hopefully close to the mercantile area. The extreme tides of 29 ft. rise and fall worry a conscientious skipper. Dad let out “tremendous amount of scope on the anchor line” according to Mom’s notes. She also remarked that there were “two wonderful china shops with all the English patterns; two tweed shops, plus many gift shops with delightful people.” Lee said we all bought wool hats, probably at the tweed shop. John and I could do without the delightful people. I begged for maple sugar of course. I still crave it. Lee, Pam, and Mom traipsed around the stores and we younger ones succeeded in conning all into ice cream cones. We slurped them all the way to the pier. We all exclaimed at once how much the tide had dropped.

At first we didn’t see the rowboat. Upon further inspection, we gazed at the spectacle of a high and dry rowboat dangling from its painter. Dad picked his way down the slimy ladder and lowered her down. It was the gooiest ladder in all of New Brunswick. We had our ice and some fresh groceries and a tummy full of ice cream. Mom had her culture, Pam and Lee saw people. Now we were headed for a deserted island in the morning. St Andrews was Canada, a foreign country, with lots of English stuff. Pendleton Island, across Passamaquoddy Bay, was uninhabited and had a special little swimming cove we desired to explore. We were to find much more.

Backtracking from the Mudhole to Jonesport

The area around Moosabec Reach is clearly shown by this chart: The Mudhole is under the "E" in Eastern Bay. In the upper right hand corner is Great Spruce Island, which anchors the eastern side of the Thorofare. Dad had a fascination with the name Great Wass Island. What was a "Wass"? Mom like the New Englandy towns, their architecture, their stores. Dad liked the wild islands offshore with their deserted coves, dangerous rocks and all. John and I favored Dad's view of things that summer although we never turned down a chance to skull ashore for an ice cream cone.

Dad loved the sleak Beals Island lobsterboats, reportedly the fastest in Maine. Boatbuilding on Beals Island was a family tradition, the skills learned by doing, with an eye and an instinct for how she ought'a look.

These boats were fast and I know Dad was itching to give it a go to see if our Phyllis was at least competative. Lobsterboat racing in Moosabec Reach had begun in the early 1950's and was generally won by the Beals Island boys. John loved the noise these boats made at full throttle. I don't think Mom hung out any laundry from the rigging while we were in the vicinity of real lobstermen and their skookum boats.

A Cruising Guide's View to Roque Island

About Roque Island:
“To lift a phrase from South Pacific, this is a “special island.” The writer puts this island down as incomparable! With a long history, a fine beach, many acres of woodland, high cliffs, and a choice of several good harbors, Roque is an empire in itself.
It was purchased in 1806 by two partners, one of them Joseph Peabody of Salem, a famous merchant of that period who had at least three of his vessels built near the tidal Mill Dam at the head of Shorey Cove. On his death he left the island to his children. In 1864 it became the sole property of his daughter Catharine and her husband John L Gardner. Except for the years 1870-1882, when it was owned by the Longfellows and the Shoreys, it has been in possession of their descendants ever since…
The outstanding feature of this Roque group of islands is the 1 ¼ mile crescent beach of white sand on Roque itself.

Foote provides the following information on Roque Island:
…But in the night you may not think all is paradise. As likely as not you will awake in the wee hours listening to the low groan and grunt of Libby Island’s diaphone, announcing the arrival of a fog that may well last two solid weeks. And if you’re anchored off the beach ( in Roque Harbor) the prettiest place to be, you’re certainly going to know things if it blows up, for the holding ground is abominable..

Taken from "A Cruising Guide to the New England Coast" by Robert Duncan & Fessenden S. Blanchard: Fourth Edition, New York-1958;Dodd,Mead & Company.

Jonesport VS Beals Island

Mom loved Jonesport but I think our simpathies lay with Beals Island. We loved that fact that their boatbuilders designed the fastest lobsterboats in Maine. The fastest in the 50's were sleek 33-38 footers, quite stripped down compared to the Phyllis.

In fact Moosabec Reach was the scene of yearly lobsterboat races. In the 1950's, Bernard "Benny" Beal in his boat, Stella Ann, dominated the winner's circle to the extent the races were cancelled for a number of years. But in this new century, boats such as the Why Not, Chip Ahoy, Lotta Money, and Flying Toothpick vie at breakneck speed for the title of fastest lobsterboat.

Dad liked the boat called the Thoroughbred and secretly wanted to test our Phyllis against it. I suspect it was like Gary Cooper wanting to race his horse at every chance in the movie "Friendly Persuasion."

Here's some good links to articles about the races:

http://www.workingwaterfront.com/article.asp?storyID=20011210

http://www.explorenewengland.com/travel?article=maine/articles/2004/06/27/in_high_gear/

http://www.lowellbrothers.com/legacy.html

http://www.fishermensvoice.com/archives/0706resurrectionjonesport.html

Mom's log on Roque Island

August 19th, 1959

“Roque Island was our next destination and we hardly realized what a treat was in store for us. After obtaining groceries and the usual gas, water, and oil, we started out with a northwest wind and sparkling weather past the beautiful little lighthouse on Bear Island. We made remarkable time out to Petit Manaan and not knowing the waters, took the outside route around the lighthouse. Our next compass heading took the Phyllis towards the entrance to Moosabec Reach which leads to the interesting town of Jonesport. This is one of the few Down East towns North of Mt Desert which has gas and provisions. Much to my delight, I found the old fashioned cookie boxes in the local general store. It certainly took me back to my younger days at Bustins Island. I hope that Jonesport retains this old time simplicity because there is little enough left in our hustling world. Just for old time’s sake, I bought some “Pantry Cookies” and they couldn’t have tasted better to me!

Across from Jonesport is the famous Beals Island, where an exceptionally fast type of lobster boat is built. To our amusement, we discovered that Beals Island was also the hotrod center of lobster boating. Two boats which vie for the speed championship are the “Thorobred” and “The Boys”. A new fixed bridge has finally connected Beals Island with the mainland, and we scooted under that and on to Roque Island.

We approached our objective with great caution as many warnings had been given in our boating guides. Coming in at half tide around Great Spruce Island we were completely overjoyed to discover one of the most beautiful, half moon beaches, sparkling white, which we have ever seen. The next decision was where to anchor for the night and we decided upon Lakeman Harbor at the end of Great Harbor. The Phyllis looked completely at home…..” Her log ends here.

The Thoroughfare to Roque island

We awoke to pea soup fog. My brother and I rolled up our damp sleeping bags and collapsed the air mattresses. We slept in the cockpit under the steering shelter....canvas wind curtains up and mosquito netting hanging down. One could taste the weather and tide. I knew the clams were sticking there necks out on the beach and the seagulls were feeding on sand fleas and baby crab. Fog is good training for the other four senses, mostly hearing.

No radar, GPS, or radio beacons, just the sound of a bell bouy and the moaning of a "billy whistle". That's what Mom called a whistling bouy which only sounded as it drew up and down in a swell. Lighthouses were of no visual use in a fog, but they did have horns. On this morning we heard a caucaphony of birds and bells.

With the addition of some scrounged wood, our stove crackled to life, and the scent of coffee wafted up to the cockpit. My brother, John, and I lowered ourselves into the cabin to find our Dad cussing at the water pump. It's handle was cattywompus at times and gave him grief. He added a teapot to heat for our hot chocolate. Too foggy to row anywhere, so John pestered Mom and I read the Sailors's Guide to the Maine Coast. Dad studied the chart to Roque Island, our destination. We heard of its legendary beach, white sand untouched by civilization. One had to plan carefully with the tide running so hard at full flood and ebb. Best to go through " The Thoroughfare" at high slack.

I wrote out the simplest directions for gaining the Thoroughfare's advantage. Proudly I gave them to Dad, who with the grace of a patient father, placed them near his chart and the actual sailing directions for the Thoroughfare. With the fog lifting, we hauled anchor and were underway to discover this prize beach.

Dad wrapped John and I in blankets and sent us up to the bow to listen for a particular red bell bouy. The fog was up and down, so in the down periods, we listened over the hum of the Chrystler Crown for any ding or dong. At the bow's waterline the sea parted as if the boat had a moustache. We stared down and listened. Many minutes went by as we lay mesmerised by the bow wave. A seal breathed, and then a "Dong". We looked at each other for confirmation. Yes...listen closer. And another faint "dong". Two hands shot out pointing in the direction of the bell bouy and looked back to Dad. He nodded his affirmation and changed course slightly in the direction to which we pointed. Even though we were six and eight, our father believed us. We had been his crew from birth and he trusted in our abilities.

My simple directions for "the Thoroughfare" are included above.

The Mudhole

My brother and I were six and eight years old when on a summer cruise to New Brunswick, Canada, were sent out to chart “The Mudhole” . We took turns dropping the sounding lead and recording the depth in feet as well as documenting rocks, ledges and lobster bouys. My parents were hoping for a lengthy project which would loan them a few hours of privacy.

The actual chart of "The Mudhole" is #13326 which can be viewed on this link.

A Cruising Guide to the New England Coast by Robert Duncan & Fessenden Blanchard
1958
However some descriptions were written by Mr Caleb Foote in his 1938 versuin of “The New England Yachtsman”


The Mudhole directions: p.385 “Cruising Guide…”
Great Wass Island, ME East of Jonesport, ME
Taken from the 1938 NE Yachtsman: “ the Mud Hole, with starred rocks spang in the middle of the entrance and 16 feet just inside them, has always held a peculiar fascination. I have never done more than sail by outside the Mud Hole; but once inside, all hurricanes in the world could blow and you would still be safe and sound. Fishermen, who sometimes leave boats here in winter, say it’s not hard to enter at high water, and here’s how: about where the chart (#304) marks 21 feet just north of Mud Hole Point, a fish weir makes out from the point. Skirt this weir, leaving it to port. Then as you enter the bottleneck mouth, keep very, very close to the southern side- and from the look of the chart the fishermen mean close! All of them agreed that the entrance should be made to the south of the rocks, but it would be well to sound out with a dinghy first. Once inside, you’ll probably find a winter mooring left vacant, and you can be sure you’re in a place of which not one in a hundred of your cruising friends has ever even heard.”