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.”

How a Tuna Troller Begins

My family on our lobster boat, the "Phyllis". I am on the far left, 10 years old. Then my sister Lee, my brother John, Mom, Dad, Lorna the dog, and sister Pam. My brother and I have found our life's work on boats....he as a ship's pilot, me as a fishing boat owner and operator.

Fishermen are grown slowly. Their skill set begins at birth. If fishermen knew what life would bring down the road, they probably would be smart and choose another path. But those of us who bungled into this lifestyle, did not get there by chance. We were born to it. Everyone learns how to keep going in a particular direction as a kid...a fishermen learns how to steer.

The first helmsmanship for all four of us kids was steering the Scamp, our great grandfather’s sailboat, and the 4-Fun, commonly known as the “Nana boat”. Both were havens for our family on weekends and vacations on South Oyster Bay and Great South Bay, between Long Island and the outer sand spit of Jones Beach and Fire Island. My bunk on the Scamp was a wooden dresser drawer because I was just a baby and the sounds and movement of the boat put me to sleep. On the Nana boat, I slept in the farthest reaches of the bow curled up on the extra anchor line. During the day we sailed from Amityville to a destination across Great South Bay such as Hemlock Heading, Cherry Grove, or Fire Island. We had a chance to hold on to the tiller with Dad’s help and got the feel of it pulling to leeward. It’s funny how it’s called “weather helm”.

The beaches of Gilgo, Cedar, Oak Island, and Fire Island were our playground. The ocean swell broke on the south side in combers under which we dove like dolphins. Our mother was constantly counting heads in the surf. The eelgrass poked and cut your bare feet if you weren’t careful jumping and climbing on the sand dunes. Mermaid’s purses and shells lined the tidal edges while the terns and gulls whirled overhead. Mom said we had our bottoms in the air continually like sandpipers pecking at the sand fleas. We collected feathers, shells, driftwood, and anything we could carry .When you are four, most of it gets dropped on the long trek back to the boat.

We learned how to clam with our toes in the shallow waters of Great South Bay. My Dad supplemented his income with weekend clamming for littlenecks & cherrystones piled in wire baskets. We were always wary of the blue crab’s sharp bite. A howl would go up and you knew one of your siblings had just got it. My Dad fed us raw clams if we complained of hunger. My first memory of eating fish and clams was from the Great South Bay adventures. It was heaven for a child to be over, in, and under the water, fed when hungry, and put to bed with the sound of the sea rippling by the bow. I learned to hold the tiller and steer towards a landmark or a bouy ahead. A lot of what we absorbed was a vocabulary of seafaring terms like leeward, mast, stay, bowline, sheet, warp, tiller, starboard, hard-a-lee, but most of all we were my Dad’s crew, so we did stuff, and doing is learning. Now I am doing what I did as a kid. I am a fisherman.