SPECTRUM: Time travel in Maine

By LUCAS BLAISE
Contributing Writer

September 30, 2007 01:26 pm

— PLATTSBURGH -- Nearly equal in size and both built in 1871, two coastal schooners slowly passed each other in Maine's Penobscot Bay.
With sails set, the 68-foot Stephen Taber was pushed by a diesel-powered yawl boat. I was aboard the 64-foot schooner Lewis R. French and traveling by the same power.
Despite both being part of the same Maine Windjammer Association fleet, our captain, Garth Wells, sensed that revelry, or rivalry, was afoot as the Taber came on.
"I don't like this," he muttered.
Still, cameras came to hand from most of the 22-guest crew aboard the French. We were tourists after all.
FULL BROADSIDE
We waved to our fellow sailors aboard the Taber. Some waved back. We smiled and so did they.
Then, in a flash, and with smoke rolling from the galley, assailment tossed over the deck in the form of flying biscuits. A full broadside.
Vowing revenge for being beat in the biscuits, we admitted we'd been surprised in our serenity. But, such a mental state is nearly impossible to avoid on one of these cruises.
TRADITIONAL SAILING
Each of the windjammers, of which there are 14 in the association, offers traditional sailing aboard a piece of history. The Lewis R. French and Stephen Taber are just two of the ships that sport National Historical Landmark plaques.
Out of Camden and Rockport, Maine, the ships have cruises of various lengths and themes into the calm waters of Penobscot Bay. As on a typical cruise, one can expect meals and to be well cared for. But, while a cruise ship offers swimming pools, dance halls and timed destinations, the windjammers offer simplicity.
The captains and crew sell nostalgia, peace and quiet aboard their tall ships.
Sailing typically ends in the late afternoon at one of the bay's many islands. On our first day, Captain Garth pushed onward into a sunset sail. There was such color on the western horizon as clouds spread out thin layers of purple-grey amidst orange. On the opposite horizon, up came the full moon, pink as could be with nothing obstructing its beauty but for a single mound of island on the ocean.
He didn't have to go all that way, but he did. He didn't have to take us farther than 10 miles out of the bay and I would have been happy. He took us almost 105 miles round trip in four days.
Even when we lost our wind, and were turning in circles by power of the waves, Garth didn't immediately drop the yawl boat.
"Five more minutes," Captain Garth would ask, looking up at the sails.
Jonathan Franklin, our resident astronomer and first mate, was always on hand to teach something or offer the hope that just around that next island there was wind. When he'd walk forward looking for help, nearly 20 people were often there to set the sails, tack, raise the anchor or just coil the lines. If you just wanted to relax in the sun that was OK, too.
IS THAT COFFEE?'
And breakfast!
When sleeping in the cabin on the first day I awoke to sound in the galley around 4:30 a.m. Jenny Tobin, our cook, and Arielle Bosh, messmate, were up early.
"What time is it?" was my first thought. "Is that coffee?"
I've decided this is the way it should be in paradise. When you awaken hungry, food is ready. With Maine blueberry pancakes, muffins and Canadian bacon you can't go wrong.
Every night after that, I slept on deck. As the boat swung at its anchor in whatever harbor we'd made for ourselves, it was interesting to wake and hear the waves lapping against the ship, or catch the moon in a different spot above you.
Sleeping on deck had its share of problems, though. The first night, I was on an angled surface. When the morning dew set in, my sleeping bag felt freedom enough to slide. When I woke, my feet were dangling a foot off the top.
The next night, I changed spots. Intermittent water drops from the rigging and flag above got me this time -- right between the eyes.
My final night, I was plagued by a single mosquito. Surprisingly, bugs had not been a problem until this night. Brandishing my new and official "Lewis R. French" sweatshirt/hoody, I sought to lock the little fellow out. I pulled the sleeping bag over my head and the hood tighter still. In the effort, however, the mosquito had become trapped inside the hood.
Now I had mosquito in stereo. I'd slap at one side, he'd fly behind my head and come back on the other side to repeat the same process. After a good 20 minutes, I just fell asleep from the exhaustion. But who cares? I was sailing!
PLENTY TO DO
So much had happened already in just three days of sailing. Getting broadsided was only the beginning. In this small a craft, it's amazing how you can still never see the whole thing. There is so much to do, if you want to.
On our first day, the spontaneity so characteristic to these schooners took shape as we entered into an impromptu race with fellow windjammer the Victory Chimes.
It's like the hearts of those on board overflowed with mirth. Jokes and jibes, tales or some point of interest on the horizon were overabundant. Not to mention the empowerment of sailing. To others that have sailed, this is probably old hat. To this foolish boy, with the wind blowing his freshly gelled hair into something out of a horror flick, this is just incredible.
Someone called this group of passengers self-selecting and the people we've on board are incredible. On the French, we have a nurse, educators, a psychiatrist, office workers, a potter, mariners, a salesman, a gentleman who works for Gov. Spitzer and a production editor to the Philadelphia Enquirer -- as well as other careers.
With such a well-rounded group of people, it was just fun shooting the breeze on this smaller craft.
The depth and range of conversations were just as deep as the ocean below our feet. From gun control, wind turbines, morality, opera, news media, personal projects, quantum physics and the finer points of navigation, it was all there.
On day three, not long into breakfast -- bacon and cheddar eggs -- we greeted a visitor from Swan Island, our harbor for the night. On an island of 350 people, they had to be strong-willed to survive. While we lamented the hour's distance from a shopping mall, these people were concerned about paying a major portion of their town budget to get their kids to school by a ferryboat.
Fuel was $3.95 a gallon. The price stays the same until the fuel truck comes to the island again.
After a day of sailing, the crew served up the highly anticipated all-you-can-eat lobster bake on a secluded island. Eating it was deliciously indulgent. They were so juicy, red and without need of buttering.
They got the last word, though, as many lobsters proved the bane of fingers, clawing open their predators.
TIGHT SQUEEZE
On the fourth day, we started making our way back to Camden where we came upon Deer Isle Bridge. Reportedly we had just a couple of feet of clearance for our masts.
Garth had taken the wheel, his head pitched up as at the approaching bridge. I don't think anyone was ever in doubt that we would clear it, but there was a collective understanding that this was big.
Everyone looked up.
Some said our pennant licked the bottom of the bridge. I didn't see it. I just watched the green bridge's bottom take up our blue sky and then move on.
"Anyone else want to drive?" Garth said, triumphantly giving up the wheel.
And "drive" we did, to our final destination before the Windjammer Weekend, a festival in honor of this fleet.
Everyone was there. The Victory Chimes, the Stephen Taber, the Heritage and many others.
ON THE ATTACK
As we came into harbor, we were ready for the Taber. They were going to feel the wrath of the Lewis R. French. Arielle had said Tuesday that she had a water balloon launcher that would send the rubbery ammunition 150 yards.
This was our stern-chaser, set up and cocked back by Garth as Arielle and Jonathan held it ready.
From the stern, two schooners were crept up on either side of us, perhaps planning a double-broadside. But, oh, we're ready this time. We've got bran muffins!
The Taber and other targets proved elusive to us, until the crew picked out the schooner Olad, out for a two-hour tour in the bay.
"We come in peace," yelled someone from aboard their ship.
"Too bad," yelled someone from my side.
And -- flawp -- the heavy bran muffin was let go. Sailing through the air the projectile took the mainsail square in the middle with a limp "thud" and fell to the deck. Victory! We'd made a hit.
The Appledore, another day-sailing ship was coming up. Garth ordered a tack so that we could keep our wind. Cocked and loaded, we watched as the Appledore came into sight.
The first shot went under the bowsprit, in the front of the ship. The second was wildly off course. As we made our tack, a boom filled the air. We'd been fired upon by the Appledore's black powder cannon.
Our third shot sunk home on the Appledore's main-mast. A decided French victory!
The Windjammer Weekend committee had invited the United States Naval ship the USS Oak Hill. It sat in the harbor as we did our thing. I wonder how the crew looked upon the Windjammer's version of war games.
PARKING SPOT
What's most interesting about getting the Lewis R. French inside Camden is that she has no motor. Yet, she stern-docks, or "backs into" her slip in the harbor amidst other large, expensive ships. On the pier, for the festivities, stood a couple of hundred people watching as the French was at first pushed in to the harbor by the yawl boat.
From the pier, I could hear the emcee talking about some maritime fact or another until he caught sight of the French. Jonathan and Garth had seen to it that our sails were neatly reefed. Jenny had gone to the harbor ahead of us and Arielle was working as usual. We were all ready.
Finally, the emcee announced the ship and its captain. Garth left the wheel, triumphantly pumping his arms to the crowd and then returned to pick up a small, polished cannon. As we neared the point of no return, he put it down.
"Maybe I should drive," he deadpanned.
It is a truly amazing sight. The ship is turned end-around by mooring lines and zodiacs and then slowly brought in next to its sister ships, the Angelique and Mary Day.
Just as Garth neared the end of the procedure, the canon boomed out to greet Camden. We'd arrived.
JOURNEY'S END
It was truly bittersweet. Back in the harbor, I don't think anybody got off the schooner. People tried getting on, but we shooed them away. Tours were tomorrow. The "Lewis R. French Cruise Socks" were in rehearsals, after all, for the talent show.
Sadly, the puppet's lyrical adaptation of "The Sloop John B," to a Lewis R. French theme, didn't win, but everyone was rewarded with fireworks.
Personally, fireworks have lost their novelty for me. They give me headaches, they drown out the band and the first one catches my eye -- but then I'm bored. This was different. These fireworks were shot from the harbor and backlit the schooner masts. Triumphant blues, red and gold reflected on the smooth water and brought the ships to light. They were beautiful.
The next morning, the final day of the trip, was the only terrible part of the whole thing -- leaving paradise. To dash it all, the wind was great. The deck bell was rung for the last time to announce our coffee, muffin and breakfast.
Around the harbor, each windjammer rang similar morning rituals. One after another, the last meal was being served.
But this was it.
As I traveled home with my friend, the one who got me here, we talked the whole way about how great the trip was. Even after a couple of weeks, it still feels like yesterday.
When I came home that Sunday night, I clung to my Lewis R. French hat, sweater and complimentary coffee mug. I didn't want to let go of the trip.
On Monday, when I finally had the energy, and the desire, to unpack, I caught a fine whiff of the sea as I pulled up the strap. It was like a psychedelic flashback that people way ahead of my time talk about. I was there again and could almost feel the wind on my cheeks.
Paradise was just a little way around the corner, and is going to be doggedly watched until next year's trip comes around.
To quote the man who put it best, "I must go down to the seas again" -- and the French is the way I recommend it.

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