Through September it seemed we spent every fine evening and weekend sailing around Kennebecasis Island. On every circuit the atmosphere became more and more melancholy. It was clear to me that this sombre mood was deeper than the feeling that the end of a fine sailing season would normally generate.
During the final trip, the First Mate and Crew explained the situation. As foreigners to our beautiful maritime shores they were no longer welcome and their visas would not be renewed. They would be forced back to their own more tempestuous and overcrowded island on the other side of a great ocean. They said they would soon have to say farewell, but that I would sail on with some new and kindly crew. They told me that they loved me very much and were grateful to me for sharing those long, warm summer days on the Saint John River.
Sunday, 30 September 2012
Saturday, 8 September 2012
The Last Stop of the Riverboats
When we made our trek to the Washademoak Lake we had passed by and admired the scenery of Belleisle Bay, envisioning that a journey along this twelve mile extension to Long Reach would make an ideal overnight adventure. The summer's seemingly endless supply of sunny days and soft breezes provided us with the ideal conditions for a leisurely jaunt and now with the chainplates safely secured on the exterior of the hull there would be now one less worry.
With the days now shorter than when we journeyed to Washademoak we did not set off until after 8am but we were more than compensated with a steady wind from the southwest. This meant the sail up to Grand Bay, past the ferries was much less frustrating or stressful than on our previous journey. This time there would be no paddling required as we admired the pastoral scenes on both banks of the Long Reach.
We didn't see another sailboat until we passed Caton's Island where a Laser and a larger sailboat were taking advantage of the wind to cross back and forth between the banks of the river.
After a look at the charts the First Mate and Crew decided to take the narrow southern channel around Grassy Island rather than the wider northern channel around Oak Point. However, this was soon proven to be an error of judgement as the channel was not well marked. My keel soon brushed the silty bottom of the river and with much haste the First Mate and Crew set sail back upwind to the northern channel and back around via Oak Point.
We were soon back to making good time heading back down wind in the strong southwesterly, surfing down waves that had built up and up on their own journey along Long Reach. The biggest task was to make sure that the boom would not swing across the cockpit in an accidental jibe caused by my stern being deflected by an over exuberant wave.
Once beyond Mistake Cove we left the Saint John River and entered the wide expanse of the entrance to Belleisle Bay. Sailing up this great flooded valley on a broad reach at hull speed in the afternoon sunshine was one of the highlights of the summer. We passed the forested and rocky island that put the Belle in Belleisle Bay (but rather hauntingly is actually called Ghost Island) and then towards the ferry that crosses the Bay at its midpoint.
Beyond the ferry, on the southern bank of Belleisle Bay, a campground's RVs glittered in the sunshine surrounded by a swarm of small pleasure craft moored near the shore. As Belleisle Bay reaches its northeastern point, rather like the River Kennebecasis that runs parallel to the south, it becomes shallower and unnavigable. Hatfield Point, the destination for today's sail, had to be reached through a narrow channel that led directly to its public wharf.
The wind direction was favourable to sail easily up the channel towards a small wooden ketch anchored by the wharf. A group of children were diving and jumping off the wharf into the sheltered waters. My sails were taken down and we glided silently up to secure my lines. As the heat of the day subsided Hatfield Point gave off a scent of wet soil and rotting vegetation due its location surrounded on three sides by marshes.
The First Mate and Crew pitched their tent on the beach before wandering off to explore the small village. A large, old wooden building, which may have once been a hotel, dominated the skyline immediately above the wharf. On their return I could hear them discuss how Hatfield Point reminded them of a village that could be the setting for a Stephen King novel, and it made me wonder why the island a few miles to the west was called Ghost Island.
The sky darkened that evening with disturbed and undulating banks of cloud and the rolling and rumbling noise of thunder could be heard, each time getting louder and louder. That night, in the village known as the last stop of the riverboats, the lightning picked out the profile of an old sloop erratically approaching the wharf. It struggled to turn its bow as it tried to dock against the wharf. The shadowy form of the captain of the sloop frantically shone his flashlight around the shoreline before the boat bounced off an inflatable dinghy that was moored immediately next to me. I was restless that night in the electric atmosphere and torrential rain as I imagined pirates and smugglers stealing me away from the wharf to carry out illicit activities.
The next morning the atmosphere had cleared and there was a distinct nip in the air that reminded me that the summer season was coming to a close. My First Mate and Crew had perhaps experienced similar nightmares because before the sun had risen and in a mere whisper of a breeze my cuddy was packed and we had set sail back out over the gentle swirling mists of the bay.
We drifted out through the channel, watching the eagles silently hunt over the marshes and the quiet plopping of thousands of small fry flipping and flopping out of the water. The breezes came and went in the early morning and each time they came from a different direction (much to the frustration of the Crew and First Mate). But the dawn was beautiful and as the sun rose the breeze grew and grew in strength and consistency from the north.
Generally the wind channels along Belleisle Bay and the Long Reach but today was one of those perfect late summer days where the wind would come across my beam to not only power me homeward towards RKYC but to offer my Crew and First Mate a cooling and refreshing antidote to the heat of the sharp sunshine.
While yesterday I seemed to almost have the Saint John River to myself, today it seemed that every sailboat was out to enjoy the advantages of this rare wind. The scenery seemed to sweep by our hull as the long, thin fleet of boats made their way up and down the river.
By mid-afternoon we reached RKYC. Not once on our return journey was there a necessity to tack. On every turn of the river the wind direction had been favourable, and the First Mate and Crew were already reminiscing of this day's sail as they secured me to A Dock.
With the days now shorter than when we journeyed to Washademoak we did not set off until after 8am but we were more than compensated with a steady wind from the southwest. This meant the sail up to Grand Bay, past the ferries was much less frustrating or stressful than on our previous journey. This time there would be no paddling required as we admired the pastoral scenes on both banks of the Long Reach.
We didn't see another sailboat until we passed Caton's Island where a Laser and a larger sailboat were taking advantage of the wind to cross back and forth between the banks of the river.
After a look at the charts the First Mate and Crew decided to take the narrow southern channel around Grassy Island rather than the wider northern channel around Oak Point. However, this was soon proven to be an error of judgement as the channel was not well marked. My keel soon brushed the silty bottom of the river and with much haste the First Mate and Crew set sail back upwind to the northern channel and back around via Oak Point.
We were soon back to making good time heading back down wind in the strong southwesterly, surfing down waves that had built up and up on their own journey along Long Reach. The biggest task was to make sure that the boom would not swing across the cockpit in an accidental jibe caused by my stern being deflected by an over exuberant wave.
Once beyond Mistake Cove we left the Saint John River and entered the wide expanse of the entrance to Belleisle Bay. Sailing up this great flooded valley on a broad reach at hull speed in the afternoon sunshine was one of the highlights of the summer. We passed the forested and rocky island that put the Belle in Belleisle Bay (but rather hauntingly is actually called Ghost Island) and then towards the ferry that crosses the Bay at its midpoint.
Beyond the ferry, on the southern bank of Belleisle Bay, a campground's RVs glittered in the sunshine surrounded by a swarm of small pleasure craft moored near the shore. As Belleisle Bay reaches its northeastern point, rather like the River Kennebecasis that runs parallel to the south, it becomes shallower and unnavigable. Hatfield Point, the destination for today's sail, had to be reached through a narrow channel that led directly to its public wharf.
The wind direction was favourable to sail easily up the channel towards a small wooden ketch anchored by the wharf. A group of children were diving and jumping off the wharf into the sheltered waters. My sails were taken down and we glided silently up to secure my lines. As the heat of the day subsided Hatfield Point gave off a scent of wet soil and rotting vegetation due its location surrounded on three sides by marshes.
The First Mate and Crew pitched their tent on the beach before wandering off to explore the small village. A large, old wooden building, which may have once been a hotel, dominated the skyline immediately above the wharf. On their return I could hear them discuss how Hatfield Point reminded them of a village that could be the setting for a Stephen King novel, and it made me wonder why the island a few miles to the west was called Ghost Island.
The sky darkened that evening with disturbed and undulating banks of cloud and the rolling and rumbling noise of thunder could be heard, each time getting louder and louder. That night, in the village known as the last stop of the riverboats, the lightning picked out the profile of an old sloop erratically approaching the wharf. It struggled to turn its bow as it tried to dock against the wharf. The shadowy form of the captain of the sloop frantically shone his flashlight around the shoreline before the boat bounced off an inflatable dinghy that was moored immediately next to me. I was restless that night in the electric atmosphere and torrential rain as I imagined pirates and smugglers stealing me away from the wharf to carry out illicit activities.
The next morning the atmosphere had cleared and there was a distinct nip in the air that reminded me that the summer season was coming to a close. My First Mate and Crew had perhaps experienced similar nightmares because before the sun had risen and in a mere whisper of a breeze my cuddy was packed and we had set sail back out over the gentle swirling mists of the bay.
We drifted out through the channel, watching the eagles silently hunt over the marshes and the quiet plopping of thousands of small fry flipping and flopping out of the water. The breezes came and went in the early morning and each time they came from a different direction (much to the frustration of the Crew and First Mate). But the dawn was beautiful and as the sun rose the breeze grew and grew in strength and consistency from the north.
Generally the wind channels along Belleisle Bay and the Long Reach but today was one of those perfect late summer days where the wind would come across my beam to not only power me homeward towards RKYC but to offer my Crew and First Mate a cooling and refreshing antidote to the heat of the sharp sunshine.
While yesterday I seemed to almost have the Saint John River to myself, today it seemed that every sailboat was out to enjoy the advantages of this rare wind. The scenery seemed to sweep by our hull as the long, thin fleet of boats made their way up and down the river.
By mid-afternoon we reached RKYC. Not once on our return journey was there a necessity to tack. On every turn of the river the wind direction had been favourable, and the First Mate and Crew were already reminiscing of this day's sail as they secured me to A Dock.
Monday, 3 September 2012
Chainplate Sea Trials
Over the next week the First Mate and Crew busily removed my loose chainplates and relocated them to a position on the exterior of the hull.
To make sure the new position was suitable in strength and wouldn't unduly inhibit my upwind sailing performance the next voyages were a relatively short set of sea trials.
These included several return voyages out to Grand Bay, around Kennebecasis Island (including a close encounter with the infamous Man o'War Rock and the rustic covered bridge on Kingston Peninsula), a voyage up to the Grand-Bay Westfield ferry crossing and a trek down to Dominion Park beach. On this journey we zig-zagged around the old concrete bridge pillars that once carried pipelines from Saint John's West Side to the Dominion Park Peninsula.
The sea trials had proven that the location of the chainplates was both secure and didn't interfere with the sailing performance of the boat. We were ready once again for more adventures further afield.
To make sure the new position was suitable in strength and wouldn't unduly inhibit my upwind sailing performance the next voyages were a relatively short set of sea trials.
These included several return voyages out to Grand Bay, around Kennebecasis Island (including a close encounter with the infamous Man o'War Rock and the rustic covered bridge on Kingston Peninsula), a voyage up to the Grand-Bay Westfield ferry crossing and a trek down to Dominion Park beach. On this journey we zig-zagged around the old concrete bridge pillars that once carried pipelines from Saint John's West Side to the Dominion Park Peninsula.
The sea trials had proven that the location of the chainplates was both secure and didn't interfere with the sailing performance of the boat. We were ready once again for more adventures further afield.
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