Day 40 – Brooklyn to Lockport
Andrew resewed the rip in the mainsail to start the day, only the stitching had torn. We filled the water tanks and decided we should get gas as well. The guy who runs the marina (I know him by no other name) gave Andrew a ride to the gas station in Liverpool, and informed him with quiet certainty that our most recent presidential election had been rigged.
We motored towards Port Mouton for a stroll around Carters Beach, rumored to be the finest in all of Nova Scotia. As we neared, we spotted Sea for Miles coming in to anchor, the boat we had seen flying a Dutch flag in Rogues Roost. The ketch that had passed us on the way to the Roost, Androméde, was anchored off the beach as well.
We dropped anchor and rowed over the turquoise waters of the pale sand beach. There were a surprising number of people around for a Tuesday, but it was clear why. The beach was gorgeous, if cold, a smooth slope of sand changing ever bluer beneath the water, lined with waving green beach grasses and stout evergreens behind, light granite boulders scattered about.
A couple was snorkeling in full wetsuits. We met another, Julien and Nina, of Androméde, and chatted while their young kids played with Caly. They were headed to Shelburne later that night, not so far from our destination of Lockeport. We walked the length of the beach, enjoying the hot sunshine on our backs and the cold water on our feet. As we left we saw our new acquiantances headed for their boat, their daughter piloting the dinghy for them, their son ripping along behind in his little kayak.
We sailed the narrow passage out from the beach, heeled far over on a close reach. The wind grew too strong for the sail area we were flying, and as we rounded the point it came directly from our destination. We motored towards the haze obscuring the shore in the distance, and soon found ourselves in thick fog, my favorite conditions. Standing with the tiller between my legs, I cycled between looking ahead, looking down at the compass, and looking further down at our position on the charts.
When motoring, Isla has a tendency to gradually veer into a hard turn to either side, possibly due to prop wash. The beginning of this motion is slight enough that doing anything other than looking ahead or at the compass will result in a growing change of course. The fog only makes this worse, removing all points of reference. We navigated a series of channel marker apparitions around shallow points on the approach to Lockeport, the fog so thick water was streaming down my face, wrinkling my fingers, and hiding the rocks and islands a stones throw from our bow.
We were grateful to pull into the calm breakwater and tie up at the dock, across from a set of three retired gentlemen, who had just sailed overnight (Caly-less) from Mount Desert Island. After talking with them we walked up to the town store with the sort of hunger that doesn’t read nutrition labels. Not long after dinner, as the gray sky darkened prematurely, Andromède pulled into the breakwater. Andrew went to let Caly relieve herself before bed and when I went above deck wondering what was taking so long, I saw Caly running down the street with both kids in tow.
Apparently the excitement over Caly was not an insignificant factor in the decision to stay in Lockeport instead of Shelbourne. I spotted Andrew talking to Nina, and Julien walked over to say hi. They, like us, and the men on One Timer, wouldn’t be going out in the strong winds and rain forecast for the next day. Andrew and I were both looking forward to hanging out with the other cruisers in port.
