Day 29 – Lunenburg to Franks George Island
We motored out of Lunenburg and away from the tall ships, past numerous boats headed towards the harbor to add their occupants to the crowds. Turning North out of the harbor we raised the sails and crossed the mouth of Mahone Bay heading for Shut In Island in St. Margaret’s Bay. The winds died and we began motoring again, passing another sloop pushing on with only her sails. A Canadian Police boat rushed up from our aft and slowed behind our overtakee before speeding off for some other purpose. Not twenty minutes later another police boat repeated the maneuver, leaving us to wonder what they were looking for. We reached the mouth of St. Margaret’s Bay and enjoyed a calm run towards Shut In Island. Careful to avoid a submerged rock off the southern tip of the island, we anchored in a modest cove.
We were unsure what the bottom was (sand, mud, clay, grass, etc) and the gradient below us was steep. So, we anchored very close to shore and couldn’t put our usual scope. We ate our now daily sardines while keeping a close eye on our position; once some anchor confidence was established we went ashore to hike up the hilly ridge running the length of the island.
We hustled to avoid giving Isla too much of a head start over The Dingy if she decided to leave first. Soon we had skirted the thick spruce, scrambled up the white granite slopes, inadvertently trampled some blueberry bushes, and found ourselves at the top.
The tops of the boulders there provided excellent views of the St. Margaret’s Bay and we hopped around taking in the blues and greens. There was a peanut butter jar attached to a prominent boulder with paper, pens, and a note asking us to write and leave our own inside. I jotted down some details of our trip and we headed back to where we left Isla. We spotted her, still at rest, and relaxed our pace.
The tide was ebbing and when we reached the cove Andrew found several starfish and an unbelievably large lobster claw. It was nearly as big as my size 10.5 shoe, in the same way my own foot is; I have no idea how large the lobster it belonged to must have been.
We rowed back to Isla and sailed by the genoa alone to Franks George Island. After examining the charts, we intentionally cut the corner that was the channel marker, and the depth sounder flashed seven feet, alarming, which shook our shortcut finding confidence. We had no desire for another sickening thud.
We circled into the lee between two other sailboats and dropped the Rocna. There were some folks ashore, outside a small house, and a German Shepherd was clumsily stalking goats across the rocky beach. We ate dinner as the sun painted pastels behind the spruce and fir, and also on the smooth water below.
Two of the men on shore lit a hearty bonfire a few feet from the water, and as darkness fell clouds slid in above the horizon. Andrew retired early; I read in the v-berth for a while. I rose and climbed up and out the hatch above in hopes of catching the Perseids in the inky sky. I laid back on the furled headsail, a faint glow streaked overhead, followed some seconds later by a glorious meteor with a long glowing tail to the north. I watched four more burn through the thin air above. The nearly full moon rose out of the east behind a wisp of cloud, leaving the tree tops behind, and I lowered myself back through the hatch for some rest.
I was woken by the sound of an approaching outboard, growing louder steadily. It dropped to a low idle, now very close, evidently, then revved and sped off, leaving us bobbing in the wake. It occurred to me that we had left the anchor light off; it could be the passerby had not seen us until they were close enough to warrant some drastic change in course. Up and down through the hatch again, I turned it on and went back to sleep.
