Day 46 – Brier Island to Steele Harbor Island

The loud rumble of a diesel engine revving woke me. As I opened my eyes to early twilight, I heard water rushing past the hull, the backwash of the prop from a lobster boat tying up in front of us. I fell back asleep and woke again after sunrise as Andrew’s footsteps faded away to fill our gas cans. I dressed and tucked away the water jugs and food, in preparation for sailing and heeling.

I went above deck to take out the trash, and an older guy a couple boats over asked that we pay $25 for use of the harbor. That fee was news to us, the sign specifically said for commercial vessels, and we had yet to figure out who might pay us to wander around in our sail boat. I asked him where to pay, and went to find the office, “right over there”, and to find Andrew, who had the last of our Canadian currency. I didn’t find either, and returned to Isla to wait for him. Evidently, some time earlier, the man had taken it upon himself to leave a scrawled note in our cockpit requesting the same.

I was doing dishes when I heard Andrew talking to the old guy, and he came down through the companion way irritated. The guy was still talking to him as he dug through Isla’s drawers. “25 dollars is 25 dollars.” “Yeah, maybe six years ago but it’s like 80 cents to the dollar now.” The man had mistaken Andrew for me as he got back to the boat, and was grilling him for not having paid. I explained the confusion and why I hadn’t paid. Andrew wound up giving the guy $20 USD and $5 CAD. This did little to appease the old man, and he had already thrown out an unflattering generalization about Americans. He must have been somewhat embarrassed, as he forced, “have a good sail” into the end of the interaction. It was all slightly humorous, but it left a sour taste in our mouths.

The current was against us as we left the breakwater and pointed ourselves across the bay. We rode eddies up the side of the channel before exiting the mouth into glassy waters. Despite the still appearance, the huge amount of water exiting the Bay of Funny was sweeping us sideways at two or three knots.

We aimed the bow at Machias Seal Island and counted on the late flood to correct our position after the morning’s ebb. The flat calm made for excellent wildlife watching. Storm petrels hopped across the top of the water, feet and beak alone touching down for an instant, for food, plankton. The backs of dolphins broke the surface and slid back under. A sunfish flopped itself ever onwards, vapidly.

We approached our intermediary island, many miles offshore, surrounded by large fishing boats and the occasional puffin. Due to ambiguity in the Treaty of Paris, Machias Seal Island is claimed by both the United States and Canada; a new born could claim citizenship in both countries. Canada’s last manned lighthouse is operated by two members of its coast guard, and every four weeks they are replaced by another two brought by helicopter. Neither country is able to effectively enforce their fishing regulations in the area, and so both Americans and Canadians overfish the surrounding waters.

We continued past the island, now changing course to point further south toward the islands off of Jonesport. The going was easy; we started debating how far we wanted to go before stopping for the day. If we wanted to make it to Bar Harbor, where we planned to clear customs, Caly would certainly need to pee before we got there. Andrew pulled out her turf mat and leash, led her around the deck, and encouraged her, but she wasn’t fooled and refused to relieve herself. So we headed for Steele Harbor Island. Andrew called the customs office to double check we could anchor so long as we didn’t go ashore before clearing.

Soon we were passing through Main Channel Way and up into a cozy cove. It was calm, and the light was golden. Andrew rowed over to let Caly hop out while he remained floating in The Dingy, she emptied herself with no regard for U.S. customs regulations.

Back on Isla, the smell of gasoline was drifting through the cabin, and after some sniff searching, Andrew found the carburetor’s main jet had vibrated loose and was leaking fuel. Gasoline engines have long since gone out of style on sailboats due to the relative volatility of the vapor compared to diesel. Apparently most people are uncomfortable with the idea of a loud bang followed by a fire burning the hull right down to the water line. We ate chicken seasoned with chili power and mac n cheese and went to bed not long after sunset.