Day 13 – Jonesport to Roque Island

We rowed The Dingy to shore and filled up all three gas cans again; we had emptied them into the main tank earlier. Caly received multiple treats from the cashier, and she was beginning to associate all strangers with food. But when she wasn’t begging, her back was bothering her. She was moving slowly and had yelped a few times to let us know. We figured this was from her jumping into the cabin from the top of the companionway. She must have disagreed, and so continued to jump when we weren’t watching.

We left the port around noon, with the rising tide, and put up the headsail for the short trip to Roque Island. We dropped the sail just outside the thoroughfare, which was practically invisible from 500 yards away. Motor now running, we turned into the tight and shallow passageway. The chart of the area was very discouraging, rocks and shallow spots everywhere (see above between Roque and Great Spruce). Had we not been told by the folks at the shipyard that it was the usual safe passage, we wouldn’t have attempted it. We carefully planned our timing to take advantage of the high tide.

Spruce and fir lined the rocky passageway, and a few feet below their roots, yellow rockweed draped from the worn stone into the glassy green water. Andrew kept a close eye on the charts as I steered through and we arrived at Roque Island Harbor unscathed.

Before us lay a broad sandy beach gently curving under evergreens and in one place meeting a large sunny field. We anchored near the middle, and so too did a large motoryacht to our west. After a quick lunch above deck, sardines, cheese, and crackers, we rowed to shore and walked the length of the beach. It’s worth saying, the beach is private, but visitors are allowed.

Sandpipers darted about to avoid the newcomers, and the clear blue sky and sun-warmed sand kept us on shore for a while. We had a caber toss contest with a tall piece of drift wood, and later I jogged and had a short swim in the chilly water.

A somewhat scruffy looking older fellow lowered the inflatable off the motor yacht, zipped over, and chatted for a second before exploring the harbor. He appeared to be alone on a boat that could luxuriously host eight or more. We nicknamed him homeless rich guy.

Eventually we returned to Isla, fished without success and made a delicious dinner of chicken and mashed potatoes. We played a surprisingly heated best-two-out-of-three series of war to decide who would do the dishes, Andrew, it turned out. I messed with the wiring to the lights in the v-berth, which had gone out again, and went to bed.