It happened a long time ago in the middle of Penobscot Bay on a cold late summer night. Even now, the thought of what happened makes me feel uneasy. It is something I shall never forget.My father owned several boats. We used them to haul barges filled with pulpwood from some of the islands in the bay to the paper mill in Bucksport. Thinking back, it was probably the most colorful job I ever had, but, at the time, I found it boring. Simply put, I wanted to be on shore chasing my girl friend. Nevertheless, it was summer “vacation” time, and I was back on the bay helping my father with his business. We were aboard the “Sylvia”, a 36 foot sport fishing type boat. He had not built it for towing barges but it served the purpose.
It had been a pleasant day. Routine. We had delivered a barge to Vinal Haven to be loaded with pulpwood and we were cruising, without barge in tow, along the east side of Islesboro. Our plan was to rendezvous with my uncle and cousin at snug little cove just around the northern tip of Islesboro, a place called Pripit. As the wind was blowing from the northeast that night, we would be anchoring on the leeward side of the island. The water would be as flat as a pancake making it easy for us to cook our food and clean up the dishes. Later, I anticipated we would play small stakes poker late into the night. Something we all enjoyed.
Surprisingly, the wind had picked up more than had been predicted. It was whistling directly across the bay, and over our starboard beam, at nearly gale force. No problem. I had been working this bay since I was fifteen and after two years of experience I felt confident. In fact I kind of liked the feel of the boat as it rolled forward through the water. As we all know, the shortest distance between any two points is a straight line so the trick to get where you want to go in the shortest possible time is to work the wheel so that the boat stays on point. This required keeping a very firm grip on the wheel and kind of shifting your weight from one leg to the other to keep good balance. After a while, you get the rhythm of it and it feels good.
So you can see, from what I have told you so far, there just wasn’t much more for me to know about boating.
As we worked our way up the bay, the northeasterly wind tunneling out of Eggemoggin Reach increased its intensity. Not to worry. We would pass this area of the bay in just a few minutes and in a half hour or so we would be tied up beside Uncle Merle.
I was thinking about supper. I enjoyed the food we ate on board. Fried everything. Fried pork chops, steaks, hamburger, ham, hot dogs, potatoes (with lots of real butter), fried chicken in lard. Fried, fried, fried. Lots of delicious fat, grease and butter. And of course, supper was topped off with a half pound of cookies washed down with a quart of milk. Life can be good. Yes, Anne, I hear you. Those days are gone for ever.
Even though there was a perfectly clear sky, it was going to be a very dark night. It was the first night of a new noon. The last traces of light from the fading sun silhouetted the tops of the trees along the ridge of Islesboro. Beautiful. I used those tree tops as a reference point to determine where I was located on the bay.
Even in the rough water, the Sylvia skirted along at a good speed. She was powered by two Chrysler car engines and we were probably doing about 12 knots. The wind from the east had caused north-south troughs on the water and as we traveled with them, the boat would often roll as a crest of a different wave passed underneath her. Sometimes the wave would lift the stern of the boat and cause one of the twin screws to clear the water. When this happened, the engine driving that screw would race wildly for a moment. Nothing serious, really. But it did get one’s attention. With two engines and twin screws we had plenty of power to control the boat.
I was thinking, “Pour it on. Let’s get there as soon a possible. Let’s wrap up this day. I am getting very hungry.”
Dad came up from the forecastle. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he surveyed the situation. “Better move farther away from the windward shore, Roy.” He went back below. Wait a minute. I have already told you that I had been working the bay for over two years. I didn’t need that kind of instruction. As Dad had gotten older (he must have been at least forty) he had gotten much more conservative. For instance, there were times, when driving his car, that he didn’t even drive the speed limit!! And unlike the first year that we worked the bay, there were times when we would “lay over” a day rather than fight a bad storm. Which meant... less time on shore...less time with my girlfriend. And, remember that “straight line rule??” Keeping farther then necessary “out” from the shore meant that we had go back “in” when we got to the turning point. Why waste time?
To appease him I moved just a few more feet from the Islesboro shore. It was getting very rough. Just a few more minutes to safe harbor. In preparation for cooking supper, Dad had started a fire and had made a pot of coffee. I could smell the aroma as it drifted up into the wheelhouse. As was his habit he would drink his cup in the forecastle and then relieve me for that final stretch. I was ready for a break.
AND THEN IT HAPPENED......SUDDENLY!!!! BOTH ENGINES STOPPED!
Dad was in the wheelhouse in a moment. “What happened?” “Dunno”. He looked toward the Islesboro shore. “Roy, I told you....” His voice faded. I knew what he wanted to say. I looked toward the island also. Why...why did the shore line look so close to me now?
Dad tried the starboard engine. Sputter, cough, die. Same with the port. It was obviously a problem common to both engines. Dad kept looking and checking. I stood around, being useless. Minutes passed. We were drifting rapidly toward the shore. Even with the howling of the wind and the splashing of the water, it seemed strangely quiet. I needed to hear the sound of those purring engines.
Dad found the problem. The boat had an old copper tank and the sludge from the tank had plugged the gas filter that fed gas to both engines. A bad design. Should have had a filter for each engine gas line. Too late to worry about that now. Got to take that filter apart and clear it, FAST. The gas tank and the filter were located at the very peak of the bow with only enough room for one person to work. “Hurry.”
It was getting very dark, the stars were out by the millions and the only way I could tell where the tree tops were was to see where the tops of the trees and the stars met. That point seemed to be moving higher in the sky.
For the first time, I heard the distant roar of the waves breaking upon the ledges. I looked at the chart with my flashlight and tried to determine exactly where we were. Bad news. The water was deep right up to the shoreline. Rocky bottom. Worst case. “Come on, Dad, clear the filter. Why didn’t I stay farther off shore??”
Dad was having problems. The boat, in the troughs of the waves, was rocking wildly. Very difficult to work.
The sound of the waves crashing on the shore were getting louder and louder. Now, for the first time, I could hear the wind blowing through the trees. Things were getting very serious. I had forgotten all about supper. Got to do something. Although I knew the water was too deep to do much good I decide to drop anchor. How could a boat possibly move so quickly toward the shore if only driven by the wind? Getting the fifty pound navy anchor and 100 feet of line to the foredeck of the boat would be no easy chore. I put on my life jacket and tried to move along the gunwale of the boat with the line over my shoulder and the anchor in one hand. With the other hand I worked along the hand rails on the top of the boat. Several times I almost fell overboard as the boat rocked back and forth almost from gunwale to gunwale. Finally, I made it to the foredeck and grab the bit for balance. I thought, “This must be something like riding a bucking bronco.” I saw no humor in the situation.
Getting on my hands and knees and with my knees spread as far apart as I could put them, I tied the loose end of the anchor line to the bit. Did you ever talk to a car or an oven or some other inanimate object?? Well, I talked to the anchor line as I lowered the anchor into the water. “Come on, don’t foul. PLEASE. Just a little at a time. Don’t fall overboard.” Finally all the line had been let out. Not doing much good. The line seemed to be heading almost straight down into the water.
I looked toward the shore. Wow! It was just a few feet away. The roar of the surf on the rocks and ledges was deafening. I’m talking; crash, pop, pow, bang, clash, burst, thunder. And the wind in the trees created a wild, screaming howl that could make the hair on the back of one’s neck stand up. At least, mine was. Loud, very loud. I tried to estimate how close we were to the shore. I looked up to see where the stars met the tops of the trees. “Where are the stars?” There they are. My God, I was looking almost STRAIGHT UP!
The damn anchor was happily bouncing along the bottom of the bay. Every once in a while it started to catch but then gave way. Something good had better happen soon. Very soon.
At the very last moment before we would have crashed onto the shore, the anchor grabbed onto something down there, the anchor line became as straight as an arrow, and the boat whipped around into the wind. The wild rolling of the boat stopped. The stern of the boat was fanning the shore, so close I felt I could jump to one of the ledges. Once again, I was talking to an anchor. “Come on, baby. Hold, hold, hold.” One more anchor release and we were in for it.
Dad came to the wheelhouse looking very stressed. But the job was done. He had cleared the gas filter. We couldn’t hear each other over the roar of the surf and the wind unless we yelled. “Let’s get the engines started, Roy.” Crank, crank, crank. Choke the engine for gas. Crank, crank, crank. Nothing. “Pour a little raw gas into the carburetor, Roy.” Too much, damn it. I flooded the engine. Now, wait until it clears. “Come on anchor, hold for just a couple more minutes.”
Finally...finally, the port engine started and I could see that the emergency was beginning to come to an end. And then the starboard engine exploded into life. We were safe. What an extraordinary sense of relief!!! I was emotionally and physically exhausted and sopping wet.
Now, I’m going to let you guess. Guess who went back onto the foredeck and manually pulled in that heavy anchor? You are right. I thought it would never come out of the water. And, guess who, from that time on, always stayed well off the windward shore, without being told? And guess who realized he didn’t know quite as much about seamanship as he thought he did?
It was a happy ending.
As I sit here at the computer keyboard tonight, reminiscing about those days of long ago, I think of the wonderful people I had the opportunity to work with. Uncle Merle Bunker lives in Surry. He is great seaman and a true gentleman. He is the type of person that a young man should have been around.
My father died long ago. He was an extraordinary man. Although he had limited formal education, he designed and built dozens of boats of all shapes and sizes; yachts, draggers, sport fishing boats, lobster boats, yawls, dozens of different kinds of row boats, and so forth. One winter, in the late forties, when jobs were very, very scarce he employed twenty-two men at his boatyard in Ellsworth. A true community service. And, as a seaman, he was superb. He was a stickler for having his boats well built and a little stronger then necessary. The only design error I ever saw him make was to hook two gas lines to one filter. Oh well, no one is perfect.
Getting back to the subject of working on Penobscot Bay, as we look back upon the lives that we have led, we sometimes ask ourselves, “If I had another chance, would I do that thing again?” Speaking of those summers on the bay, I wouldn’t have missed them for the world. Oh well, maybe I would just as soon have missed “one cold summer night.”
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