PETE GOSS Our harbour shame
Ilike the independence of anchoring and so anything other than the rattle of our anchor chain is seen as a novelty, almost alien. Anchoring, however, is illegal in North East Harbour, Maine, as it’s both a popular cruising stop and full of lobster boats. Our mooring, thanks to a quick VHF call, is to be ‘Buoy 410’ and so we dive into the narrow harbour entrance. Taken aback by the bustle, a steely focus pervades the cockpit in our determination not to be painted as Johnny Foreigner of dim extraction.
The condensed mooring field calls for the discipline of a grid search. A precision north-south search is executed followed by a bemusing east-west search to no avail. A glance at the Pilot Book reconfirms that all visitor moorings are clearly numbered and easily identified with a bright green pickup buoy. Clearly inferring an identification upgrade necessitated by previous visitors of questionable intellect.
A random, and I have to say confused, weave follows our disciplined approach. Try as we might, the closest we get to our now infamous buoy 410 was buoy 408 which has a lovely old Herreshoff with, shall we say, an ageing but polite couple on board. A couple whose arms are tiring thanks to continued jaunty waves at each of our many passes. Thanks to our red ensign we have become Johnny Britain; things are becoming embarrassingly intimate, our great nation at stake. Whilst the jaunty wave is maintained, evolving facial expressions convey a growing sentiment; ‘For the love of God put these morons many moorings away.’
We have, in our progressive meanderings, become a marked boat as every face in the harbour, like a field of sunflowers following the sun, starts to track our progress. Even the seagull on Buoy 405 nods a quirky, if condescending, tilt of its head in acknowledgment of yet another pass. Johnny Britain, not to be beaten, becomes more resolute.
Tracey moves to stand tall in the bow with boat hook in hand. Like Boudicca she cleaves her way through the perceived derision with haughty majesty. In the meantime, I dance from side to side of the cockpit like a frustrated and clearly mad medicine man using the binoculars to look at buoys a mere boat length away. A renewed sense of confidence is in the air for I have been assured over the radio by the Harbour Master that we are getting warm.
Yacht crews have morphed from distant spectators to active participants as they are inextricably drawn into our unfolding drama. Public humiliation often sweeps sympathy before it as people crane their necks for buoy 410, a family sends out their kids on a dinghy to scout for us. Oh, the shame of it. The harbour has generously united, Johnny Britain has been forgiven as this conundrum transcends stereotypes… and still buoy 410, apart from a kind of mythical presence, is just not there.
Conscious of rising engine hours, sunset a couple of hours away and not wanting to run out of fuel I decide, crushingly, to admit defeat in that most public of ways. VHF channel 09, the harbour channel, followed by all and sundry. Even the retirement home has a public VHF so residents can chortle at entertaining goings on beyond the window.
‘Harbour Master, Harbour Master this is the yacht Pearl of Penzance’ etc etc. ‘I’m terribly sorry to be of further inconvenience but buoy 410 is proving to be rather elusive’.
By heaven, even to my ears that sounded very English.
‘Wait one’ comes back the abrupt prepubescent squawk of the summer intern who is at a loss. The pregnant pause, filled by a few more public pirouettes, is broken by the confident boom of an old timer.
‘Good day to you Pearl of Penzance. There is no number on Buoy 410, furthermore there is no green pickup buoy. It’s only used for overspill and it’s actually two buoys east of 408 identified by a green stripe’.
A ripple of laughter runs through the mooring field. The old couple on 408 raise their arms in a relieved victory salute at our final pass.
Somewhat vindicated, but with the pressure now on, Johnny Britain better nail the pickup. Boudicca doesn’t disappoint.
Every face in the harbour, like sunflowers in the sun, starts to track our progress