A Day to Remember on Penobscot Bay

Photos & drawing courtesy of Marilyn Moss Rockefeller

The good ship Aquarius was acquired so the author and her young family could escape to North Haven, independent of the ferry service.

“I need a boat.” It was 1971. With my two children, Jeff, then 6, and 2-year-old Genevieve, I had been taking the ferry back and forth from my house restoration project in Rockport to North Haven on weekends. We loved getting out of the mess of plastering and painting to rest and enjoy life in our island dome-style home and on the beach.

The ferry schedule had become a challenge, though, so I did what I thought one should do to commute over a body of water—I decided to get a boat. Until then, my knowledge of boats had been limited to canoes and rowing shells. I was unsure how to proceed, and I had not yet met many people in the community to approach with this quest. But my tendency to frequent used furniture shops had led to a friendship with Kitty, the owner of an antiques business in Rockport, and this led to a stroke of luck—or not—depending on one’s view of the consequences. 

There, in the midst of treasures and junk, this stunning, affable woman gushed with helpful information as well as gossip. Later, when Kitty invited me to her home for tea, I met Charlie, her husband, who was equally congenial.

I had previously mentioned to Kitty I was looking for a used vessel, which apparently led to Charlie blurting out, “Marilyn, I hear you need a boat? Have I got a deal for you,” as he cocked his head from side to side, “I happen to have one for sale.”  

It turned out that Charlie usually had something for everyone. I liked Charlie and his calm nature, which I interpreted as responsible. Father-like. So, when he suggested I consider purchasing his boat, I put complete trust in his nautical experience and knowledge, and followed him to Rockport Harbor. 

The O’Dome on North Haven was the family retreat from house restorations in Rockport.

Charlie and I climbed into his small wooden skiff. He rowed us out a short distance to the middle of the harbor, then up to a lobsterboat-shaped hull with the name Aquarius painted in black on the stern. I considered this a good omen since my astrological sign is Aquarius.

“She’s freshly painted. All 32 feet of the hull, the open cockpit, the canopied housing over the wheel area, as well as below,” he said.

I stared at the grey hull. As I said, I didn’t know much about these boats. But I had sat in Maine harbors, observing and appreciating the beautiful lines of many different vessels—working lobsterboats, pleasure cruisers, sailboats—so I couldn’t help but register in my mind that this boat looked slightly different. A little top-heavy, perhaps? I thought she appeared uncomfortable or unnatural sitting there. 

After Charlie climbed up on deck, he motioned for me, and I climbed aboard. Below were simple accommodations consisting of two wooden-framed bunks against each side of the hull, a tiny sink, and a small, iron metal-strapped and secured potbellied stove sitting on a low shelf with a few pieces of wood piled beside it. 

Charlie showed me the compass, the depth finder, the radio, the throttle, the gears, and the ignition. He reached down to the deck and opened a hatch revealing a motor. I tried to look interested, but I didn’t know what to ask, so I said, “Looks nice and clean.” Charlie smiled and closed the hatch. I moved in behind and put my hands on the wheel. Looks easy enough, I thought. 

“You have steered a boat before,” Charlie paused, “Haven’t you?”

“Uh, well, not really.” I turned to face him. “No.” 

“Oh, OK, then,” he said, eyebrows popping up and taking a step back from me. “Maybe you better take the Coast Guard small boating course with rules and regulations. You really need to know how to read a chart, know procedures for getting into and leaving harbors, and the rules for right of ways…” His voice drained off as if getting exhausted just thinking about it. “And practice handling her around this harbor.”

But then he smiled, turned the key and pushed the ignition button. “I’ll take you in and out of the harbor and show you how to pick up the mooring,” he said.

After several awkward attempts, I picked up the mooring line alone, wondering what was at the other end of the rope. As if he read my mind, he said, “It’s a large block of granite. It would hold a ferryboat.” “I was asking $7,500 for my boat, but for you, seven,” said. We shook hands on the deal.

Once again, I was headed to the bank to ask Ted for a loan. He had already loaned me $15,000 to buy a house and another $15,000 to use for restoration. “Be sure to get insurance on the boat,” Ted added when he approved the loan.

I could sense that although he trusted I would pay back the money, he was not entirely convinced I was a boat person. 

Being stopped for a violation in Penobscot Bay by the Coast Guard didn’t appeal to me. I immediately enrolled in the local Coast Guard boating class in nearby Rockland. After a few noisy bumps into docks and narrowly missing a rock, I finally got the feel and confidence for piloting Aquarius.

I slipped her off the mooring many times, back and forth from Rockport Harbor to Pulpit Harbor on North Haven. On Fridays, the kids, the dog, and I left with a few clothes and food stuffed in canvas bags and boarded Aquarius, heading for the weekend to our O’Dome on the island. The routine was pretty much the same each week. 

Jeff and Genevieve were willing crew.

In the fall, I built a fire in the boat’s woodstove. The kids, with life jackets on, climbed up on the bunks with their books. They were usually lulled to sleep by the hum of the engine. After letting our mooring go, I would settle into the pilot’s throne and head out of the harbor with a tired sigh of relief, leaving behind my restoration work. I would clear my mind of plastering, sanding, and painting, and fill it with the thoughts of the evening. Soon with a glass of wine in my hand, I would be sitting on the couch in the O’Dome before the fire, watching the sun sink behind the Camden Hills and breathing the aroma of New England fish chowder, simmering in a pot on the stove.

But then, one Friday, in my rush to reach that tranquility, I didn’t listen to the marine forecast. It only takes one time, doesn’t it?

It had been one of those clear, fall afternoons. I was sequestered in my thoughts, but as I steered farther out of the harbor, the water became choppy, instantly alerting my senses. Dark-bellied clouds were gathering, painting an ugly ominous sky. Winds materialized, strong and fast. Also, in my haste, I had not taken notice of the wind direction. I quickly turned on the marine weather channel: small craft warnings; 4- to 6-foot seas; 30-knot northeast winds. Instantly, I realized this wind would put the waves right on Aquarius’s beam. 

It was getting colder and spitting tiny snowflakes. I was grateful for the down jacket I had put on at the last minute and for the fire keeping the kids warm. I quickly looked below to see them asleep, bundled in their winter coats and lifejackets. I slipped my lifejacket on. The question lingered for a few minutes—continue or turn and go back? I was more than midway, so I chose to continue.

Waves built higher, lifting and rocking Aquarius from bow to stern, plunging her down, rolling her back and forth into the swells. The crashing noise woke the kids, who started climbing the companionway crying. “What’s happening, Mommy?” Our dog started to whine.

“It’s OK,” I yelled and gave a big smile, trying to reassure them and me. “Stay below.” 

But as we approached some ledges, I saw the waves smashing hard and high on the rocks, and wasn’t feeling so assured. I tied the wheel with my scarf, reaching to the lower right locker to grab an extra line. I yelled for the kids to come up. I managed to tie the line around Jeff’s waist, then Genevieve’s, and the end to mine, and told them to stay below at the bottom of the ladder and hold on.

I guess I was thinking if the boat capsized, I would pull them to me with the rope and jump. My thoughts bolted back to the first day I saw Aquarius and how awkward and precarious she looked on the water—oh, how I wish she sat heavier and lower in the water. 

I was on the heading for Pulpit Harbor, but the boat started rolling more from side to side, with unsecured items below sliding and banging. “Please, oh Great Spirit, let that stove be strongly secured,” I thought. 

The author’s son, Jeff, sketched his recollection of the stormy crossing on Aquarius.

The kids were now screaming with every wave and I was trying to keep on course. Now, as water was dashing over the bow and sides onto the deck, I headed off, with the intent to get to the North Haven shoreline—anywhere.

Eventually, I reached the lee of island, not knowing exactly where I was, as visibility was getting poor. I didn’t care. The relief from the frightening noise and motion of the sea seemed almost blissful. We crept along, headed north. Thankful for low tide, I hoped I could see and stay off rocks and ledges. After what seemed like many hours, I recognized a familiar landscape, Bartlett Harbor, and turned Aquarius in, from chaos at sea to the still of a safe harbor. I headed for the dock. How, I’m not sure, but I managed to angle in, bring in the stern, jump off with the lines and secure the stern and then the bow. Our dog jumped off right after me. I got back in to lift my exhausted kids out. In a daze, I untied the line from the three of us and just held them close to my legs. It was starting to get dark. My knees were shaking uncontrollably. 

Mother and daughter enjoy a sunny day afloat.

Survive and learn. I have been lucky many times in my life and am thankful I’ve had the tutelary spirits hovering over me. This time, I had learned the hard way to check the marine forecast before leaving the mooring. I now had learned to respect the sea, another lesson that stemmed from a yearning that had taken me far from the Appalachian Mountains where I was born. 

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Marilyn Moss Rockefeller is a freelance writer. Born and raised in the hills of West Virginia, she now resides with her husband, James Rockefeller, in midcoast Maine. Marilyn’s memoir, Mountain Girl, was published by Islandport Press in 2022.