Maine Liners

Beginner’s Mind
The idea of becoming a mariner started after an expedition I led in 2005 to tiny Pitcairn Island (of Mutiny on the Bounty fame), in the South Pacific. To get there, we sailed along the Tropic of Capricorn for 600 miles, most of which I spent with my head pinballing inside a marine toilet. Nonetheless, back home, I spent many late nights sipping wine and pricing scrappy boats on eBay. My wife had suggested, most reasonably, that we couldn’t afford one. But then an old friend offered to sell me his sloop for $1. Fair enough, and because I’d recently purchased land in the fishing village of Steuben, Maine (pop. 1,200; 20 miles east of Bar Harbor), I now had a home for the vessel.
For the next three years, Capella sat on stands. When Jared and I showed up in Steuben this past year, we peeled back the tarps and spent a full day cleaning her, filling the water tanks, and stowing our gear. Jared immediately fell in love with Capella. With eight feet of beam, she’s a burly 5,000 pounds, made more than 40 years ago when shipbuilders routinely overbuilt hulls. The varnish peeled off the woodwork in strips, and the blue hull could have used fresh paint, but Capella was liveable, with a galley, a small head, and a comfortable cabin that sleeps four.

I hired a salty lobsterman to tow her to the water. As the boat bobbed in the waves, we locked the mast into its stanchion and gave it a heave. We could barely lift it. I called my only friend in the area, Shaun Pinkham; 20 minutes later, he paddled over in a sea kayak from the other side of Pinkham Bay, named after his family, prominent in the area for the past 270 years. In his late 40s, Shaun is thin and wiry with sandy grey hair, glasses, and a face lined from the sun and salt air (he also happens to be a pioneering Acadia climber). Even with Shaun’s help, raising the mast was easily A4+. Still, we had the boat fully rigged by noon the next day. The forecast was marginal, but Jared decided “we” should go for it.

We set off from Dyer Bay, in Steuben, heading out to open ocean through a passage between two of the Sally Islands. Soon we found ourselves fogbound, launching off eight-foot rollers. With the low clouds, the water appeared jet-black. Jared cackled like a madman, while I remained mute. I looked back to make sure the “dink” — a 10-foot skiff — was still behind us, thinking that if we went down, we could always jump in and gun for shore.

Scared as I was, being on the open ocean with my bro was awesome. It felt a lot like climbing first had — there was just no getting rid of the butterflies in my chest. In fact, learning to sail was helping me see climbing with fresh eyes. Twenty-three years into my climbing career (and one day into my sea-captain career — unless you count the nights studying sailing books), I’d forgotten there’s nothing more fun than being on the upward portion of a learning curve.