Mornings on the Water

As signs of summer slowly but surely come to Maine, I have taken to beginning each day with a short, leisurely row around the harbor. It reminds me why I do what I do and that there is life with considerable reward beyond the desk and the computer. My own rowboat not yet quite ready, I have been borrowing one of the sailing club’s courtesy dinghies, a much-used molded-plastic pram of some 8′ in length, with oarlocks that rock precariously in cracked holes, and mismatched oars that, if too much effort is exerted, pop out of their locks when least convenient. No matter, the point of my brief visits to the harbor is not to get exercise (though, truth be told at the end of this long winter, exercise is sorely needed) but rather to enjoy being on the water once more and while I can still have the harbor to myself.

Photographs by the author

Come July, the narrows that lead from Cozy Harbor to the Sheepscot River will be busy with boats, and the shoreline will be a maze of trap buoys of various colors.

Soon, the summer visitors will return to Cozy Harbor, here on Southport Island, and this small body of water sheltered between three islands will become a hive of activity. Seasonal residents of David’s Island to the west will be calling out to one another as they make their way across the water; families will gather on the public dock full of eagerness to be off for their day afloat; the sailing-club floats will be weighed down by enthusiastic young sailors, clamoring to be first into the motorboats that will ferry them to their dinghies. As the weeks come and go, my morning wanderings through the mooring field will be enjoyed ever earlier as I seek the peace and solitude. But for now, between Memorial Day and mid-June, even as late as 8 a.m. I am typically alone.

Some mornings, when a light wind funnels through the narrows to the south, it brings with it a chill from the cold waters of the Gulf of Maine, a freshness that still bites and reminds me that the days on land may be warmer, but on the water, we still have a long way to go. Other mornings, while the sun is still climbing into a blue sky, and the air is still, I pull out into the narrow channel that leads to the Sheepscot River, ship my oars, close my eyes, and listen. The louder, isolated sounds come first: the sudden raucous cry of a gull, the high-pitched staccato whistle of an osprey, the discordant deep-throated bark of a shag. But then I hear the backing chorus from the trees on David’s Island—the songs of American robins, chickadees, yellow warblers—that mingle together in a deconstructed symphony. And beneath it all is the ever-present whispered rhythm of water caressing rocks, an imperceptible swell revealed only where ocean meets land.

The osprey’s departure was effortless and silent, save for one short sharp cry.

This morning, as I opened my eyes to take stock of my position, I was met by the sight of an osprey, barely 50 yards away, perched on a stark-white driftwood branch that had been trapped in a fissure in the granite ledge of David’s Island. I dipped the oars and rowed cautiously sternward to the shore. The bird stood, immobile, its head locked in my direction. I gave one final extended push to the oars and at that glide, the bird rose effortlessly from its perch, and with a single flap of its wings, soared away.

The lobsterman, busy about his work, wanted little to do with conversation.

Early in the summer, the harbor remains the province of the fishermen, but the lobster season has barely begun, and the larger boats still swing to their moorings. Some days, a small one-man boat joins me in the narrows, arcing from trap buoy to trap buoy, the gently purring outboard making little noise. The fisherman works in silence, my presence ignored. A week or so back, I endeavored to engage: “Is there much of a catch, yet?” I asked. “Not much,” he said, and steered his boat away. Of late, I have shared a wave with the elderly couple who have taken up their summer positions in the covered porch of their house overlooking the channel. Each morning, they sit and watch the comings and goings in a view that has remained constant for decades but which, no doubt, is never the same from one day to the next.

Year after year, the ospreys return to their nests on the day markers.

These, then, are my mornings, and will be my mornings for a while. Mornings when, blue skies or grey, nothing seems more worthwhile or necessary than spending a half hour doing almost nothing in a small well-worn boat.