"Cut the diesel!", he hollered back from the bow, while adjusting the jib. We swiftly left the harbor, sailing into Penobscot Bay. Ted is the son of a sailor; it's in his blood. He'll quickly correct an error such as calling his lines, "ropes". The term rope is left on shore; once on board the ropes have purpose and are now lines. It was 8:20AM. We had coffee in hand, the sun shining bright, and the wind at our tail. It was going to be a beautiful day.
Domino watches from atop the closed porthole. She's a perfect sailing companion. She's quick to gather her sea legs. No false moves here.
Perfectly calming in my book is silence, only interrupted by the sound of swells washing over the hull of a sailboat. Nature begins her orchestra as hawking seagulls flock behind lobster boats who hum in the background.
Morning fog lifts from the harbor before the sun breaks the clouds.
Ocean and Maine meet with a rocky coast, becoming forested and dotted with small coastal communities.
We show our stripes and our stripes fly high.
Staring at his homemade navigation panel of depth readers, GPS mapping, sonar charts, directional navigation, and auto-pilot, Ted is is in his element.
The wind rips about the sails as we adjust course for harbor in Rockland, ME.
Our morning wash towels dry the old fashioned way.
The lines are securely clamped down as the main sail and jib find themselves full of wind.
A peaceful evening shot at the Harbormaster station. The crickets chirped in the grass, wet with dew. Sometimes, the absence of any sound can be loud. After all, that's why I'm here.