The Captain's Logs are below.

Read the Crew's Views.

Back to Captain Logs 2001

All good things come to an end. Sooner than we cared, the time came for Pride of Baltimore II to cast off and make her way up and over the top of the Canadian Maritimes, and into the Great Lakes. The volunteers of the Piscataqua Maritime Commission were incredibly warm and hospitable, but it was time to take our leave.

Before hauling in our lines though, we had our first crew change of the season. Also taking leave was our beloved cook, the Unsinkable Sara Raff. We'll miss her and pray for her return. In her stead now is Ann Costlow, just up from Baltimore. Ann has taken leave from her day job as a stockbroker with Paine-Webber to pinch-hit in the Pride's galley for awhile. Now that's a resume you don't see every day.

On the morning of departure, a fresh Nor'westerly was puffing up to 25 knots. This was fine, if we could just get off the dock to which it was pinning us. Slack water was at 0830 and I didn't want to miss it. With a little help from the Harbormaster's push boat, which had a few more cajones than our own boat, we were clear of the dock in a trice. Lots of folks waved to us as the bridge opened and Pride II passed downstream and seaward.

As we proceeded, the pilot, Chris Holt, mingled tidbits of local waterfront history with helm commands. Chris is still undergoing his apprenticeship but, when he makes full pilot, he will be the fourth generation of Portsmouth Holts to do so. His grandfather was once Harbor Master at Portsmouth and it was through his seamanship that the stricken submarine Squalus was towed up river and back to base in 1939 with 24 men entombed within. Shoes. Considerable shoes.

Passing downtown, PJ let fly with a few noteworthy farewell shots. Anyone who was not already awake in Portsmouth soon was. It was a fine, clear day to go to sea. A few of our hosts were aboard for the run down the river. Geno Marconi from the Port Authority, who helped the ship immensely throughout the visit, ran alongside in the escort boat. The guests disembarked at the mouth of the river and Pride turned her head east for Nova Scotia.

Eager for the romping sail that the fresh nor'wester promised, the fores'l, tops'l and stays'l were quickly set. While readying the additional sail, the very breeze that had been so full of piss and vinegar in the river blew itself to pieces and we were left to roll and slat with a paltry eight knots abaft the beam. I hate that. We drifted on awhile but when the surface of the sea turned to glass, I turned the key of the ignition and we puttered geriatrically toward Nova Scotia.

Despite this disappointment, the day held some intriguing moments. On the way from Gloucester to Portsmouth we witnessed remarkable mirages. Mirages are not limited to spying distant fig trees in the Sahara. Mirages occur at sea with the right combination of humidity and temperature, usually under calm, clear conditions. Warm air over cold water is common enough in New England come June, and it frequently causes odd refractory effects. Such was this day. One phenomenon observed is known as towering. It happens when objects appear much higher than they really are. As we sailed away, the low, gentle hummocks of the Isles of Shoals rose like big, sheer-sided birthday cakes on the face of the sea. The soft, low beaches of the mainland drew themselves up like the White Cliffs of Dover. Humble beach bungalows dotting the shore towered like the four-story brownstones of Beacon Hill. Another phenomenon observed was land appearing to detach from our blue planet and float above the water like a disembodied continent. A variation on this occurred when smoke from the funnel of a distant ship stratified and took on the appearance of an island. But most amazing was the extraordinary affects of refraction that allowed us to see land much farther than the curvature of the earth should have allowed. This is known as looming. Looking to the north and to the east, it was possible to see rolling hills in places they shouldn't be rolling. The only land to the north of us was Cape Elizabeth, Maine, at about fifty miles, and the only land to the east of us was Nova Scotia itself at about 160 miles! Call us crazy, but we were definitely sober.

The sailing conditions have been sporadic but exceedingly pleasant when we had them. There have been several days of blue sky, flying fish weather only to have the wind fail us come dusk. By the end of the second day at sea, Pride II had crossed over to the south shore of Nova Scotia. After another two days, we reached Chedabucto Bay and the entrance to the Straits of Canso.

We encountered the obligatory fog off Nova Scotia, but considering that June is one of the worst months for fog, I really couldn't complain about the few patches we met.

Three days out, we crossed tacks with the schooner Westward out of Woods Hole. The two crews hailed one another by radio and exchanged scuttlebutt in the requisite fashion. Shortly after parting company with the Westward, a positively malevolent cloud formation began to build over the land. Distant thunder came across the water with the regularity of a gunnery exercise. Off to port, fork lightening glanced earthward. Then, toward us came a low, thin, and tightly packed band of blue-gray cloud, expanding and rolling like rising dough. I ordered the light air sails, the stuns'l and the jibtops'l, taken in. I hesitated to take the mains'l in for the amount of work involved in re-setting it. I tracked the squall on radar and observed it was not moving toward us at a dramatic rate, only eight knots or so. This argued against taking drastic action. But a drastic cloud formation, such as the one unfurling toward us, usually indicates something drastic is taking place in the wonderful world of weather. Therefore, down came the mains'l. Down came the jib. And then we waited.

The temperature dropped perceptibly as we stood on the rain-flecked deck attired in our oilskins and sou'westers. A sharp puff heeled the ship to starboard. In came the tops'l. And then another puff nudged her to leeward. Then the wind took a lap around the compass, at which point I relieved Astra at the helm. These things are unpredictable and attempting to give helm commands under such fickle circumstances is an exercise in futility. By the time you've issued a command, and its been repeated back, and the rudder has responded, the situation has already changed. The wind took another lap around the compass and then settled in the south while we were spit upon. As it turned out, we never saw more than 20 knots and even that was too brief to really get the ship moving. The wind died away entirely leaving us standing in the rain looking like an advertisement for Gorton's fishsticks. The wet lines were coiled and the wet sails were furled and the wet crew went to dinner. But, you know what? I don't regret that call at all.

A night later we entered Chedabucto Bay, which leads up to the lock at the Straits of Canso. I came on deck at three in the morning and it was already getting light. Nova Scotia is an hour east of the East Coast, but we hadn't bothered to change the clocks for such a brief interval. God willing, we'd soon be heading back to the west. When I stepped on deck, there was geography everywhere. There were islands and inlets, coves and creeks, promontories and peninsulas. The shores were steep sided and carpeted in fragrant spruce. The occasional clapboard home stood upon the shore with a boat in the yard.

We had only been at sea a few days, nevertheless, the stimulation of scenery, even after a brief stint at sea, is irresistible. Also, since we sailors are always passing through, each of us strives to glean some memory, some appreciation, judgement, or insight into the territory through which we pass so that the hard work and paltry pay will not seem in vain. Unlike the merchant seaman, who goes to sea at least partly because the pay is too darn good to consider doing anything else, schooner boys and girls go to sea at least partly in the faith that by venturing forth in such a way they will gain something from life that can't be had from the more comfortable and predictable routines that characterize life ashore. Sailors proceed under the conviction that life is lived more intensely from the deck of a sailing ship than anywhere else. And this is why we study the passing shore so deliberately. This scenery is part of our pay, and it has been earned in advance.

Then, in the midst of all this misty, primordial beauty, an impossibly mammoth power plant looms up out of the spruce and lichen. Knolls of coal are heaped beside the loading elevators. Steam and smoke rise from the various orifices of this monstrosity while forklifts and floodlights scribe the perimeter with the eeriness of an amusement park after closing time. Not a soul is to be seen.

We passed through the lock at the Straits of Canso in a glassy calm. The last time I came this way was two years ago, southbound. We had thirty knots from astern propelling the vessel into the lock at six knots under bare poles. I hate that. There was a bit of sweat and a whole lot of stern propulsion on the throttles that day. This time was a welcome contrast. Heading north out of St. George's Bay, we picked up a fair breeze and by afternoon we had sailed up to the eastern edge of Prince Edward Island.

As evening approached, a weak trough caught us off the northeast tip of Prince Edward Island. It freshened to twenty knots but the sea never built much so I laid her hard on the wind just to feel her go. We had a ripping sail toward Cape Breton. Alright. So it was the wrong direction. But it felt good at the time, and a sailor's just a sailor and no one should expect more. Lucky for the larger enterprise, the wind quickly shifted all the way into the north and we were able to lay a pretty good board on the other tack, well clear of the lee shore of Prince Edward Island. Eventually the breeze died away entirely and we steamed past the Îles de la Madeleine during the night, such as it is up here, and onward to the Gaspe Peninsula.

Îles de la Madeleine lie more or less in the middle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The most I've ever seen of them are the wee lights twinkling in the distance while passing at night. Judging from the chart, they are essentially a series of large sand spits that hook around forming embayments on the eastern side. People live there. What do you suppose they do? I'd like to stop there some day and see.

There was a day of fine sailing going up the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the Gaspe Peninsula. Generally speaking, since leaving Portsmouth the weather reports have indicated bad weather moving through ahead of us, and bad weather moving in behind us, but essentially good weather wherever we have been. We have paid for this fortuitous equilibrium by running the engine about half the time. But at least when we have motored, it has been due to lack of wind, rather than bucking a headwind. Arriving at the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, where we can expect to increasingly rely upon the engines, we have already burned more fuel than I would have liked.

On the morning of June 12, Pride II nosed up to the dramatic Gaspe coastline. I instructed the watch officers to bring the ship to within a mile of the coast to avoid the Gaspe Current that flows at about two knots to the southeast. The coast is high and the water deep right in close to shore. By hugging the coast, we were able to pick up as much as a half knot of counter-current going with us. It was a fine, warm day and occasionally the wind enabled us to sail. Perhaps not so apparent from a map, the Gaspe Peninsula constitutes quite a stretch of coastline. Though Pride II made good speed, her progress across the chart was maddeningly gradual. We followed the coast all day and were still only halfway around. The coastline curves ever so gently, making it easy to get impatient, particularly if one is aware that a mere ten degree change of heading would result in a fair sailing breeze.

Every few miles, wherever a cove or a point of land offered the merest excuse for a haven, a town clung to the coast. But what do people here do? There are no natural harbors and only a few good man-made ones. The terrain is forested and far too rugged to farm. I saw no fishing vessels, though I should imagine there are a few. Inland I suppose there is some mining and timbering, but gazing at this coast from the deck of the Pride, life looked difficult. And yet at one time these beachheads of the New World must have thrived because, without fail, towering over each one looms a spire and the gleam of a vast tin roof enclosing a place of worship of enormous proportions.

As the ship rounded the top of Gaspe, the current shifted entirely against us. We parted ways with the coast when it curved to the southwest, and instead struck out to the west across the vast estuary of the St. Lawrence. Except for the tidal nature of the waters, the mouth of the St. Lawrence River has far more in common with the ocean than with a river. The waters are vast and the coast offers precious little sanctuary. A vessel could easily get into serious trouble, river or no. For the better part of a day we struggled against a blustery 20 knot headwind and a foul current and were reaching a point of frustration with our inability to make progress when the wind finally shifted in our favor and moderated. Soon we were scooting upriver and back on schedule. In the month of June, at 48 degrees north latitude, there is light in the sky till eleven o'clock at night. The sunsets are prolonged and spectacular.

At Escoumin we boarded our first river pilots. Bernard and Sylvain were the most pleasant characters imaginable. They stayed with us for a night and a day before disembarking at Quebec City. The river is still several miles wide nearly up to Quebec City and is prone to becoming rough. Because of the resistance of the Pride's rig, a foul wind can really stall us out. And guess what? The prevailing wind on the St. Lawrence in June is south-west, dead against us. As luck should have it though, the breeze lived up to its reputation in terms of direction, but it seldom rose above five knots. Not to laud any increase of engine hours, this left us with fairly ideal motoring conditions.

At the request of the pilots, we fired a salute at Québec City. The reverberation off the cliffs and the Chateau Frontenac did not disappoint. Montcalm and Wolfe surely stirred in their graves. Our pilots asked why we did not stop at Québec, to which I replied, the schedule did not allow for it. But maybe next time. Québec is a city of extraordinary beauty. For an American, it is an easily overlooked oasis of the exotic in our midst. Methinks these people would respond to another thing of beauty, the Pride of Baltimore II. Maybe next time.

As Quebec City passed astern and evening fell, the river turned slick calm. The glimmer of shore lights stretched toward mid-river upon an avenue of water. The crew lingered on deck after "watch below" was called, shedding sweaters and savoring the unlooked for flavors of our first summer night aboard. Oh, I don't mean the calendar summer. I can read a calendar. I mean the indescribable and unmistakable threshold that exists between any two seasons, that anyone who grew up with four seasons recognizes. Tonight it's the bugs and the heat. It's a song in your head and a puff of breeze and a place you once were and, thankfully, spontaneously return to when the ingredients are mixed in proper proportion, which, of course, they are every year, sooner or later, and always will be forever, thank goodness.

More pilot changes and a lot of rpm's brought us to the doors of Montreal a day and a half ahead of schedule. In the final approach, the river ran against us at six knots. The current boiled around the ship and buoys tugged at their anchors like drunken soldiers. Chris Whitlock and Cal Ocampo took the final tricks at the helm and had themselves a workout. Pride II berthed in vieaux port, the old port of Montreal. A short saunter brings the sailor to a cornucopia of cafes and bistros that toss their warm, yellow light out onto the old stone streets and squares of Montreal. There will be a well-earned day off for all hands here.

Watch Below,
Captain Daniel Parrott