I hear with my little ear, something beginning with R. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with R. I feel with my little, “insert something to rhyme with ‘feel’ here”, something beginning with R. The R is for rain, rain and some more rain and the fog has been so think everywhere we have gone it has been like sailing through one massive raindrop magically suspended in the air. We have turned around and started heading towards the Caribbean and the weather has turned and it seems that is doesn’t want us to leave amazing Maine.

As we slipped out of Mnt Desert the fog cleared for a brief spell and we could see above us all the peaks that we had scaled in previous days. All that we saw was surprisingly deserted as the ‘season’ had now ended in the national park. Labour Day had come, the busses had stopped and the park seemed to be empty of people. We bid the playground a fond farewell and look forward to scaling its mighty hills once again.

Living on Ruffian is not always about ‘Living the dream’ and with the plethora of options in front of us we anchored in another stunning spot opposite the world renowned wooden boat building school. As usual we negotiated the myriad of lobster pots, crawled into the stunning rock strewn bay and settled down in the stillness and calmness of Maine. At 3am the bay turned from stunning to shocking.

The weather forecast issued just hours earlier proved to be monumentally wrong and we were now stuck on a lee shore, surrounded by rocks and unable to move because of the pots. The breeze piped up to 28knts and for hours we watched the plotter hoping that we would remain stuck to the bottom. After what felt like an age came dawn and with it relief. Finally we had the ability to see the lobster pots and we could move to safety. After a night full of worry and no sleep we put Ruffian back into safety and hibernated from the all encompassing rain.

The solid rain was soon replaced by solid fog and once again we had to move. We were bound for Benjamin River, up the Eggemoggin Reach, which would be protected from all quarters. We’d heard about how pretty the Eggemoggin Reach is and it is described in our pilot book as ‘There not being a finer sheet of water in the world, which is bounded on every side by superb views.’ We’re sure that if we could have seen either side of if or even the water in front of us we would have been charmed. As it was we had the damp view of the inside of a cloud.

Things started to look up when as we entered the enclosed ‘River’, which is actually a bay and a local fisherman lent us a mooring for the night. In the lashing rain, which as a hardy Mainer, he was completely oblivious to, we chatted about the hard life of being a lobsterman and the low, low price of lobster. We thought to ourselves afterwards that there if we are reincarnated we don’t want to come back as either a lobster in Maine or a Maine lobsterman. Both seem to have a pretty raw deal.

With the Eggemoggin Reach behind us, we had happy, happy days as the fog cleared and the sun came out, ready to dry poor Ruffian and all our soaking kit. As we exited the Reach we had a bizarre conversation with a motor boat. He recognised us as ‘not from round these parts’ and his crew, being British wanted to know more. Over the Radio we narrowed down where we had come from to our tiny village ‘Upper Clatford’, which Iain has always thought sounded like an STD, and it transpired we had a common friend. What an extraordinarily small world.

With the sun now out we turned Ruffian into a drying machine at Pickering Island whilst we hiked ashore. The island felt very much off the beaten track and for the first time in Maine we found a beach with a small amount of fishing detritus on. This proved to be an Aladdin’s cave of kit as we could have picked up floats, rope and even a couple of stinky lobster traps. Iain was beside himself with excitement as he found a float to act as a companion to his anchor ball that came all the way from South America.

Our time in Maine is now drawing short and in the next days we’ll be going to Rockport, seeing some great friends and readying ourselves for the trip south. Going south is high on our minds as we’ve ne desire to chill ourselves to the bone and the weather is threatening to do that imminently.

Good look. Shorts, knee high socks, woolly hat and boots.


When good islands turn bad. Babson Island before it turned into a horror show.


Night night. The calm before the storm.


The sewing never ends.


There are some mighty big old buggers in Maine and all of them want to either suck your blood or sting you.


And for the 2013 look we add an offshore jacket.


Iain trying, and failing, to look clever in his ‘new’ glasses.


Ruffian at rest in the super flat anchorage at Pickerings Island.


The greens and greys of Pickerings.


With signposts like this there is no way chance of getting lost. Not.


Errr. Where’s Ruffian gone.