16 August 2014 | Jonesport, ME, USA 44’31.93N 67’35.56W – Mud Hole, ME, USA 44’29.11N 67’35.08W
Cruising is a lifestyle where 90% of the time everything is chilled out, unstressed and relaxed. The other 10% is made up of butt clenching unadulterated cold sweat inducing heart stopping brown trouser creating fear. On our tiny little trip from Jonesport to the pleasantly named Mud Hole 1% of the time was relaxed and the other 99% was spent trying to release bottom muscles, mopping sweaty brows and changing underwear.
Leaving Jonesport in the sunshine we donned our brave hats and negotiated a narrow rock strewn channel with the ripping tide. To add to the stress the lobsta pots were so thick that if we wanted to abandon ship we could do it without getting wet as we could skip from one to another right to the shore.
With Ruffian crabbing along in the tide narrowly missing rocks Iain watched in horror as two pots were slowly pulled together, like a man walking to the gallows he knew what was in store. We had caught a pot in the worst possible place, in the middle of a rock strewn rip current. Ruffian slowed, her steerage reduced and we started trying to get ourselves free and safe. With the line on the rudder Fiona ran circles within circles around other pots and sharp rocks. Braving the water Iain finally managed to pull the pot above water, deploy the Sylvester Stallone style boat knife and we were free.
With the heart rates now dropping and donning the second pair of trousers of the day, we waited for the tide to rise at the entrance to Mud Hole so that we’d have enough water not hit the unmarked rocks at the entrance.
As we approached, our calculations said we should, at worst, have about 1 meter under the keel. We watched the depth go down and down and, alarmingly, further down. We hoped that we weren’t about to put Ruffian onto the unseen rocks, there was no space to turn around, no way of getting out, we just had to push on. With just inches under the keel the numbers started to rise and we were now onto the 3rd pair of trousers of the day.
Mud Hole was as remote and peaceful as Maine can be. There was no sign of life and we had all the trails to ourselves. At night not a light could be seen and nothing stirred. It was so quiet that the silence was only broken by the echo of Fiona turning the pages of her book.
Leaving a tricky spot is always less stressful then entering it. You should simply be able to turn on the engine and then follow the track you made on the way in. It was time for yet another pair of trousers when we pushed the magic engine start button; our trusty engine fired into life but the water that cools it was absent. We were stuck in a pocket of water, with no way to sail out and an engine that would be great at frying eggs but rubbish at pushing us along.
Getting into yet another change of clothes we breathed a sigh of relief as we cleared weed that had blocked the seacock and we were on our way to Mount Desert, the OCC Maine Rally and a machine to wash all of our soiled clothing. Fingers crossed we’ve had our 10% share of butt clenching unadulterated cold sweat inducing heart stopping brown trouser creating fear.
If only we could be as relaxed as the seals around all these rocks.
Pesky lobsta pots.
The NOAA charts are suitably vague and make Mud Hole look impossible.
Good job Iain’s a geek and has worked out Google Earth chart overlays.
The coast magically joins up all the trails.
All alone witnessing amazing sunsets.
Rocks trap Ruffian from leaving.
And surround her where she’s anchored.
Iain pays homage to the single heater output.