FETCHING
ALONG/David
Buckman
David Buckman photo
The Leight rests easily in the lee of Pickering Island in East Penobscot Bay, shared only by a shy great-blue heron.
A Pickering Island muse hosting across the spruce-crowned reaches of East Penobscot Bay to fitful scurries of a breeze, it was late afternoon before the sawtoothed profile of our destination, Pickering Island, appeared through the lee rigging. The Leight had not made more than three knots all day, glaring sun robbed us of ambition, and we slipped into a quiet mood, content to let nature take its course. Tacking over to cheat the newly minted tide, at length we skirted the emerald verge and slipped into a teapot of a cove on the north shore. The sound of the genoa being struck echoed off the arc of beach. It was hypnotic the way she coasted along without a breath of breeze to be felt. When the soundings declined into the single digits, we came about, ripples radiating from the bow casting silver spells and setting reflections of land and sky to shimmering. When we spoke, it was in barely more than a whisper. Off a bony knob jutting out of the east shore, I
G
70 Points East April 2012
brought the sloop about, and Leigh let the anchor go in eight feet. For a while we just sat there, the silence pregnant. Flaking, furling and putting right, I couldn’t imagine anything more consoling than the jolts of headlands embracing the velvet sanctum and declaring sovereignty over rude southerly weather. Taking to the dinghy, we landed on a carpet of seaweed, and shuffled along the east shore, stopping every few steps to take in the drama of it. A blue heron glided overhead on still wings, keeping its distance as they do. Landing in a muddy tide pool, it looked like something from the age of dinosaurs as it stalked about prayerfully. There was poetry to the place – living, breathing, visual and visceral verses that flourished in our muse. Later, stretched out across the cockpit, we watched the sky over Cape Rosier fade to pale purple, plum and pink. Gulls carved arabesques against the shadowy spruce and gathered in social floats. The silky black of editor@pointseast.com