Bringing the old girl home

December 2024

By Capt. Michael L. Martel

On a dark, rainy morning in late May, I stood on the shore of the Benjamin River, at the boatyard in Sedgwick, Maine, gazing out in search of my new boat on her mooring. Named Tollie, she was 32 feet long, a flush-deck-style wooden “lobster cruiser” designed and built in Maine in 1928. She was powered by a 1980s Ford Lehman 120-horse, six-cylinder marinized diesel, with low engine hours. Soon, I would be bringing her south nearly 300 miles to her new home in Bristol, R.I., to a different climate, a different world.

A rickety dock on pilings, high above the shore, with a long and impossibly steep ramp, led down to a float where the yard’s small launch waited to take me out to her. It was loaded with our gear, low to the gunwales with equipment, food, clothing and fuel jugs. The air was murky and misty, leaving a salt tang on the tip of my tongue. The tide was so low, it looked as though God had drained the river. I searched the far shore carefully, then saw her, riding contentedly on her mooring. Pretty, yes, but – oh my word – she seemed pitifully small for the task at hand, even at this relatively modest distance.

For the journey south, I would be accompanied by my longtime friend Capt. Tom, a USCG-licensed Master and an engineer well-versed in all things diesel and mechanical, and his brother-in-law, Joe, who had, before his retirement, been an airplane pilot. We had driven up from Rhode Island in my pickup a couple of nights before with a friend of Tom’s, who would drive the truck home once we had departed.

***

Before I had pressed my hands against her hull weeks earlier, I had seen my new motorboat in photos taken by her broker. Photos, of course, don’t really do a boat justice, much as images of a storm at sea don’t capture its true essence. When I climbed aboard her the first time in the cavernous shed, she suddenly became very real, an entity, a big wooden boat in a wooden-boat storage shed up in the pines of rural Maine, looming above me in the shadows.

There is nothing comparable to a dimly lit, silent boat shed to make a boat stored within appear massive and intimidating to a new owner, especially when she is up on blocks and stands. Other boats stood closely packed around her. She looked like a dwarfish creature among mute giants all closely crowded together. As I stood in front of her flared bow and straight, sharp stem, I was momentarily unnerved. Outside, the sunlit late-spring snow was brilliant, the air smelled fresh, with a faint hint of balsam; in the shed, the air was damp and smelled of old wood, algae and copper bottom paint. In a few weeks, I would be back to take her home, and I wondered, nervously, if I would be ready. I was intimidated. Not by her size, but by the enormity of the task ahead of me: the voyage, the unending responsibility of maintaining her, creating a new life for the boat and for me.

I did not fathom the full face of this yet; all I felt was an inexplicable anxiety. The boat, and everything about it, seemed a genie that, once out of the lamp, could never be coaxed back inside. She was the boat in the shed, the elephant in the room, the bear in the doorway. I rubbed my hand along her painted hull; she felt strong and solid. So why did I not feel reassured?

I then consoled myself with the knowledge that it had been a few years since I’d owned a good boat, even one in the water. It will all come back to me, I reassured myself, once I start doing it again.

***

Back on departure day that raw May morning, the engine started, gear was stowed, and we slipped our mooring line and headed out into the river’s foggy mist, our destination being Stonington, the fuel dock there, and, hopefully, a place to tie up for the night at the end of the day. Stonington is a compact, sparsely inhabited, venerable village at the southernmost end of Deer Island, a place arguably as wild as any settled place in Maine. With its hilly terrain and winding roads, and homes with windows lighted this May night, there was not a soul to talk to, and this seemed to be, I thought, quintessential Maine.

We walked more than a mile to find a little restaurant at the edge of the village, where it appeared that all island residents had gathered in the gray, settling darkness. We hiked back to the boat after dinner, where she lay dockside in the cold, damp, quiet harbor.

On the unlit road back, yellow, glowing eyes of animals followed us as we made our way back to the boatyard. In the cockpit, we passed around a flask of whiskey and watched the blinking lights of the buoys on the still waters. Once settled, with the side curtains closed, the boat’s cabin still retained much of her engine heat, and, with light blankets, we each slept comfortably even though the night had grown chilly outside.

Morning came, accompanied by bright sun, sharp blue skies and a crisp, cool dryness that promised a fine day for the run down Penobscot Bay. I percolated a pot of coffee on the single-burner butane stove as we left. We made good time running with the tide in our favor, averaging nine knots over the ground. We weren’t sure where we’d end up by evening, but I hoped to make Portland by nightfall, which, happily, we did.

The next day dawned gray, with fog and lumpy seas, salt spray and chilly rain. The coast of Maine was shadowy in the distance, and the boat rolled uncomfortably as we all took turns at the wheel. A boat with a round bilge will be prone to rolling; the best strategy is to wedge oneself into a secure spot and hang on between turns at the wheel.

At one point, we passed lonely Boon Island and its solitary lighthouse. This tiny, rocky islet off York has been the site of several shipwrecks, beginning in the late 17th century. The most famous Boon Island wreck was that of the Merchant ship Nottingham Galley, in 1710. Survivors spent weeks in wintry weather with no shelter among the rocks but that of torn sails. Before the few survivors were rescued, they resorted to eating mussels and seaweed and, ultimately, the remains of the ship’s carpenter. We were more than happy to give the rockpile a wide berth.

We left Portland that morning, and our rolling and pitching ride took us past Boston and, at sunset, into Hingham Harbor to rest in quiet waters. I knew Hingham, since I had delivered a couple of boats into and out of that harbor, so familiarity brought some comfort and reassurance.

In the inner harbor, on water as smooth as a mirror, we tied up dockside after hours to a marina’s now-closed fuel dock, ate food from our stores, and slept well, exhausted. In the morning, we took on fuel and began, hopefully, the fourth and final leg of our journey to Bristol.

The final day of travel to Bristol was a long one, eventually finding us at the dock late in the evening and well after dark. We motored down Massachusetts Bay, past Plymouth, and made a slow transit against the tide through the Cape Cod Canal. Our timing at the canal was clearly off, but we kept at it anyway, eventually emerging into Buzzards Bay.

Against the tide and the southwest wind, it was a rough ride, the nastiest part being the open water between Cuttyhunk Island and the mouth of Rhode Island’s Sakonnet River. We pounded, we rolled, we had a miserable time of it, slammed by beam seas and rolled over almost onto her beam-ends. But after sunset, and as dusk was falling, we entered the calmer waters of the river, which were familiar waters, and I knew we would make it home safely.

The boat had no radar, so we trusted the chartplotter and our three pairs of eyes, plus prudently low speeds, to get us home. As we turned the corner of Common Fence Point, at the northern end of Aquidneck Island, we saw the Mount Hope Bridge, all dressed in Fourth of July red, white and blue lights, and such a beautiful sight had not been seen elsewhere in Narragansett Bay. We passed under the bridge, and, well after dark, we turned toward Bristol harbor, Anna Mary’s new home.

Yes, my wife Denise and I have renamed our boat, after our first grandchild. Choosing this boat seems to have been the right choice indeed. After losing our last boat due to a mishap due to negligence at a Fall River boatyard, I found a beautiful boat in Deltaville, Va. But I had created a rule for myself that wherever the new boat of my choice lay, she would have to be able to sail home on her own hull and under her own steam.

For some years, I had nurtured a sideline of doing yacht deliveries, so I was familiar with East Coast waters. Thus, I knew that that boat in Deltaville could not meet that requirement. She was only 30 feet long and underpowered, with a 40-horse diesel engine, better suited for an auxiliary sailboat. Capable of only six knots in flat water, that would be insufficient for the 100-mile coast of New Jersey, or for any passage up the coast when the sea finds itself in a foul mood.

When I finally discovered the vessel that became Anna Mary, I could see that she was appropriately robust and had enough engine power to bring her home from Maine.

My crew and I brought her down from Maine running all day for four days with no issues, but with fresh fuel filters. Lehman diesels are known for their reliability. Trawlers and commercial fishermen use them frequently. She develops a lot of torque, and we can cruise around nine knots in just about any kind of water – faster if we need to. We run sweetly at 1700 rpm; we push hard at 2000 rpm. Cruising with guests, we run at around 1000 rpm, at a smooth and comfortable five knots. Our burn is three to four gallons per hour.

Now Anna Mary rests easily at the end of a double bridle on her mooring in Bristol Harbor. Due to her size, open roominess, and inherent seaworthiness, I have launched a local touring and chartering business with her, Bristol Classic Cruises. Time will tell whether or not she and her captain will succeed at this venture, but, for the time being, she is well-loved around Bristol waters, and those who cruise aboard seem to be happy with her.

Capt. Mike Martel, who sails out of Bristol, R.I., holds a 100-ton master captain’s license, is a lifelong boating and marine industry enthusiast. He enjoys delivering boats to destinations along the U.S. East Coast and in the Caribbean and writing about his experiences on the water and about other marine topics.

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