Getting wet on Christmas,,,

The storm came from nowhere it seemed,,,  Typical New England weather,,,

We had been riding swells of one to two meters all day, easy paddling on a downwind run, winds out of the southwest, swells on 1 minute set and no breakers, then suddenly 5 meter waves on a one minute set with as secondary set quartering off the starboard beam on a fortyfive second spread. and breakers on every cap with winds chaotic; one minute in your face, the next off your beam, and gusting to 50kph.  I feel wrung out, but without our destination in sight, there is nothing but to keep paddling forward.

Brian took the lead when my compass was washed overboard, but his compass is smaller and we have to keep rafting up to double check our heading. The rainwash and fog that came up as the temperature dropped have wiped out any hope of finding landmarks, or seeing lights from shore:  we are paddling blind hoping that a tiny compass will guide us home.

I see it first, just a small flash of light in the distance, then I am in the trough of another set of waves and looking up at another dousing of cold water. Brian is on the crest and yells, but I can’t hear what he says since at that point, I am getting the bath of a breaking wave on my beam and fighting to stay upright.

As I come to the crest, I see it again, but this time, its not so distant, just a brief flash, like a strobe light, and my hope fades. Likely the body of a fisherman washed overboard and I am seeing his rescue strobe,,, Brian surfs the wave up to me and rafts his kayak to mine with his paddle
“You see that?”
“yeah, but I don’t think its the lighthouse at Portland Head”
“ but it means we aren’t alone out here. Maybe its the coastgaurd,,, We could hitch a ride in,,,”
“ or its a floating corpse with a strobe-light on,,,”
He says nothing to that, but I can see the dawning horror on his face. That maybe we are will be joining said fisherman in the halls of Davey Jones. I double check that we are pointing in the right direction by his compass and nod to him as he pulls his paddle out of my deck rigging, breaking the raft, and we start paddling again, him in the lead again and me as close on his stern as I can safely be. Luckily the wind is still mostly from behind, but I have no idea what the currents under us are doing since the surface is such a mess. We may be getting pushed further and further out.

Then I see it again, and its much closer, Not a floating body; the light is elevated above the water, but I can’t see what its attached to. Brian yells again and I can see him digging in and paddling harder. And I do the same.
In minutes, and seemingly a billion wave faces later, we are in the lee of a small lobster boat and wedged up tight to his fenders. We are still rising and falling with the waves but at least we aren’t being pummeled by them. An older man, late 60’s I would guess and looking grizzled, like all the old fishermen here do, but his look is that of one that is just out for a day cruise, not one fighting the ocean: total peace and stillness in his visage. One hand on the throttle, and the other on the wheel, he powers up on the faces and whips the wheel around as the waves crest out under him, throttling back as he surfs down the back of the wave. He allowed Brian to tie off on his bowlines and I am tied to Brians boat with one hand holding tight to the boat fender, and we are being towed, to somewhere, I don’t know where, but if its land, I am all for it. Brian and the old man are yelling back and forth, but between wind, waves, and engine roars, I can’t make anything out. Brian has a huge grin on his face though.

An hour later, I’m shivering from the cold despite the drysuit and gear I am wearing, but we pass around a jetty and things are flat and smooth compared to the five meter death fest we just left. I have never been here, though I have been up and down this coast for years. As we approach the docks, Brian and I break our connections to the boat and paddle in behind him. I see the name of the marina on an escutcheon over the dock near shore.

Midcoast Maine Moorings, Sprucehead Island Maine.

We were washed over one hundred miles east of our destination in just a few hours,,,

The old man turns to us as we reach the dock and says
“Merry Christmas boys”

OH, Merry indeed: over a hundred miles from where we are expected, but we are ALIVE.  God does watch out for fools and children,,,