The Boy & His Raft

A Perfect Day On The Coast Of Maine.

- Jeff Bolster

Every once in a while, a cruising family sails into an exquisite moment in the life of a boat and its people. When our two children were young, we sailed hundreds of days and thousands of miles together in northern New England — with islands and anchorages and adventures galore. Yet in the ledger of “perfect family days on the boat,” none of them topped the sparkling summer day the boy built his raft.

That particular August morning was still, in a way special to the coast of Maine, when abundant sunshine warms arms and legs normally layered in clothes. Every color outdid itself: crisp white clouds, clear blue sky, emerald green trees. Lobster pot buoys glistened, immobilized on a placid sea. The awe-inspiring coast had traded its often daunting moods for a laid-back one.

After breakfast, we hauled the anchor and motored south-southwest, hoping the breeze would fill in. Pointed firs slipped past along with weathered fish shacks, shingled summer houses and that memorable rocky intertidal zone, draped in kelp and bladder wrack. I craved a breeze, but as the hours ticked by, my weather sense told me there was no wind in the offing. Skipper and crew were restless.

The place ahead on the starboard bow certainly wasn’t a harbor, just an indentation in an eastward-facing shore line. I could tell that the rugged shore had felt the full fury of numerous nor’easters. It had no sand, just cobbles, with lots of flotsam and jetsam. We had never paused here, but with no sailing in the offing, an unplanned stop on a deserted island seemed like just the ticket.

The anchor was barely down before the boy begged to go ashore. “Mom’s gonna make lunch. I’ll just go check out the beach.”