…crazy, crazy, CRAZY….Kittery!

The captain and I were successfully making our way along the eastern seaboard heading south, nautical mile by nautical mile.  Each evening we discussed the weather options, the route for the following day, the status of the boat and options we might have should our course or plan need revision.  While we were in Portland we had been able to acquire our required cruising permit, check in to the country and update our phone plan for the United States.  Everything appeared to be moving relatively smooth and orderly.  We were progressing along confidently since the incident of my seasickness episode. The sun remained warm, the weather cooperative and the excitement unwavered.  We were soon to be in New Hampshire, to Gloucester, the port we had expected to see David following our departure from Yarmouth and prior to the seasickness affair.  One more run to the Isle of Shoals would set us up in line for a direct sail right into Gloucester.

We stretched away from the Kennebunk River toward the Isle of Shoals early in the day, hoping to make the mooring early so that we could be rested for the following long day.  The Isle of Shoals is located six miles off the coast; it is a rugged patch of rock consisting of nine islands where there are no permanent residents.  However, of interest to us, was the marine laboratory there that is a cooperative educational institution shared between Cornell and New Hampshire Universities, a retreat/conference centre and even more importantly, free mooring balls to tie to. The terrain sounded somewhat like that of Newfoundland and we were excited to arrive early to scout about.  After one more run to this mooring, in the Isle of Shoals, tucked in between Cedar and Smuttynose Island in Gosport Harbour, safely tied up in 26 feet of water, we could pride ourselves with one state down and accomplished.  The location was ideal to set us up for the following days direct sail right into Gloucester, New Hampshire. It all seemed perfect.

The day progressed well; we were making excellent time but the wind began to build giving us even a better boat speed.  With the wind however, the waves began to surge with intervals of five to six seconds. Our boat takes these conditions well. Because she is a steel vessel, she seems to jump toward each wave, throw her freeboard toward them where they break and  the remaining wave slides beneath her keel with ease. These conditions are of no consequence when we are sailing, but they are annoying when we are trying to sleep on a mooring.  When the captain consulted the weather resources we use, to determine how long this wind was to last, he announced that that wind would die in about another four hours.  We were able to continue to the Isle of Shoals safely in this time frame however, we have learned that even though the wind dies at sea, it takes the waves many hours afterward to flatten down. The wind will shift and scoot away elsewhere but can leave turmoil in its wake.  Those heavy powerful waves would not be smoothed down until half way through the night, especially six miles offshore on rocky islands with no treed protection.  The crashing against the shore would be very loud, the response of the wave against the rock would push the wave roughly back to sea in confusion and any chance of a smooth boat on a mooring ball in this would be non-existent.  We decided to alter our course to go into shore, to duck in behind New Castle and Gerrish Islands and make our way up the Piscataqua River to a more sheltered mooring ball for a more relaxed night in Pepperrel Cove.

It was still early in the mid-afternoon when we arrived in the mouth of the Piscataqua. I had not done much previous research on the area other than to do some quick determination of marina facilities and water depths.  We quickly plotted the new route into the chartplotter and lowered the sails to motor, cautious of our limited local knowledge.  As we expected, the river provided enough water underneath us to pass easily but the electronic charting info identified that it was laden with cable areas making it difficult for an anchorage just anywhere.  We proceeded very slowly toward Kittery Point looking for a suitable mooring ball.  Just as the tension was beginning to mount, a power boat pulled up beside us. The fellow aboard reported that he could clearly see, due to our reduced speed and our Canadian flag proudly billowing behind us, that we presented as though we may be undecided as to where we should go.  He asked some pertinent questions, gave us local knowledge and offered us a mooring ball at his marina past Kittery Point in the Back Channel.  We jumped at the offer, followed his lead right to the mooring ball and hooked on with no issue, safe again.   The evening was drawing by this time; we did not leave the boat, we would have supper and register at the marina the following morning.

We were aware of the tremendous current around us; we felt its tug earlier as we reduced our speed in the river.  The mooring was adequate; one of only a sparse few, directly across the river from the marina office and off the opposite shore of the river about 75 feet.  The remaining mooring balls, save one, were vacant, as were most mooring balls this late in the year. As noted before, by this time of year most sailing vessels of the North Atlantic Ocean  were pulled from the water, stored on the hard, save those few die hards.  After supper, I sat in the cockpit, admiring the pagoda in Jamaica Park, (so read the sign) on the shore just a few feet across from me on the southern shore. Children were playing ball and adults positioned off the shore point were fishing in the river. The view provided a sense of ease as I thought about what the following day was in memory of.  But the air cooled slightly as the evening began to close in and I returned to our cabin to devote some time to further investigate our immediate surroundings. 

The Piscataqua River is actually the dividing boundary separating the states of Maine and New Hampshire.  It also separates the city of Portsmouth, NH and the Back Channel, Pepperril Cove and the town of Kittery, ME where we were located. The marina across from us to our north was in Maine and the land mass just 75 feet away to our south was in New Hampshire. In actual fact, the land mass to our south was an island, called Seavey Island. It was not surprising to me when I  discovered that the current in this particular river sported a hefty 6 knot undertow.  I had felt it on the ride in and I could feel it under the boat’s hull as the river rush passed her, spitting colossal bubbles and frothing lathers from the depths, as it made its way to the sea.  The tidal range here is about 10 feet and it can create currents so strong that it has been known to drag navigational buoys under.  Oh my --- a little nerve wracking.

12000 years ago glaciers began to recede here causing the sea to rise and drown out most of the land. The actual straight coastline of the state is about 250 miles in length but if one was to take into consideration all the bays, inlets, deep rivers and island shores along it, caused by the same glaciers, the distance would be about 10 times that distance. Because so much of the land was drowned out, the shores were left mainly rocky, easily why the character of coastal Maine is now about 1/5 beach with the remaining 4/5 rock.  This could also be why the area is considered to be such a beautiful cruising ground for boaters. Like our  homeport area, the famed Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia, known also for its fabulous sailing grounds, the prevailing winds here are from the southwest in the summer time.  If one is cruising ‘up’ on a navigational chart, the sailing direction is actually downwind, eastward along the coast. This is how and why the term “Down East” originated.  It was understandable why this river we were moored in was deep, narrow, and fast.  It was also understandable why navigating it was   absolutely crucial on the correct tide.

Keith rose early in the morning. He manned the dinghy and rowed across the river to the marina on the incoming high tide with speed; the return was difficult, stretching at every pull of the oars, but manageable.   Upon his arrival back to Bridlewilde however, Keith  remarked that we really should have an outboard for our inflatable and he wondered if it was such a good decision to have left it behind in Nova Scotia.

It was a little windy but a beautifully sunny day, the 11^th of November, Remembrance Day in Canada and Veterans Day in America.  We decided to take advantage of the nice weather to take a quick trip ashore to take care of a few housekeeping tasks, laundry, purchase a few groceries and propane, and pick up a few items at the hardware store before we departed for Gloucester by noon.

We packed up the laundry in our wheeled cart, put on our packsacks and lowered the cart into the dinghy.  The dinghy was tied to the side of the boat midship beside our embarking ladder.  The dinghy was heaving in the current but we managed to board it and positioned ourselves between the laundry and cart to travel across to the marina.  The captain pushed us away from the boat rowed the remaining length of our boat to its stern and turned the dinghy into the mainstream of the river toward the marina.  What occurred next was both shocking and totally unexpected.

Neither of us had calculated nor even considered the additional weight, myself, the laundry and the cart, on the dinghy or the effect it would have on the captain’s ability to row against that huge current, the wind and the incoming tide. He was able to manage in the vessel alone however, as he rowed our little eight foot inflatable dinghy, it was captured by the wind and the current so forcefully that it carried us completely in the opposite direction.  It happened so quickly and so powerfully that the captain, after many brutal attempts to summon enough personal strength to recover the loss, explained we would be left unable to recover the course across the river.  Immediately, we assessed the situation, we were both wearing life jackets; we saw a beach, although somewhat rocky, across from us on Seavey Island that may be a suitable landing site; we could attempt to head toward it; we had previously noticed a bridge further up on the Back Channel that connected the island and the mainland; we had enough line aboard the dinghy to tie it to the tree growth; and the wind and current was pushing the vessel toward the island whether we liked it or not. 

The captain quickly discussed a plan with me. We decided that we would try to guide the boat into the rocky beach, carry it up the beach over the rocks to the treeline, tie it safely there, make our way back through Jamaica Park to the bridge and continue on to take care of our housekeeping tasks on shore.  It would be a little inconvenient, as we would have a slightly longer walk into the centre of town but easily manageable and a great solution to our minor dilemma.  Keith struggled with the oars to guide us into the beach.  We landed rather roughly with water splashing about us making it necessary to act quickly. We had to depart the boat swiftly to secure our landing so as not to have the vessel dragged back into the river by the surf.  The tide had not completely risen thereby allowing the rocks on the beach to remain exposed, albeit they were still very slippery.  We stepped out of the boat carefully and reassessed our next move.  We would pull the boat completely from the water where I would wait with it, Keith would carry the laundry and cart to the trees, return to the boat so that we could both carry it over the rocks to where it would be tied until we returned. The plan carried off without a hitch and within 20 minutes we had the boat secure, we had scrambled up the rugged embankment and were heading toward the pagoda in Jamaica Park.  A little the worse for wear mind you, more so our dignity than our physical selves but we tugged our cart behind us along the sidewalk toward the bridge.

As we hiked closer to the bridge, we saw no one, but we did notice the railway tracks embedded into the pavement. I remarked to Keith that I thought that it was strange.  We continued on past the pagoda, planning to follow the street beyond the large storage buildings, hoping to find some residential streets that would lead us toward the bridge we would cross. We walked. We walked. We passed many narrow streets with huge terminal type buildings.  We passed more tracks in the pavement. We assumed we must be tramping through the local industrial area.  We walked.  The river was slightly visible behind the buildings so we knew we must be getting close to the bridge.  Cars were passing us by this time as we ambled along the sidewalk, comforted by the recognition that we must be heading toward more activity. When we rounded the next corner the bridge was in sight.   

I was horrified at first sight of the bridge.  My first impression was once of confusion.  The bridge was also vacant with large red pylons placed in front of its four lanes, indicating that it was closed.  I consoled myself by thinking there must be plans for a Veterans Day Parade and the bridge closure was in preparation for such a parade.  However, there was a far more ominous vista that sparked my initial horror.  I whispered to the captain that I was almost sure we must be in an area where we may not be welcome.  The bridge was flanked on either side by twelve foot steel spars, painted black, spaced about 4 inches apart sporting nasty sharp spikes at the top of the spar.

Keith dispelled my fears by pointing to the sidewalk along the bridge while we resumed our trek toward the other side of the structure. Once there, we noticed that the bridge was gated, locked and unmanned. However, after our investigation along its perimeter, located past the far side of one of the gatehouses on either side of the bridge, was a large steel turnstile we could exit.  Relieved, we hauled our laundry buggy through the bars and walked over the grass to the sidewalk leading in to town. Twenty steps out it hit me. I turned, returned to the turnstile, attempted to pass through, fully expecting the slam of the bar against my hand.  I could not enter.

There was no need to panic, certainly not yet.  We continued up the long sloping grade into town to take care of our business.  At the hardware store we purchased one pound bottles of propane for our heater and were given directions to the laundry mat there. We stopped on the way to enjoy an ice cream, a delicacy we seldom keep aboard.   We meandered our way along to the laundry mat and finished our chores there.  En route to the laundry mat I pointed out to the captain, the wide busy driveway entrance that lead to another bridge and suggested to him that it probably lead to Seavey Island also.  We would investigate on our way back from our laundry task.  We did not notice the huge blue and black water tower hidden in the background behind the bridge.

I live on a boat.  I try to minimize everything we carry on shore to the lowest common denominator.  I keep bulk products aboard and place reduced volumes that I must carry to shore, like bleach and laundry detergent, in smaller containers.  On this occasion the bleach was stored in a small clear plastic coke bottle and the laundry detergent similarly in another clear plastic bottle.  On this trip ashore, we were only doing laundry, Keith was with me, I had no need to carry a purse.  We had packed up the laundry in our buggy, housed the propane and the laundry liquids in a bag together, protected,  in case of a spill back across the water.  We headed back to collect our dinghy, cross back to Bridlewilde and make our Kittery departure time of noon.

We turned into the wide curved driveway of the bridge we had seen on the way to the laundry mat.  As we descended down the mild grade that circled slightly to the right toward the bridge we saw the lineup of vehicles.  We saw the bridge gatehouses, we saw the uniformed men manning the gate, we saw the men stopping vehicles in the lineup, we saw these men asking drivers to produce paperwork, we saw the AK47 machine guns strapped to their chests, and we finally saw the enormous blue water tower, hidden behind the bridge that read ``US Navy Base`` in large black letters.  OMG I thought to myself as I flashed an alarmed glance toward Keith.  He saw my face as he proceeded to walk toward an officious looking armed guard at the gate.

Immediately, as we approached two armed men came forward, confronted us with their weapons drawn, told us to move no further and inquired as to what we were doing.  The captain explained that we just needed to walk through the base to recover our dinghy that had blown ashore further down the river by Jamaica Park and we would be on our way.  It was at that admission that we were told to drop our laundry cart, immediately move our bodies to a particular location against a wall of one of the gatehouses in front of the bridge leading on to the navy base.  Apparently, in our decent toward the gate we had stepped over an imaginary line and were now on private US federal property.  Not just any private federal property – our dinghy was tied to a tree on a highly secure nuclear submarine naval base where only specific personnel were allowed and we were at its gate.  The whole island is the base, 5000 naval personnel work building and repairing nuclear subs, 900 of whom live on site and no civilians are admitted. Jamaica Park is not a public park; it is the park designated for those residing on the base to enjoy. More importantly, our dinghy beached on their land and our unquestioned travel through the base was of huge interest…. we had breached their secure operation.

The young naval officers who had us detained did not know what to do with us.  Their superiors were called and until a decision was made we were to remain on the wall.  Two armed officers were assigned to ``keep an eye`` on us. Two hours later a group of naval police officers arrived.  Our packsacks were emptied and each item searched.  The laundry cart was emptied and searched.  The items of bleach and laundry soap, both in unmarked containers and the bottles of propane became of high interest. New superiors were consulted.  After another hour and half more naval investigators arrived.  Now both Keith and I were asked to strip off our outer clothing (we were both wearing winter attire) so that we could be searched and patted down.  All of the pockets of our jackets were searched.  We were asked to pull each of the pockets of our jeans out.  Naturally I had no items in my pockets but the captain had his large folding sailing knife with a 6 inch blade in his pocket.  It was confiscated immediately by one of the investigators.  After our clothes were searched we were now to be patted down. Eight officers surrounded each of us in a circle while this operation took place.  We were placed back against the wall of the building again until further discussion internally took place.  We were not sure who was called following the patting down but within an hour another group of investigators came to review our identification.  Keith did have his wallet but I had no documentation with me at all.  This created further difficulty but I was able to assure the investigators that I knew my Canadian Social Insurance number and provided it as the only piece of information other than I could verbally provide my birthdate, birthplace and to whom.  It was then that we were told that we would remain being held there until our information was run through Interpol records for confirmation, a process that would again take more time.

We had been cooperative, we had been standing at the wall for over four and a half hours and it was getting later in the day.  The captain related to our guards that we would be hard pressed to return to our vessel if we did not get there soon; the tide would change.  Caught in a tidal change we would be in an even graver situation in the dark. We could be blown out the channel toward the sea in the dinghy.  His concerns were unheard and we remained at the wall.  The warmth of the mid November day had dispersed. The cool of the evening brought about shivers to both of us.  Our discomfort must have been evident to our captors.  Another group of navy individuals arrived shortly with two huge barrel propane fan heaters on trailers. The heaters were ignited and placed near us.  The hot air blew toward us as we stood.  Another hour passed before two police vehicles with four officers in each arrived.  We watched as the men stepped out of the vehicles.  I saw one officer load our laundry and cart into one of the police vans.  It did not look good.  Two men we had not seen before approached us.  Each of the men identified themselves as senior investigators assigned to our “case.”  We had become a case; we thought we wanted only to recover our dinghy and move along.  However, obviously, this was not to be. We were informed that the police vehicles were there to transport us to the naval police station where we would be escorted to a cell inside.  We were told we would be held there until we were transported to an interrogation room. In the interrogation room we would each be asked to relate to the chief investigator the exact series of events that took place from the time we arrived on the mooring ball until we arrived at the gate of the base and answer a series of questions.  This process took about an hour and once completed we were each asked to put a statement to writing. Once the written statement was completed there was a series of paperwork that we were to sign identifying our understanding of a number of conditions that had been verbally related to us.  While this took place another individual appeared that we had not seen.  He was in civilian clothes looking somewhat dishevelled for a navy official.  He introduced himself to us.  He was the naval commander of the base, roused from bed to come deal with this “situation” that had occurred on his watch. He talked to us, spent about half an hour chatting, was extremely kind, discussed sailing techniques with Keith but never let his guard down at any moment.  He explained that the next thing that would happen would be that a naval photographer would arrive and photographs, mugshots, of both of us would be taken.  We would be placed against a height ladder and the pictures would be taken with that as a backdrop.  In actual fact numerous photos were taken—ones with our glasses on , ones with our glasses off, ones of our face on only, ones with side view, full body pics, face on and sideways.  After this procedure we were left in the interrogation room together for about half an hour.  Neither of us spoke a word; we had no idea what was to come and did not know if whatever conversation we had would be recorded.

The chief investigator returned to tell us that we were about to be charged with a criminal offence.  Keith protested explaining our position.  We had no idea the area was a secure naval sub base; we certainly were not terrorists nor were we ever considering to be a threat to the US of A; and our dinghy met with weather conditions we could not control.  This naval base certainly did not appear highly secure to us, for goodness sake, we saw no signs posted; we saw no private property notices; no fences, no security offices or officers, no explanation from the marina,  no indication at all that we were invading.  The investigator was a kind man; he walked to the door of the room and closed it; he returned to take a seat in front of us, a middle aged senior couple attempting the cruising voyage of their lives and said, “Listen to me sir.  You and your wife have been extremely patient and forthcoming with all of us. It is commendable. You are preaching to the choir when you speak of location notice. We have been trying to rectify this issue for years. However, I am told that I must present you with a charge and that is what I must do.  I report to a superior officer as does he. The chain of command must be followed.  The best I can do for you will be to charge you with the lightest possible offence that we would have. You are charged with Trespassing on Highly Secure Federal Grounds of the United States of America.”

He presented us with our offence.  We looked at each other in disbelief.  We had been honest about this circumstance; we were not at fault and we had intentionally done nothing to harm the US of A. But as the paperwork was pushed forward toward us we picked it up, certainly not our choice, but it was ours. We owned it.  The captain asked the investigator how this was going to affect the duration of our trip south.  We were told to continue along as though this had never occurred and there would be no problem. It would be some time before court document paperwork would arrive at our home address in Nova Scotia.  The man explained the next series of events that would happen.

Two naval police officers would escort us out the back of the police station where we would pick up our laundry cart.  We would enter a police van with the two officers who would deliver us to Jamaica Park where we would be allowed to recover our dinghy and return to Bridlewilde.  The police officers in the van would be asking additional questions. The US naval vessel that was currently on watch of our boat would tow us to Bridlewilde.  (Time had passed. It was 11:30 pm.  The tide had changed; we would have difficulty navigating the dinghy. The captain had informed the investigators of the scenario we would be faced with in the dark against the tide, wind and current.)  Four of the six officers aboard the naval vessel would board Bridlewilde to investigate our vessel, with us aboard. One was assigned to review all of our documentation and one was assigned to photograph each piece.  The other two armed officers would remain on deck while this took place to protect those aboard. We would also be required to upload our chart plotter to display the record of our course to the mooring. This was to verify that we had not planned a direct course to the Naval Base. Photographs would be taken of the charted course.  Upon the departure of all officers from our vessel and the termination of their procedures for the night the captain’s sailing knife would be returned to him.  The plan was set.

We departed the police station in the van. We were asked additional questions; all related to the statements we had given. We responded and soon arrived at Jamaica Park.  We could see floodlights focused on our boat and on the dinghy.  The US Naval boat was stationed where it was expected to be.  The two officers followed us through the treed undergrowth directly to the spot where the dinghy was tied.  I lagged a bit because I did not want to trip on the uneven ground in the dark.  I am sure I heard one of the two officers mutter his discontent about leaving the warmth of the van to be traipsing through the rugged brush following us.  We crawled back down the bank, loaded our laundry into the dinghy and carried it back to the water’s edge.  One would think that the naval personnel would have an understanding of the water conditions around their very secure island but this was not the case.  The vessel that had been deployed to watch our sailboat and subsequently tow our dinghy and us back to it was unable to navigate the shallow depths closer to shore. It was impossible for their boat to assist us.  Again we were at the mercy of the conditions.  It was dark; the wind was nasty, as was the current.  What happened next was exactly as the captain had predicted!

We started out in the dinghy with the captain rowing. Initially we were expecting the navy vessel to reach us to help. However, when the captain of that vessel realized he could not navigate the depths,  he repositioned his vessel. The naval boat made its way and rafted up to Bridlewilde, leaving to navigate the waters in the dark. (of course we had donned our life jackets – our standard practice) The waves were too strong for a dinghy with no motor to be in this water but here we were.  We had no options; we were drifting away from shore, away from Bridlewilde and out of the harbour in the middle of the night.  Our dinghy had almost a foot of water in it. The waves continued to splash against it throwing more and more water into it, making it even that much heavier to navigate. Both of us were soaked by this time, as was our precious “laundry.” 

I believe I mentioned prior that most of the mooring balls at this time of year were empty and to our good fortune, I might add.  The large spotlights were no longer focussed on us as the naval vessel had lost sight of us.  We could still see the two police vehicles on shore that had been monitoring Bridlewilde.  Each vehicle had its headlights on, providing us with a minimal amount of light.  The captain had his back to me in the dinghy desperately rowing the heavy boat trying to ensure we did not capsize. I could see the white outline of a mooring ball beyond us as the water pushed us forward.  I yelled to Keith (you can imagine that the situation was somewhat tense) to try to aim for it and I would attempt to lean out to catch its lines so that we could possibly secure to it.  As luck would have it, that is just what took place.  I say luck but if not for my captain’s navigation skill, fortitude, determination, love, and strength who knows the outcome.   Keith managed to hold the dinghy close and I managed to grab on to the mooring lines.  We had done it.  Within seconds we both clung to the lines. The pressure of the chop pushed water up to our shoulders but we held on.  We were temporarily ok.

I suspect, the captain of the naval vessel, dumbfounded, wondered what had become of us when we did not arrive at Bridlewilde.  We could hear muffled VHF radio transmission taking place.  I believe the police vessels on shore saw what had happened to us and radioed the naval vessel ordering them to try to rescue us. (Perhaps they may have considered that we were making an attempt to escape.)  Whatever, attached to the mooring ball we would be in deep enough water for that vessel to meet ours.   The naval vessel screamed up in haste beside us coming to an abrupt stop at the ball.  Here again, I wonder about the abilities of this particular naval captain.  His vessel had two 300 horsepower Honda outboard motors propelling it.  These motors create a huge wake. This wake effect crashing into a heavy dinghy sporting two adults and a precious “laundry cart” holding a foot of water is massive at the best of times, let alone in the middle of the night in difficult weather conditions.  These heavy wake waves quickly rolled over the pontoons and into our little vessel. Fortunately, the weight and speed of the swell forced it over the wooden stern of the dinghy and did not take us with it but it left the boat half full.  We were beaten by the wave, shattered and wet, exhausted, unable to remain in the boat. Both of us clambered up over the side of the naval vessel with the assistance of two of the fellows aboard it.  They dragged the cart aboard and attached the dinghy to tow it.

Let me set up this picture for those of you who have told me that you do not visualize without explanation. The rest of you bear with me.

This day.  It’s the middle of the night. We are completely soaking wet. It is mid-November on the Maine/New Hampshire border. We are stuck in a vicious river. We are tired. We have had “mug” shots taken.  We are middle-aged seniors. We have been charged with a federal offense. We are about to disembark a naval vessel. We have been rescued from a harrowing experience attached to a mooring ball. It is cold. We are cold. Our feet and legs are sore.  We were standing at attention on a wall outside at a naval base for well over eight hours.  We have been interrogated. We have been frisked and searched. We have been cold and warmed numerous times over the course of the day.  We have escaped death twice.  We have had AK47 machine guns pointed at us. We have had the chill wind howling at us. We have been held in jail. We have not been aboard our boat all day; it is cold and damp.   We are innocent. We are about to have people board our home with guns, search our property, and record all of our personal information.  And......we were beginning to become a little taxed!

We finally arrive to our boat.  The naval boat rafted again for the second time this evening to  Bridlewilde.  Our vessel is our home and we try to protect it as anyone would care for their home.  Our pleas and request to allow us to attach fenders to  Bridlewilde (our effort to ward off damage that would occur with the large naval vessel crashing against her in these rough waters) were not considered.  We were left to crawl aboard her from the naval vessel and carry our sopping laundry cart with us. Two of the naval officials with weapons had already jumped aboard our vessel. Each was stationed on either side of the bow.  I noticed their stance as I came onto our boat and wondered if they felt safe there rocking in the current and wind. Two other officials followed us aboard as expected and the four of us descended into the cabin. As we expected it was chilled and damp.  We were asked to provide the paperwork that the naval police were looking for.  We keep all of our and the boat’s documentation together so it was easy to provide.  The naval photographer took all the photos of each individual piece while the other officer searched the boat.   Water was still dripping from our clothes when we were next told to turn on our electronic equipment, load our navigational charts and produce the route we had taken to get to this mooring ball.  After those pictures were taken, the four officers left our boat.  As the last officer stepped through the gate of our boat to step onto his vessel, he reached across between our lifelines to hand the captain his sailing knife.  Suddenly, their vessel sped away noisily in the dark; we fell into our cabin thankful this horrendous ordeal was over.

But it wasn’t over!

We had our course charted south and were prepared to get out of Kittery as fast as possible the following day.  After the naval vessel left us, we noticed that two naval police cruisers remained stationed for the remainder of the night on shore in Jamaica Park, perhaps to watch our movements.  In the morning Keith took the dinghy across to the marina to pay for our stay before we left.  While he was gone the same naval vessel that had come to our boat the night before, showed up immediately and circled our boat.  The naval vessel then moved away, re-positioned itself about 2000 feet from us, and remained there until we departed the river for the Atlantic.  Shortly after Keith returned we slipped away from the mooring ball and motored away from this river.  We were shocked to find that we had aircraft coverage above us until we were two miles offshore into the north Atlantic.  When we saw the plane dip and curve sharply back toward the naval base we breathed a huge sigh of relief.   

I remember one of us, I do not know who, saying to the other, “Is this over? Let’s get out of here.”  And no sooner than the words were out of the mouth we heard sirens blaring and a reflection of blue and red flashing in our big chrome winches.  Seconds later we could hear someone yelling over a bullhorn telling us a boat was approaching our starboard.  We both looked back in astonishment.   A huge US Coast Guard Inspection Vessel was pulling up beside us and from forty feet away, a man clad in a bright blue and white suit sporting a megaphone was directing us to slow our vessel and come about. We were told that the US Coast Guard personnel would be boarding to do an inspection of our vessel.  We could not believe it.  We were two miles into New Hampshire and stopped again.  We could not help but wonder if the navy had contacted the Coast Guard to check us out. 

Two coast guard representatives boarded Bridlewilde while three remained on their boat.  One armed guard remained on our bow keeping watch while the other dealt with the formalities.  Apparently, we were told, a Canadian flag is a “red” flag for the Coast Guard.  We complied to the requests, the first being to empty our bilge for confirmation that it was functioning properly.  We were told that the officials were concerned for their safety.  The bilge in proper pumping order would be primary to ensure that any water coming into our vessel could be expelled.  We were asked to present all the boat’s documentation again, as well as all of ours.  Again, our information was recorded. The inspection took 45 minutes.   As quickly as they boarded, the coast guard fellows untied their boat from ours and pulled away.  We were pleased to see their vessel turn, crank hard to port and blast back toward the Piscataqua River. We turned our stern to them.  For the second time this day the captain raised Bridlewilde’s sails. Within seconds, she pinched, grasped the wind briskly and cruised headlong as though she had never been offended.  We on the other hand, felt invaded, disheartened, although elated, to have left behind this crazy Kittery conundrum we had just endured. We were bound for Gloucester.