On a schooner, you can smell the coffee

By Terese Loeb Kreuzer, Globe Correspondent, 05/19/02

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ROCKLAND, Maine - Before the schooner Stephen Taber even left its home port of Rockland for a six-day cruise around Penobscot Bay, the 27 SOBs ("souls on board," in ship lingo) were hungry. Maybe it was the sea air or maybe it was the smells coming from the galley where Captain Ellen Barnes was cooking mounds of blueberry pancakes and piles of bacon on her beloved - and sometimes cranky - wood-burning stove.

Short, cheerful, and bluff with a voice that could penetrate a pea-soup fog, Barnes came up the hatch with trays of food, pots of strong coffee, and pitchers of juice that were quickly emptied. Thus fortified, it was time to weigh anchor, set the sails, and see which port the winds might blow the Taber to by dusk.

On this particular morning, the man at the helm, Captain Ken Barnes, pointed the jaunty, two-masted schooner toward Swans Island, notable for a small fishing village and a historic lighthouse.

Some passengers lounged on the deck, reading and talking, while others volunteered to help the crew. There's always something to do on an old sailing ship: furling and unfurling the sails, cranking the anchor, coiling ropes, swabbing the decks, navigating, chopping fruit and vegetables, or washing dishes after a meal. But no one is obliged to do anything more than stare at the sea.

The Stephen Taber, launched in 1871 as a cargo schooner, is the oldest documented sailing vessel in continuous service in the United States. It is part of the 14-vessel Maine Windjammer Association fleet - all of them sailing ships ranging in size from 46 feet to 132 feet on deck that take passengers up and down the coast of Maine from late May to mid-October. Seven of these ships (including the Taber) have been designated national historic landmarks.

Once there were thousands of two-masted schooners like this one carrying freight along the Eastern Seaboard. The Taber transported coal, lumber, bricks, and oysters. Most of these ships were mom-and-pop operations.

Now only a handful remain. The Taber may have survived, Ken Barnes speculates, because "she sails beautifully. Off the wind, you can't catch her. Whenever it came time to put serious work in her, her owner thought it worthwhile."

"Windjamming" was originally a pejorative term coined by former sailors, according to Ken. When steamboats became commercially viable after the Civil War, they offered better pay and better living conditions, he says, and the men who worked on them poked fun at the poor blokes on sailboats, jamming the winds. But sailors took this as a point of pride and turned it around.

Today, with their cargo of six to 40 vacationers (the Stephen Taber carries 22), windjammers offer an escape from urban life and the turmoil of the 21st century. But they are not for everyone. People who expect luxury will be disappointed. The cabins are adequate but spartan. Walls are thin enough to hear your neighbors snore. Ondeck showers are erected a couple of times a week. Otherwise, ablutions may consist of a sponge bath or, if weather permits, a dip in the sea.

There are many, however, who find these inconveniences minor and who return to the windjammers year after year. Cutting through the cool, sparkling waters of Penobscot Bay, the graceful ships sail among granite islands topped by mantles of spruce trees. Osprey circle for fish and plunge unerringly into the sea. Seals sun themselves on rocks. Porpoises or whales may appear. When other schooners sail by, there may be a fierce but friendly race.

Lulled by the boat as it bounds over the waves in a good wind or drifts in the warm sun when the winds die down, passengers discover a different clock from the one that usually governs their lives. There is the fresh, cool air just before sunrise when the lobstermen set out on their daily rounds and the Taber's cook opens the galley to light the stove, brew coffee, and set the bread to rise.

Around 7 a.m., a deckhand raises the colors and Ken plays his bagpipes to welcome the new day. Later, passengers sit down to a bountiful breakfast (eggs, porridge, sausage, French toast, fruit, yogurt, and juice are among the offerings) and discussion of the day's course. Lighthouse sightings loom large. So does lunch - hearty fare such as fish chowder, beef stew, and chili. Ken and Ellen (both former theater professors) regale their guests with stories, many of them about the Penobscot and the people they've known there since 1979, when they bought the Taber and started sailing it up and down the bay.

In the afternoon, the boat docks at an island and all go ashore. There may be a small village to explore with its weathered, shingled houses, general store, bookstores, and galleries. Or there may be paths to walk down leading to a lighthouse such as the one at Fort Point, which was built at the direction of President Andrew Jackson in 1836, near a Britishbuilt fort whose foundation can still be seen.

Back on the ship, it's dinnertime. The sky grows crimson. With military decorum, Ken (who was in the Air Force for four years and served in the Arctic) plays his bagpipes again and fires a toy cannon as the colors are lowered. The stars come out.

Far from city lights, the Milky Way is so bright it reflects on the water. Ken stands on the back deck of the Taber and points out Deneb, Vega and Altair, Mars, and the Andromeda Nebula.

Some nights, Ken plays his guitar and sings. One of his favorite songs - his "love song to Maine" - is called "Come by the Hills."

"Come by the hills to the land where fancy is free, / Stand where the peaks meet the sky and the lochs meet the sea, / Where the rivers run clear and bracken is gold in the sun, /And the cares of tomorrow can wait til this day is done."

The moon rises over the water, orange streaked with thin, dark clouds. It looks as though it were made of alabaster.

Fog rolls in on a stiff wind and a distant fog horn sounds all night. The air smells of pine.

Terese Loeb Kreuzer is the editor of the Travel Arts Syndicate.