“Is There a Problem, Officer?”

A sailboat is the ultimate slower traffic.

My Cape Dory 25 sloop tops out at about seven knots*, and that’s in the best possible weather conditions. The small outboard motor can push the boat at five knots in a flat calm. It takes most of two days to get from Bangor to Rockland, a distance one can drive in two hours.

I usually make this annual trip with crew. But circumstances this year forced me to do it alone. Which was fine – I grew up with boats in Maine, and ever since I moved back here from California at the turn of the millennium I’ve had one. I’ve also done a fair amount of single-handing, and my Cape Dory is nothing if not seaworthy.

Thus I was caught off-guard (I guess the pun is intended) on the second day out, when the orange powerboat coming up the bay kept turning in my direction. I had raised the sails and cut the motor and was working the light morning breeze for whatever I could get out of it, just south of where the Islesboro Ferry crosses to Lincolnville. It was about ten in the morning.

Pretty soon they got close enough to where I could read “U.S. Coast Guard” on the side of the boat. When I saw the flashing blue lights, it dawned on me that I was getting pulled over, just like in a car on U.S. Route One. There were no other boats around. 

Had I thought more quickly, I might have said, “How fast was I going, officer?” 

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There were six of them, four men and two women, all under thirty. They told me to keep sailing as their boat, about the same length as mine but powered by two behemoth outboard engines, matched my slow speed and came alongside. The guy who seemed to be in charge explained that he was going to come aboard and do a “routine safety inspection.”

I thought I had all the required stuff. I was wearing the inflatable life jacket I always wear when soloing. My air horn was within reach, the fire extinguisher close by. He asked for my boat registration and my driver’s license – again, just like a traffic stop. I asked him to take the helm while I dug out the registration. He promptly steered into the wind, stalling the boat.

“You know,” I said, as I took back the tiller and coaxed the boat back on course, “I’ve been sailing in Penobscot Bay since the seventies, and this is the first time I’ve ever been pulled over.”

“Really?” the young officer said. “I’m surprised.”


It turned out I had the wrong kind of flares, past their expiration date, and too few of them. He was nice enough about it; he told me to go to Hamilton Marine when I got to Rockland and they would know the requirements for my boat.

I did so the following day. Understand that a flare is something most boaters will never use. We buy them because we have to. Most are good for three years, after which they will be returned for safe disposal, or set off in someone’s backyard on the Fourth of July. The law requires that I carry three. They come in packages of four. Naturally. It’s a boat – what’s another unnecessary expense, in the grand scheme of things?

This little story should not be misconstrued in any way as criticism of the Coast Guard or its personnel, who save lives regularly, often at risk to their own. The crew that day was training new cadets; hence the half-dozen people in the small boat. They were as polite and professional toward me as any group of young people could be. “I’m glad you’re out here,” I said as they left. And I am.

_______

* – A “knot” is a measure of speed, meaning one nautical mile per hour. A nautical mile is equal to one minute of latitude, or approximately 1.15 statute miles, and seven knots is equal to about eight miles per hour.