I spent last night on the shores of Penobscot bay at tidewater. The water moved up a bit towards my tent, but no contact. Before setting up camp, I met a real, down-home Mainer, Stuart French, a man who can trace his family back to the Mayflower and veterans of the Revolutionary War. He said that he could lay claim to 2 -- 3,ooo relatives in the state! He carried on in a wonderfully encyclopedic way about local history, how the war ships for our independence were built just down the coast, how some of them were sunk in the harbor just around the corner and how Yankee Mainiacs rowed out under cover of night and sank three of the damn Brit's scows. Go Yankees! He was kind of melancholy character, lamenting is past body building glory (Mr. Maine among other honors). We chatted for some time; then I had to drag Mojo down to the shore for dinner. Contrary to what Stuart had said, the mosquitoes were quite comfortable with the salty shore. I ate my simple meal of rice, kippers, and broccoli seasoned with olive oil, garlic and Parmesan. The cormorants croaked and squawked. Osprey's trolled the waters for their meal. The sun set behind humid skies on this revolutionary coast.
Now I've got to saddle up and do another 20 miles before bed in a little burg called Waldoboro. I've already had a couple of offers for support and places to stay, but it's too early in the day. It's brilliantly sunny, bright, a breeze off the Atlantic--hot and sweaty on the climbs, however. This is my last brush with the eastern shore. If all goes according to plan, my next ocean will be the Pacific. Oy, the miles still to go.
My camp by the bay:
Here's Mojo in the fullest of full fig: