I rented 20-foot Bertram boats from Jeff Armstrong at Jeff’s Marine in Thomaston for many years. Jeff had five of those Bertram Bahia Mar models. Wonderfully built, amazingly seaworthy, and steady. Ten years ago, I rented a boat from Jeff as usual, but about two weeks into the summer rental, the boat developed a problem, so Jeff took it in for repairs and supplied a second boat, also a Bertram, with a different kind of motor.
My relationship with that motor (a 2-stroke instead of a 4-, for those who know outboards) was not particularly friendly. I had a heck of a time getting it to start and run smoothly, but I eventually thought I had it licked and headed out to Monhegan, about eight miles out in the Atlantic, for some fishing. The fishing was good, and the motor ran OK, but my good luck ran out on both fronts at about the same time as I decided to head in.
I’ve been a boater for over 60 years, and I know to watch the weather. I could see clouds building to the southeast, and winds beginning to pick up, but I knew that the boat would carry me in in plenty of time—except the motor would not start. I tried over and over, did everything I knew, and got zip. Meanwhile, I was drifting across the approaches to Penobscot Bay toward Haddock and Roaring Bull ledges some miles downwind, and the waves were growing with the wind, approaching four feet. In a 20-foot boat with no power, that’s no fun at all, and standing up became nearly impossible.
The boat I usually rented had a ship-to-shore radio, but the replacement did not, so my only hope for shore contact was my cell phone, which is a weak reed when you are miles out at sea. I tried flagging down a lobster boat, but he was too far away, and my emergency flares would have been very hard to see in the bright daylight, so I tried to get a cell signal, and got a notice that only 911 calls would go through. I finally dialed 911 and got an amazingly helpful operator at the Lincoln County emergency center who first asked me my location. “That,” I said, “is the issue at hand.” She immediately understood the situation, asked for my coordinates and direction of drift, and called Jeff at the marina. She called back in 10 minutes to tell me he was en route and would arrive in about 45 minutes.
Well, 45 minutes feels like a week in rough water, and I knew I had to do something to get the bow into the waves. I was in more than 100 feet of water and had a 75-foot anchor line, so that was out. I had nothing heavy enough to make up a sea anchor (something you drag over the bow to keep it into the waves), so I finally latched onto a lobster buoy, tied it to my bow line, and let it keep the boat steady. In just under an hour, here came Jeff in White Knuckles, his 22-foot Lyman.
We cut the buoy free (without damaging it or its warp line), managed to get a tow line between the Lyman and the Bertram, and started in toward Port Clyde. With about 75 feet between the boats, I could sometimes see Jeff, completely relaxed with one hand on the wheel and his feet up on the coaming. But part of the time I couldn’t even see the Lyman due to the height of the waves. The tow took about an hour, but the last half of it was calmer, and we finally pulled into a float in Port Clyde harbor. Jeff climbed aboard the Bertram, fiddled with the engine a bit, and off she went. (He got along with that engine.)
Two weeks later, and just before we left for home in Illinois, I sat down with Jeff to talk about the boat (the original one) and the future. Jeff was very ill. He knew it. I knew it, and he was trying to get things done. Sitting in his office, he said “I’d like for you to have the boat.” I asked him, “Why me?” and he said I was the only renter who always brought his boats back cleaner and looking better than when they left. After a bit of negotiation, the sale was made, and the Bertram was mine. I was convinced then, and still believe, that he only sold me that boat because he knew I would love it as he did, and that his time with it was over.
Jeff died in January. His office manager called me soon after it happened and it took me a while to get it together after that call. I’ve never met anyone quite like Jeff—kind of crusty, full of opinions, and connected to the sea and the Maine coast as nobody else I know. Here was a guy with everything to live for, but he died too soon anyway.
I remember after he towed me in, I said I was pretty impressed with how he handled the tow in rough weather. “Well,” he said, “This wasn’t my first rodeo, you know.” I am sorry it was one of his last, but I was privileged to be part of it.
Alan Spear, of Batavia, Illinois, has been coming to Maine for more than 70 years. He fishes, sails, and spends about three months a year living here in a motor home.
