It’s one of those Summer days ya read about. Hazy, hot, and humid. But with the memory of a long, cold winter still stuck in my craw, you won’t hear me complain. Well, not too much anyway. I just want to get into port so I can crack open a cold one. I can hear ’em rattling around in the cooler. It’s like they’re talking to me.
We leave the Gurnet lighthouse to starboard and look for the entrance channel to Plymouth Harbor. Our charts aren’t that old so we are surprised to find a nav aid positioned several hundred yards east of where it should be. The area is one big moveable shoal. It’s like entering Wellfleet Harbor. Charts are merely a suggestion.
With binoculars in hand, the XO is navigating us through an unusual intersection of nuns and cans (red and green channel markers). We hang a left at the Bug Light keeping Plymouth Beach to port, and find the Plymouth Harbor Channel.
I hail the Plymouth Yacht Club on channel 8 and they graciously arrange to meet us at the breakwater to show us to our mooring.
And what a cool mooring it is! Right next to a historic old boat called a shallop, and within sight of the Mayflower II.
There is a band playing on shore at what appears to be some kind of celebration. The music is not bad, fifty’s era rock. We open all the hatches and windows, grab some cold drinks, sit back, and absorb the beauty. It’s hot as a firecracker and boaters are out enjoying the day.
Morning brings us another gorgeous day, and we’re both anxious for some shore leave. The XO finds a morning yoga class she wants to attend, and I need a good walk, so we bring Ol’ Salty to the PYC dinghy dock and go our separate ways. I find a wonderful park to explore.
After bacon and eggs on the boat, we shower at the yacht club and head off to explore downtown.
No trip to Plymouth would be complete without a visit to the famous–or infamous– Mars Records. Its gregarious proprietor, Tim Downey, regales us with tales of life in Plymouth, a town he is obviously proud of.
I tried to buy this Beach Boys single for our juke box, but Tim refused to sell it to me. Instead, he offered to trade it for some Rock and Roll posters that I collected during my years as a rock musician.
On yet another beautiful morning, while my wife sleeps soundly, I decide to walk the mile long breakwater. I’ll have to trek two miles to get to it.
The top of the breakwater is flat and obviously made for walking on. Along the way, I really expected to see horrible and vulgar graffiti. But no! On the top surfaces of many of the massive boulders, I found uplifting messages instead. What a pleasant surprise.
My faith in humanity restored, I start my long hike back to Ginger Lee and my sweet wife. “Is she awake yet?” I wonder. My question is answered when she picks up her phone on the second ring.
“Good morning Hon,” I sing.
“Hi. Where are you?”
“Look toward the breakwater,” I answer. From where I stand, Ginger Lee is just a speck in a sea of boats.”
“Oh! I see you!”
“Hey take my picture,” I say and start waving my arms, phone in hand.
“You’re pretty far away, I’ll try max zoom.”