The Laurel was a 150 foot pustule of material excess squatting in Christine, Maine's harbor. It was the sort of mega-yacht teenage boys aspire to own. Some boys grow up to become manipulative stock market shorters and buy such things with the wealth which used to rest in our 401Ks. One could imagine Tony "getting his life back" on the poop deck, nursing a glass of Bombay Sapphire Gin served by a member of the uniformed crew. Though the wealth that the Laurel represented was probably extracted from the economy of our struggling republic, it flew the traitor's flag of the Cayman Islands.

The Laurel would be in poor taste in the best of times. Now, it's obscene.

Bearing down on the Laurel, having just turned a perfect tack off the starboard bow of the training ship "State of Maine" was the Schooner Grace Baily, led by 25 feet of polished bowsprit. Four great canvass sails held the Southwest wind. Nine hundred pounds of iron-bound white oak hung from the centerboard trunk and gripped the cold water beneath the hull. Captain Ray stood at the wheel, quiet as always, hearing and feeling his cherished boat of 30 years. He had been her captain dating from that cold winter in the yard when he had rebuilt this national historic landmark for her second century. High above, from the great gaff of the schooner's mainsail, flew the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America.

For three days Captain Ray and his crew had taken us through the waters of Penobscot Bay. We had met the other passengers on the tight dining space of the cozy galley where the chill of morning on the bay was obliterated by the warmth of the wood stove and baked goods which covered the tables, cooked by his daughter, Allysa. We feasted on lobster on a stony beach. We sailed past islands, lighthouses and rocky shores which I believed, up to then, existed only in the imaginations of artists.

The wooden body of Grace Baily was nearly innocent of electronics and mechanical power. We cranked the great anchor up by working the levers on the winch, which sent the shock of each stroke down through the timbers which secured it to the bones of the ship. The salt water which worked its way through her tight hull when we were sailing in heavy wind was heaved up from the bilge and cast back into the bay by working the worn iron of the 7-foot pump handle. Each morning the huge gaffs which stretched the sails were pulled up from the booms by everyone on board hauling away on scratchy manila ropes thick as a child's wrists which ran up to the throat and peak.

The Grace Baily had hauled timber to build towns and granite from island quarries to build the great cities of the Northeast for half a century before joining the Windjammer Fleet for passenger service in the 1930's.

About 16 of these wooden ships survive, spending summers cruising passengers around the blue waters and verdant islands of Penobscot bay. To be on a great wooden schooner under full sail on a crisp summer afternoon is a wonder. To see three or more of her sister vessels across the water is to experience a piece of an America which could do hard things with a competent, measured will.

I do not know if Captain Ray was making a point or merely pursuing the course needed to reach the mooring buoy assigned by the Christine Harbormaster for the night, but we came in paint-scrapingly close to the Laural's port side.

To the servants of the mechanized systems of the huge power yacht, the Grace Baily must have appeared to be a crude, archaic plaything of the wind. They panicked and began calling each other on their radios, fearing a collision. We waved at the crowd in the Laurel's open garage of launches and personal watercraft and all the excited, frightened hands on her three decks.

Captain Ray and the Grace Baily's crew could have threaded a needle with their ship if they chose to.

Andrew climbed down the the chains which held down the bowsprit and tied Grace Baily to the mooring. Her four great sails came down in good order. Crew and passengers pitched in on the furling.

Before we were done, someone pushed a button to start the Laurel's Engines, cast loose from her mooring and motored her out from the harbor. Christine was greatly improved by the Laurel's absence.

Grace Baily, which now carries the cargo of memory forward into the future, was at rest in the Harbor of Christine.

(William Hamilton (www.wjhamilton.com) is an attorney who lives in I'On Village.)