After only six miles of paddling, we near the imaginary line of the border at Father Point, and decide to pull off for the day. We spend our first night near Father Point on Mother’s Day. An eagle perches on a tree above us as Jody and Kris make dinner. Buffy is kneading bread dough for tomorrow’s lunch in a large, sooty pot. I sit on the 50-foot-wide cobble beach and stretch, watching the tide creep toward us. I’m exhausted. Not from the day’s short paddle, but from everything else that it took to get to this point. I feel sheepish, but I ask anyway, "What do you guys think of taking tomorrow off?" Robyn pauses for a moment, then gives her whole-hearted approval, and the rest of the group follows suit.
After the day of rest, we paddle southwest the next morning. In the afternoon, we settle in on a cobble beach on Burnt Cliff Island. Jody, Kris and I paddle over to a nearby island to fetch water from a meandering stream. We paddle up the stream through the lush, green forest until we can no longer taste salt in the water. When we get back to the beach, the 25-foot tide begins its retreat. Within a couple of hours, the ebbing sea reveals a sharp drop just beyond the island, followed by seemingly endless mudflats that almost reach the island across from us. It will be impossible to leave the island at any time other than high tide.

We pull out the tide tables and find out that the next high is at three in the morning. We could wait for the afternoon tide the next day, but by then the winds are bound to have picked up. Instead, we head to bed early and get up in the middle of the night. I strap on my headlamp and stuff my sleeping bag with cold hands. We paddle south into a light drizzle and a steady headwind. Paddling in the front of the double, I gradually realize that I haven’t dressed warmly enough. I snug my fleece hat over my ears and fasten my pogies onto my paddle. A chill sets in to my spine and my hands become numb. I twist from side to side with every stroke against the wind, trying to warm up.

The sky turns from black to purple to pink to white. After several hours, we pull off for a break. We round a point toward a muddy pull-out just wide enough to squeeze our kayaks into side-by-side. Dozens of bald eagles are perched on the rocks to our left, some hopping around each other, others sitting still, their smooth white heads twisting to watch us. We glide past them slowly at eye-level, only 30 feet away, but they do not fly off. As the bow of the double rubs into the sand on the beach, my hands are stiff and curled around the shaft of the paddle. I climb out and swing my arms in circles as I walk around on the flat, muddy beach. Kris pulls out a stove and pot and heats up some water. We fill up our mugs with instant potatoes and cheese. Swallowing spoonfuls of the hot, gooey mash, I finally begin to warm up.