The boat moves more slowly than the fog, so any skipper with an ounce of sense keeps open an eye of caution – and one on the compass.

This summer especially, Down East boating has been iffy. One minute the skies are hazy blue, the next they’re obscured in fog so thick you can’t see the cormorants take flight at the end of the point. Nor can you see the osprey nest at the top of the spruce tree, even though it’s only a couple of hundred yards from where the launch is moored and you can hear familiar peeping overhead.

During a recent excursion, the fog rolled in so fast the island in the sound was enveloped before the sandwiches in the lunch pail were devoured. In great puffs like blowing smoke, the fog headed in – and we headed home, the diesel engine putt-putt-putting away and my head swiveling backward like an owl’s to see how quickly the fog was closing in … past the spindle, past the can, yikes, right on our stern.

By the time the boat was safe in the mouth of the harbor, snug on its mooring line, the fog had lifted, the skies had cleared and we’d missed yet again one more chance at high tide in the millstream.

Seems that all during July – and now into August – sunshine was scarce and short-lived, resulting in boat trips of the same. According to the National Weather Service, “July was mostly an overcast month.” Do tell.

It was so cloudy and cool, in fact, the begonia leaves have turned ashen with mildew, the weeds in the flowerbed are taller than some perennials and tourists across Maine have cut short their stay.

“They start looking at the Weather Channel on Monday and if they don’t like what they see, they begin canceling their reservations,” said the executive director of the Maine Tourism Association. “May and June were absolutely lousy, and July was nothing to jump up and down about,” reported Vaughn Stinson, who hopes for a busier August and September for the state’s hospitality industry.

The foggy, soggy summer so far has meant only one fishing expedition, in which I snagged a mystery object and lost the line along with three jigs; only two boating soirees through the gap between the large island and point; only two in the stream where fresh and salt water meet – and where time stands still.

It’s my favorite spot, this pristine stream that meanders past shady shores and winds its way near granite cliffs where a bald eagle moves from treetop to treetop in a sudden whooshing of wings.

The noisy engine quieted, the boat drifts with the current, and I can lean over the side and almost touch mussels on the sandy bottom. The water turns from cold-salt to warm-fresh in an instant.

From time to time, I must steer away from huge rocks just below the water’s surface as we glide by ever so slowly through the narrow passages, always watching the sky above for approaching storm clouds or threatening fog.

More seasoned sailors are not so skittish to be sure. But then, they probably have a vessel that can outrun a thunderstorm or fog bank – even a sailboat. At four knots, my “power boat” is one slow boat to China, you could say. Then again, who wants to rush through summer in Maine, even a “summerless” one?