I head down to the dock, walk the ramp and step onto the floats. Snow falls steadily, covering the harbor in a white blanket. My feet crunch as I make my way to Sorciere, a traditional wooden Swampscott dory, the only boat at this marina this time of year. It’s January 1, the first row of 2026.
I bring a broom to clear snow off the canvas cover, which acts like a giant windshield wiper. At 18 degrees the light, fluffy snow takes only a few minutes to remove.
I unhook the bungies, remove the struts that keep snow and water from pooling, set them on the dock and step into the boat. I roll back the cover and tuck it behind the bow seat.
Nancy arrives and hands me gear. We have done this hundreds of times over the four years we have known each other, a well-rehearsed choreography. I place the seat cushions on the pine thwarts, lay the oars along the port side and hook in the foot stretcher. She screws in the frontview mirror and we are ready.
I untie the bow and stern lines, then the springlines. We push off, gloved hands guiding us through the snow on the floats. Snow lightly coats the boat interior like sprinkled sugar.
We row past the Fournier Bros tugs and I pull out my phone for a photo. White snow cascades in front of the cherry red tugs, a winter postcard come to life.
We pass the Belfast City Public Landing and my new wood-fired sauna along the waterfront. Halfway out in the harbor we stop near a stand of pilings to adjust gear, sip water and take in the view. Snow falls heavily all around us, a familiar curtain of precipitation filling Penobscot Bay, whether fog, snow or rain.
The snow collects on beaches, rocks, trees and inside the boat. At 20 degrees it will be too cold to bail it out while keeping warm. That is why I always bring an extra pair of gloves, one for rowing, one for snow bailing.
We row south along the western shoreline past City Park, the faded green gazebo and the neighborhood known as “The Battery,” dotted with cozy cottages and grander homes. Along the way we do power intervals. This is a workout row, one of the services I offer through my business, DoryWoman Rowing.
We reach the turnaround point, about two and a half miles from the dock. We pivot to starboard, hydrate and admire the view. Through the snow, a friend paddling a bright red kayak comes into focus. We exchange New Year’s greetings. Sweat chills us so we part ways.
Heading north, we pass the kelp farm, a project of the Marine Institute at Belfast High School. The orange and white mooring balls marking the kelp lines look like oversized ping pong balls scattered on the water, vivid against the white seascape.
Near the Allyn Street beach a bald eagle appears, marauding a gull or duck. The attack fails. The eagle lands briefly in a favorite tree only to be chased away by crows. It flies toward us, descending for a moment as if curious before soaring away. I note its mottled feathers, signaling youth.
A few days later temperatures drop into the single digits. I check in with Nancy about our scheduled row. We decide the temperature must reach double digits before heading out.
Later, when it’s only eight degrees, I light the sauna hearth, call Nancy, and ask, “It’s very cold. Should we row?”
She’s game. Her commitment is striking and she is an excellent rower, so I know we’ll be fine. Using 86 percent of your muscles, rowing keeps you warm.
It’s 13 degrees when we finally head out. Ice greets us, a thick blanket on the water. Enormous fields of skim ice crunch beneath the oars, softer than the brittle ice we have rowed through or the large bergy chunks the Passagassawakeag River sends downstream like missiles.
The skim ice stretches with us for about a mile. The sun glints and sparkles off the frozen surface. We row south toward our usual destination, yet the conditions could not be more different from our first outing.
Nancy is a regular. Regulars aren’t the only people I row with in the winter, but they are the backbone of my business in the colder months.
Just before the holidays I rowed with a young couple, a winter row that was a gift from the man to his fiancee. On this occasion we headed upriver. I started rowing with the man, guiding him on technique. Once he was comfortable I switched seats with his fiancee. I was in the stern seat, coaching her. Then the couple rowed together, navigating thicker, sharper ice that crunched deliciously under the oars. They marveled at the sensations, doing something they never imagined possible.
I joked, “This is my version of Shackleton,” referencing that doomed Antarctic journey long ago. Overhead a bald eagle soared as a flock of buffleheads, one of several types of black and white ducks that winter in this watershed, fluttered by in a hurry.
Why do we do this, row in the winter? Well, why not?
People have been rowing in Maine for generations through all four seasons. Climate change and bays that no longer ice over make it easier. A sturdy wooden dory is a capable chariot for cold-season outings. These boats were designed for North Atlantic waters.
Rowing a small wooden boat on open water is a way to immerse yourself in the seasons like never before. Though I offer my services year-round, winter is by far the most compelling.
Having a hot wood-fired sauna waiting on the Belfast waterfront doesn’t hurt. To row and then roast in a room of Maine white cedar, a hot fire crackling before you, water ladled on Finnish granite rocks and steam rising thick in the air, is a fine follow-up to a winter row.
Once you heat up, there is fresh snow to play in, to make snow angels and throw snowballs. A short walk away, the beach offers a cooling dip in the harbor, a winter wonderland all around.
Then it’s back inside for more heat and deep relaxation. Fire and ice, community and connection. Really, there is no better way to do winter.